#maybe for the first time or maybe just because he can

[thebibliosphere]

Do you think Bruce Wayne would flirt with Benoit Blanc?

I think if Bruce ever found himself in a situation to meet Benoit Blanc, to his great chagrin, it’d be as Brucie Wayne. He’d be on some rich fuck’s island under cover when a murder happens and it’d be killing him that he can’t break cover to get a closer look at the body. And then along comes Benoit Blanc and Bruce decides, well he’s Brucie right now, it’d be weird if he didn’t flirt a little.

And hey, who knows, if Blanc likes him maybe he’ll let Bruce tag along and get into places Brucie wouldn’t normally be if he wasn’t trying to seduce this weirdly accented, tall glass of deductive skills. (And maybe he’s enjoying it a little more than he should, but technically he’s on vacation so…)

Blanc, of course, catches on and thinks Bruce has something to hide and is keeping him close because he thinks he’s either the killer or in on it.

Except that’s not what the evidence or instincts are actually telling him. Not really.

But he also can’t ignore the fact that Bruce managed to trip and fall directly into the filing cabinet in the office, causing the drawer to fly open and reveal the evidence Blanc’s looking for. Or that the billionaire has a slightly delayed reaction to seeing blood. Not much, but enough for Blanc to notice.

There’s also the way he keeps making suggestions that on the surface seem benign, but are nevertheless intended to lead Blanc toward where his own instincts are telling him to look. So either Brucie is one of those killers who likes to be involved in the investigation because they want to make sure you’re noticing their ‘genius’ or because they think they can control the narrative by being helpful, or…

“Y’know something, Mister Wayne…”

“Benoit, please,” Bruce says with a slow, seductive smile that unfurls like silk over rich velvet. “How many times do I have to ask? Call me Bruce.”

“… Bruce. You’ve been so remarkably helpful.”

“Oh, you know me. I always aim to please.”

Bruce’s smile takes on an electric edge that makes Benoit’s thumb slide to the gold wedding band on his ring finger. He’s a married man, he’s a married man…

“I can’t help but wonder, though,” Benoit says, matching Bruce’s smile for a knowing one of his own. “Don’t you get tired?”

His tone is off, he knows it is because Bruce’s expression doesn’t flicker, not even a jot. It’s just unnatural enough to be telling.

“Tired of what?” the younger man asks, just the right amount of cheerful confusion in his voice and an adorable title of his head like a puppy to make you miss the sharpness behind his eyes. The way his body is coiling tight. Ready for a fight.

“Of pretending,” Benoit says, lifting a cigar to his mouth, making a show of patting down his pockets for the lighter. “I know I surely do. It grates on a man, always being underestimated. Everyone thinking you’re not as sharp as you are. Not as clever, not as quick. It must be a relief, I think, to finally be seen…”

The hand that had been rummaging in his pocket shoots out, aiming for Bruce’s perfect face. Bruce deflects it, twisting Benoit’s hand in a viper-like move Benoit hasn’t seen since…

“Ra’s doesn’t train just anyone,” he says, acutely aware of how much Bruce’s expression has changed without so much of a flicker of muscle. How sharp and hard the angles of his face have become. How deadly. “I confess, I didn’t see it at first. You’re very good, Bruce. I never would have put two and two together if you hadn’t twisted Haggart’s elbow the way you did when he tried to grab Maxine.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “Take that as a compliment from one detective to another… Batman.”

[nochepsicodelica]

"Doll," Toji calls, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your bodies remain bare after your love making session, your lower bodies still tangled up in the sheets.

"Toji," you respond, a lazy smile curling on your lips as he presses a couple more rapid, chaste kisses on the same spot. "What, baby?" You ask, your voice entirely soft on his ears.

"Love you," he murmurs. "I'm gonna crush you. Just let me... let me do this, first," he hums, pulling your body into his overly tight embrace. He's almost suffocating you, but you expected it, knowing how he gets after spending hours tangled up with you. "Aren't you gonna say it back?" He mumbles, his voice somewhat muffled by your hair.

A soft laugh is expelled as a breath through your nose. "Love you so much, my sweet, kind bear. And before you say anything, yes, you're still tough and scary to everyone else."

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar to your ears. You know him so well.

"What about you? Am I tough and scary to you?" He asks, planting another kiss on the top of your head, his lips curling when a twinkle of your laughter reaches his ears.

"You're very tough, as for the other thing... I can pretend to be scared if you want."

"Boo," he tests, his voice as calm and gentle as its been this whole time. There was no actual attempt to make your heart drop with fear, but seeing the way you kept your word of acting scared lured a soft chuckle out of him. You let out a dramatic gasp and you jolted, but really there isn't an ounce of fear in your body. If anything, you feel even more calm, knowing that you're in the arms of your safe space. You trust, wholeheartedly, that he will always be that for you.

"Did I scare you?" He asks, a lazy grin gracing his lips. His fingertips trace the invisible line of your spine, up and down, before his hand settles on your shoulder blade.

"Maybe a little bit," you mumble, leaning forward to leave a kiss on his collarbone. Your lips trail upward towards his neck, soft kisses on his warm skin and rosy blots blossoming in their wake.

"Keep kissing me like that, see what happens," he almost purrs, and you do keep kissing him like that, because you do want to see what happens. You press little butterfly kisses on his face—on his chin, his cheek, the tip of his nose. Everywhere but his lips.

"Last chance, pretty," he warns. You don't stop, though. Your lips continue to caress patches of his skin, leaving evidence behind, carelessly. You hum as you trace his face and the side of his neck all over again, and though time is ticking for Toji to give you the consequence for your actions, he doesn't want it to stop just yet, and every second that passes serves as more of a delay.

"My baby," you murmur softly, a barrage of kisses landing on the corner of his lips, after. "Love you sooo much."

And he snaps. The second his lips are on yours, he begins the process of taking all the kisses you "refused" to give him on the lips. You giggle when he flips both of you and settles between your legs. His hands glide over your sides, collecting your arms and bringing them up above your head.

"Ba--" you're interrupted by his continued, seemingly endless wave of kisses. "B--" you laugh at your inability to get the term of endearment out. One more time. "Bab--" Nope.

"I warned you, ba-by," he over-enunciates, mocking you. "But you wanted to find out, didn't you?" He murmurs against your lips. "You wanted to know what would happen, huh?"

He loves that your amusement never dies, even when you've been in this same room together for hours, now. Giggles and squeals flow freely, your hearty reactions to him returning your affection—doubling it.

"You didn't like my kisses?" You ask, unable to hold back a laugh when his lips graze along your jaw.

"Liked them a little too much... Can't get enough of you," he murmurs between wet little kisses on your cheek. "And I warned you, sweetness. Now, you're gonna get tired of me."

"Will not," you deny, as he nears your lips. His grip tightens around your wrists, luring a soft smile from you.

"Say it again," he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours.

"I'll never get tired of you," you say—a promise forged right before him. "'Cause I can't get enough of you either, baby," you respond, before welcoming the all consuming kisses he gives you. His grip does not loosen one bit throughout his mission to steal your breath. It's as if he's trying to keep you steady, unmoving, so he can take as much from your sweet lips as he wants. He takes kiss after kiss, like it's an endless fountain of affection, and you only prove it to be true when you push your lungs to their limits.

"I need you," he murmurs, something desperate and utterly debilitating in the low timbre of his voice. The hold he has on your wrists is finally released, returning the freedom of your hands' mobility.

"I'm right here," you assure, instantly making use of your hands by tenderly cupping his cheeks. "I'm yours," you vow.

"Yours," he returns, before picking up where you and him left off a little while ago.

Gentleness and intimacy conquered the bed and wrinkled sheets you both laid on, and the outside world was shut out, only able to reach you through moonlight.

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic (teaser)

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

teaser wc — 1.4k

expected wc — 15 - 20k

taglist status — open

warnings — explicit sexual content, tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, nerdjo turned fratjo (physics major satoru), will add more as i go along

authors note — well. so.... uh... hi i'm too giddy reading what i've written so far so here i am, releasing a snippet because why not <2

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on.

He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.”

He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then.

He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore.

Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different.

Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges.

And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot.

So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way.

Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. 

And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me.

It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body.

Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up.

And then—there’s him.

Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts.

You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you.

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets.

“I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!”

Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.”

Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system.

He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?”

You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.”

You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?”

He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.”

You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs.

You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts.

And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change.

But you know it is.

He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly.

You look up, startled. “What?”

His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?”

Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire.

He’s still watching you.

But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand.

Still. You tuck it away.

Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night.

He won’t.

But you will.

authors note ; wow i love writing this should be my full time job tbh. also dw reader is not 16 in this fic the snippet is like a small flashback sorry jus had 2 make that clear and yes i said brothers bestfriend in my previous posts but bestfriends older brother is so much hotter so i tweaked what i've currently written to all ts sybau pmo icl yo gurt ok bai

[mwphisto]

LaDs Men and Some of Their Kinks

Includes: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x implied female reader (separate of course)

Warning, this post includes: somnophila, dacryphilia, brat taming, scent kink, squirting, masturbation, master/pet play, spitting, cockwarming, and more.

A/N: I finished all of my work for university! Now I just have a final presentation next week (which I already did), and then I'll have earned my bachelor's degree! Now I can do some celebratory smutty writing to get back into the swing of things :)

Xavier

Somnophilia is high up there on Xavier's list, but not because he wants to use your body while you sleep. No, Xavier wants you to use him while he is somewhere far off in dreamland. He really wants to wake up to you with his cock down your throat. Even better? He's positive he'd cum on the spot if he woke up to you riding him.

Mutual Masturbation could send Xavier into a frenzy. He loves watching you pleasure yourself, especially when your eyes are glued to the way his fist pumps up and down his length. But he can never truly handle it for long, losing his composure before either of you can make yourselves cum. You're just too cute for him to resist.

Outdoor sex is right up Xavi's alley, though it really should count as he loves fucking you on his balcony. Xavier is quite accustomed to falling asleep in the cozy paradise he has put together on his balcony. Which means, it's also well equipped for him to fuck you stupid. Maybe it's the thrill of someone hearing, perhaps even seeing, or maybe his need to make sure everyone knows you are his (looking at you, Charlie). Regardless, he's rather fond of making you his.

Rafayel

Master / Pet had started off as a joke, almost an inside joke between the two of you after Ebb day had passed. Then, slowly, the joking terms of "pet" and "master" made their way into your intimacy. It didn't matter who donned what role; it just depended on the mood and perhaps even the situation that led both of you to the bed.

Squirting, Rafayel is utterly addicted to it. The first time he got you to cum that intensely, he ended up cumming himself. The lemurian isn't satisfied anymore if he doesn't end up soaked in your juices. He'll go as far as to ensure you are well hydrated before making any moves. This man has done his research, and so far it hasn't failed him.

You're his real-life canvas. Rafayel was shocked that you agreed the first time he asked the question. You had shamelessly stripped for him, nothing but a pair of panties clinging to your ass and hips. Your skin was his canvas, and the gentle, cool strokes of the paintbrush had goosebumps erupting across your arms. He didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with you than he already was, nor did he think it was possible to crave you as badly as he did when he dragged the paint-slick brush over the swell of your tits.

Zayne

Brat-taming just comes naturally for Zayne. Lucky for him, being a brat just happens to be second nature for you. Cool, calm, collected Zayne being pushed to his limits over and over again until he finally cracks. It's the outcome you've been craving from your stoic lover. And once you got it - ass cheeks bruised and your entire lower half being so sore that you're limping - you find that you're utterly addicted. Good thing your lover is on the same page.

Quickies in public spaces are a guilty pleasure. Everyone always expects Zayne to be so good, to follow the rules. Stepping out of line is far more addictive than being the goody two-shoes he's been his whole life. Having you half undressed, speared on his cock while your back is pressed into his desk? Your tits bouncing as you ride him in the front seat of his sports car? Fingering you while you sit beside each other in a dimly lit and crowded restaurant? He's on cloud nine.

Recording your little escapades had been the outcome at the end of the spiral. A spiral you started one evening as you bounced yourself stupid on Zayne's cock, the legs of the couch creaking under your efforts. You were being bratty, and he hadn't quite crossed the threshold yet to feel comfortable putting you in your place. Testing your limits, you had reached for your phone and began taking pictures of you and him as you ground down on his dick. Faces flushed and eyes glossy, Zayne still had those selfies on his phone, under a special album only he could see.

Sylus

Dacryphilia caught Sylus by surprise. He didn't realize how badly it would turn him on until you were choking on his cock with fat streams of tears flowing down your cheeks. You looked like such a mess, so utterly destroyed and he hadn't even gotten into that sweet pussy yet. Bless him, he came before he could warn you, too entranced by your sobbing face and mouth full of his dick to speak.

Cockwarming you has been Sylus' favorite activity besides getting to love you so thoroughly it left you breathless. He wants to be close to you, as close as his body could get and as close as you'd allow. Even on nights when you two haven't made love, he'll ask you rather shyly if he can slip it in. Much to his pleasure, you always let him, especially since you know he sleeps much better when he gets to hold you close... inside and out for that matter.

Sex toys are not off limits for Sylus, honestly, he quite enjoys them. He's well aware of his capabilities and, in turn, he is well aware of his limitations. He can finger fuck you until you're crying, sure. But shoving a vibrating dildo in that pretty little cunt is far more amusing to him. He gets off on having the control, watching your entire body tremble from vibrations so intense that nothing he could do himself would ever get close to replicating. His trick is that you don't get any access to the toys he uses on you. They are his use only, taken out just to drive you mad before he gives you what he really wants. You genuinely have no idea where your lover hides them afterwards.

Caleb

Spitting but not in a way you'd think. Caleb wants you to spit in his mouth, on his dick, use it as extra lubricant. Doesn't mean Caleb will deny you if you ask him to spit on or in you, but god does he crave the feeling of your saliva coating his tongue. He wants to devour you whole, in any way he can, spit included.

Power play is right up his alley. As long as you are consenting, Caleb will go to whatever extreme you desire. It could be as simple as using "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" or as complicated as full-on BDSM with safe words and real leather, cuffs, gags, and paddles. Whatever you're willing to give him to fulfill the fantasies, the colonel is willing to accept, and never once will he complain.

A big ole scent kink, he can't help it, you just smell so utterly addicting, it drives him insane. Your shampoo, your body wash, your perfume, your sweat, your arousal. You name it, if it's something on or from you, Caleb will probably love it. You didn't realize it started with your worn panties, ones he stole from the hamper after you would hop in the shower. Caleb was a pervert for it, and he knew it damn well, but it didn't stop him from fucking his fist while inhaling the heady scent of your dirty panties.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love love all your writings!!

I like your depictions of John Constantine.

I'd like to see you write the sad trenchcoat persona as just that a persona in the same fashion as how Brucie Wayne is a persona.

Maybe he's been the de-aged Danny/Dannies father for years and is an actual functional adult. The sad trenchcoat is just used to keep people from calling on him to frequently because he's a dad and has dad-like things to do.

He could help tim with the time stream thing, like 'oh, yeah that does look like Bruce. Alright kid pack a bag we're going in the time stream I know a guy. No Nightwing I'm not joking this looks like solid proof'.

Maybe Bruce has a oh shit he's actually competent and could kill me, that's hot moment. (Kids I have found your other father, help me get him home)

"I would love to offer more of my time to waste on monitor duty, but I have a previous engagement. A particular fit lady needs help getting her dress on the floor. The cloth always gets stuck on her horns. " John leers, wagging his eyebrows at the grimaces his words cause.

He takes a puff of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke like a drowning man. He never smokes at home, not with Danny's sensitive lungs or Dani's general disgust at smoking, so he only had the chance when called away on missions.

Plus, Danny was trying out for ballet soon, and he wasn't going to ruin his son's chances of being a star because of his own poor habits.

It helped that the rest of the heroes believed he was consistently pumping nicotine into his system. Rather irresponsible for the hero to publicly commit frowned-upon activities - at least in the States. Back home, no one cared that much.

It didn't matter that the Justice League was a global team; the main hard hitters and founders were nearly all American, and they tended to uphold those social expectations, either subconsciously or not.

One more reason why they shouldn't bother John, he can't have him smoking at a big awards ceremony or seen going through an entire pack of cigarettes mid-fight. Oh no.

John Constantine was one of the best magic users of this universe, but he was a last resort. There were plenty of other magic users like Zatanna, Dr. Fate, Zatara, or even Etrigan that came to mind first.

John was likely too busy drowning his misery in bottles or the arms of any willing partner. That's what they all thought.

Or more importantly than what he wanted them to think.

"Well, this has been a time." He announces, snapping his fingers to open a portal to his house. "But I have to run. My lady needs a knowledgeable hand to help her-"

"Enough," Batman growls. Though he has complete control over his emotions, John can tell he's irritated by the meaningless detail. He smirks as the hero waves a hand, "Just go."

He offers the rest of the meeting room a cheeky two-finger salute as he struts out, letting the portal close behind him so his trench coat flares dramatically. It's a nice view, he's sure, but it's also unnecessarily showy, and he is sure at least three pairs of eyes are rolling at his exit.

A chuckle escapes his mouth, straightening from his slouch to properly stand straight and bend it far enough to pop. Goodness, his act always leaves him with a sore upper back; maybe he shouldn't hunch over so much, even if he was playing the part of a no-good punk.

John only had a few seconds to shiver at his own thoughts- he was a punk. A real one! He was in a band!- before he heard the tell-tell sign of a rapidly approaching double set of footsteps echo down the hall. He scrambles to fling his lit cigarette into a water portal, chucking the pack for double security, while summoning a random suitcase from thin air.

All that's left is his rather eye-catching coat, a little too worn down and old to work well with his well-put-together outfit underneath. Without it, John has a clean, pressed white shirt, a respectful tie, and a pair of slacks that make more than one head turn as he walks.

All in all, he looks like the office businessman his worthless father always wanted to be.

John throws off his coat over a chair at the same time the door is thrown open with a pair of excited yells. "Welcome home, Dad!"

A grin stretched across his face before he could think about it, feeling his heart swell at the sight of them, as he knelt down, arms open wide. Two tiny bodies slam into him without a second of hesitation, nearly knocking John backwards.

He lets out a soft grunt as Dani's arms attempt to wrap around his left arm and right shoulder. She clashes against Danny, who's trying to bury himself into John's right side, little face squished against one of John's pecs, like a bunny burrowing into the snow.

"Hello, my little lambs!" He gushes, squeezing the kids close. "How was your day with the House of Mystery? Did you two behave?"

"They were angels," Black Orchid confirms, gliding into the room at a much slower pace. They had their regular, impassive expression on their faces, but John could tell that Orchid was happy with the kids by the way they gently tapped the tops of the children's black hair.

"Dad! Dad! Now that you're home, can we please go get my new ballet shoes?" Danny begs, bouncing on his toes.

For a moment, John doesn't see his son, but rather his own blue eyes staring up at his father, when he was also five, begging to join Lily, the next-door neighbor, in beginners' ballet class.

His father had beaten him nearly to death for wanting such a girly interest. It was the last time they spoke about it. It was also the last time John ever bothered asking to start new hobbies.

"Dad! Dad! Can I do Karate?" Dani asks then, snapping John from his memories better left buried, as she presses her check against her brother's in an attempt to get John's attention. "I want to break a board with my fist!"

He gives the children another squeeze, laughing at the squeals he gets. "Of course you can do karate, little lamb. We're going to get your brother his shoes, and then I'll find a gym that offers the classes at the same time."

"I already provided that service." Orchid cuts in, holding a flyer for Flying Graysons' gym, founded and run by the eldest Wayne in Gotham. "I took the liberty of signing Danny up for a class with Casnadra Wayne, and Dani will join Duke Thomas's class. It starts in a week."

"Plenty of time to go get them everything they need and a new book series for our bedtime stories," John announces, loosening his arms so his children can cheer and bounce up and down in excitement. His knee is starting to cramp up, but he ignores it so he can hold his kids.

It's moments like these, so small and mundane, that John is grateful he thought of his persona. When he first learned how to use the magic he was gifted, he always made himself available for any crisis.

This was before the Justice League days, so anyone who sought him out was familiar with the occult world. He adored helping, and he built an incredible amount of skill and knowledge in magic, but soon John was facing disaster after disaster, dragging his exhausted body from one place to another.

Those who came searching for him never cared. They wanted John to jump at the drop of a hat. He tried for years to always be ready, always be willing, but years of isolation and desperate battles tried him to the core.

Then he took in Danny and Dani, finding the pair of babies in a basket at the feet of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. He had gone to investigate the legends of the famous King Pariah Dark, only to find what he assumed were originally sacrifices, well and truly alive.

Their names were attached to their feet with a letter written by a Jazz Fenton begging the two to grow and live well. She had died to save them. In her honor, John kept their names.

Daniel "Danny" Fenton and Danielle "Dani" Fenton. He often wondered what Jazz had been to the kids, with their identical last names. It is a question he will never get the answer to.

They could have been no older than five months, but when they opened their eyes and reached up for him, John realized he no longer wanted to be the go-to man of magic.

He wanted to be their father.

To discourage people from calling him away from his children, John created his persona of a man barely honorable enough to join a team. Over the five years of his raising his kids, his reputation plummeted until only Batman called to him unless absolutely necessary.

It was a breath of fresh air. John had fought for too long and too hard. He was retired now, just like his band days, the days when John would speed off to save the world were behind him. He only stepped in if a friend asked for a favor.

He had other priorities now.

The best part? The Justice League would never know that.

"Dad!" Dani screamed into his ear, making him grimace.

"Inside voice, darling."

"Sorry." She twirls her fingers, a nervous habit she picked up from John, before brightening up "I'm just super excited. Orichad said Mr. Bruce Wayne will be at the gym! Do you think he'll sign my Wayne Space shirt?"

Ah, yes, the man who was funding some space program or another. He only knew about this because his twins adored anything to do with space travel, as if though he couldn't just teleport them to a different planet.

"I'm sure he will, darling."

[matchingbatbites]

Loosely inspired by this idea by @scoops-aboy86 but AU where you have a soulmark of an animal that represents your soulmate. People can have multiples, depending on if it's a romantic, platonic, or familial soulmate, and Steve is one of the lucky ones that has all three.

He doesn't know why they're crows, of all things (won't learn until later that it's because all three of his soulmates like shiny things and love to heckle him, lovingly of course). They hop around on his skin, sitting across his collar bones like a power line, nesting down in the shell of his ear.

The unique thing about the soulmarks, is the first time you touch your soulmate, your animals swap. It's only temporary, with them swapping again at the second touch, but it's a way to signify when you've found your match.

He realizes that Dustin is one of his matches during the season 2 mess, when he grabs Dustin to pull him from danger and later finds a fancy bird nesting with his crows. It has an orange face and a green body, and is incredibly vain. When he swaps back Dustin shows him the other one - this time yellow with a peach face and blue tail - and tells Steve that they're love birds. Steve thinks it's fitting, not just for himself, but for Suzie as well.

Robin happens during the Russians. Their hands brush where they're tied behind them and next thing Steve knows there's a fish swimming across his thigh, his crows hopping along after it, and he swears to do everything he can to get her out safely. It's not until the bathroom confession that he learns she's his platonic match, and he won't lie, he feels a little sad as he watches his betta swim up to another fish.

"A pinktail triggerfish," Robin explains, "They're protective and dangerous."

Steve smiles as he holds Robin's hand. "Can't wait to meet the girl that represents."

His swap with Eddie happens at the boat house, but Steve doesn't even realize it until after he's back home for the night and changing. There's a golden retriever bounding across his chest, chasing after the crows that are- playing with it. They're flying around it and egging it on, and he only worries a little until later, when he finds the dog sprawled out, relaxed even as the crows tug on its ears. It makes him happy to see the patience and joy the dog exudes, clearly at home with his birds.

They're walking through the upside down when Eddie holds out a hand and gives a hesitant "I uh, think this is yours." On the back of his hand is Steve's crow, and Steve smiles at the sight of it.

"Yeah, it is," Steve says. He brushes their hands together and the animals swap again. Steve watches as a different dog - a rottweiler, maybe - bounds up to the retriever on Eddie's hand and the dogs start to tussle playfully. He glances at his own hand to find his crows tumbling over each other, happy to be reunited.

"So, Jeff is my platonic, if you, uh-" Eddie starts, but Steve knows there's more important things to worry about right now. Even though all Steve wants is to know if Eddie wants Steve the way he wants Eddie.

"After," he cuts in as he takes Eddie's hand, the smallest relief he can offer right now. "We can talk after."

[navybrat817]

Seb's new Variety photoshoot did things to me Navy, and now thots of sucking the living shit out of his cock consume me.

UNTIL I MEMORIZE EVERY VEIN 🥵

TRULY. And I have to use the image you sent me.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: Over 660

Warnings: Implied smut, implied oral sex (m. receiving), implied vaginal and anal sex, dirty talk, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

Banner credit to @cafekitsune

Okay, but imagine. Bucky taking a shower after a long day. Maybe he worked up a sweat fixing his car or bike. He wants you because, well, he always wants you, and you were sweet enough to leave him be and not tease him. Not that he would’ve complained if you did strut around to distract him, but his want for you only increases since you left him alone. Covered in sweat and grime though, he wants to be a gentleman and shower first so you don’t have to deal with the mess. 

There will still be a mess, but that’s beside the point.

Sighing under the spray of the water once he’s undressed, he can’t help but picture you as his eyes slip shut. He thinks of your lips on his skin as you kiss down his body, taking your time to worship and drive him crazy. He can practically feel your hands move up his thighs once you’re on your knees. Licking his lips, he can imagine the feigned innocence so clearly in your eyes before you wrap your hand around his hard cock and dart your tongue out to taste him.

Your sinful mouth was made for his cock to ruin, just like the rest of you.

“And what has you all hot and bothered?” 

Bucky tilts his head and opens his eyes, smirking when you push the curtain open more to join him, your clothes on top of his on the floor. Your nipples are already hard and he doesn’t have to touch you to know you’re wet. “You,” he says, unashamedly stroking himself as he fully faces you. “It’s always you.”

How could he want anyone else when he has you?

You hum and run a finger along his arm, chasing a droplet of water. “Were you thinking of anything in particular?”

“I was picturing you sucking my cock,” he answers, smirking again when he hears your breathing pick up. “You always take me so well.”

“Is that right?” you smile, placing your hand over his to help him stroke himself. “Well, we both know I have a dirty mouth made for fucking, and you have a gorgeous cock made for sucking.”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, stroking faster.

“Maybe I should get on my knees so you can fuck my throat right here. Make that daydream a beautiful reality,” you suggest, leaning in close enough for your lips to touch. “Look up at you with tears in my eyes as your soul leaves your body.”

Bucky’s eyes almost rolled back. If anyone could suck the soul out of him, it was you. Each of your holes took him to a kind of heaven he didn’t know existed.

“But before your soul leaves your body, I want to memorize every vein. I want my throat molded to the shape of your cock,” you continue, letting your tongue move along the seam of his lips. “And when you’re done, I want you to wreck my pussy the way I deserve.”

A growl escapes and Bucky’s proud he doesn’t come then and there. “Greedy thing, wanting me to ruin your pussy, too.”

And Bucky will. He’ll fuck your throat and watch as tears spill over when you take him deep in your throat. He’ll fuck your pussy until the only thing you remember is his name. 

“Yeah, I’m greedy when it comes to you.” You wait a beat before you smirk. “So, you should probably fuck my ass for good measure.”

Bucky’s hand freezes because he knows he’ll blow his load if he doesn’t stop. “What did you say?”

“I said you should fuck my ass, big boy,” you repeat, and Bucky wonders how he got so lucky to find you. “If you’re up for it.”

Bucky is more than up for it.

And just when he thinks he can’t love you more, you go in for the kill. “Oh, and fuck me bare. I want you to drip out of me later.”

Okay, lovelies. Go about your business! Nothing to see here! Love and thanks for indulging me in my nonsense! ❤️

[lgvalenzuela]

Now that this is making the rounds again I'm gonna spill something on the Veilguard companions because it's the only game in the series where I've been here since the begining and I've played this game so much I might as well be an expert

-Davrin is incredibly smart, he might say he wasn't a smart kid. But writing a book on your expertise because you have beef with a dead author? Straight up nerd behaviour, I haven't seen someone so mad about books since Dorian threw my library books out the balcony

I love his narrative, I love that he didn't become a Warden because he had to but because he wanted to (which like...I'm pretty sure is a first as far as Warden companions?) He wanted a propuse. But becoming a Warden was so ingrained in his brain when you meet him that he's so convinced he's gonna die young he's preparing for his death actively, he's preparing Assan to be able to take care of himself (also if anyone thinks his whole narrative is about Assan I'm gonna start throwing hands)

His narrative can be taken multiple places due to player choice. But personally I'm really into this self sacrificing hero that just... Finds a reason to live.

-Harding's narrative is literally about toxic positivity, Lucanis literally spells it out on the scene where they have coffee together. She's refusing herself very righteus feelings of anger for what's been done to her people, and to her specifically. She's grieving through the whole game and for multiple reasons and she's on the verge of breaking down the whole time. Both her endings need her to accept this part of herself, the part that's mourning and the part that's angry.

Also the dressing down she gives Solas at the end? Mwa! Poetry. Queen shit.

-I don't know how to explain Bellara without going into personal life? But like a grieving neurodivergent asexual woman, kinda feels like they were just writing me at some points.

Her narrative with Cyrian was the first (and not last) time I cried. I love how her and Davrin represent the past and the future of their people. How you sometimes have to look into the past to see a clearer future, how the sins of the past don't define you but it DOES feel too easy to just say: Oh but it wasn't me, and this is not Who my people are now.

Also in general I love their dynamic, I love when I can actually see relationships grow and chance in game. And I can see Davrin and Bellara forming a strong bond and Davrin being that anchor that Bellara needs. Not like Cyrian! But he cares for her! And she needs someone to care for her, to remind her that its okay, and that not everything is her fault.

-Neve is not an ice queen, she just uses ice magic. But take her with you anywhere and she's full of jokes. Damn she even approves of most of Rook's purple dialogues. She loves It when you're a silly goose.

Her entire character revolves around caring. She's there because she cares, because nobody seemed to care so she had to step up, she's willing to sacrifice so much just because she knows people need her. She's righfuly mad if Minrathous is ravaged by the dragon but it's...honestly not that hard to get on her good side again? She seems a little more mad than Lucanis, Lucanis seems more sad. But she honestly doesn't seem to personally blame Rook. None of them do. Because they're smart enough to know it was an imposible choice from the start. And she can see Rook put in the work (well I mean if you as the player care enough)

-Taash is not fucking immature or stupid. Taash has trouble communicating, I think we would all benefict from knowing the difference oh my God. Did we not learn this lesson with Sera? (Stupid question I know)

Honestly it's a thing I've always loved about this franchise and these characters. They all communicate differently, they do depending on their upbringing and just...some people have trouble communicating! It's fine! Just give them a second! Maybe let them write some things down!

-Emmrich🧡 (that's all, send post. I'm gonna have something else to say when I've already post this I can see it)

-My biggest surprise is Lucanis for sure. Fun fact? Wasn't on my radar when the first or second trailer or whatever else material dropped. But my Rook was born as a joke, he wasn't suppoused to even be Rook on the first place, he was meant as a secondary character and shipping him with Lucanis was also a joke.

I love him dude. I have such a thing for characters that have a kind heart, the more surprising that they have it the more I love it. I'm so glad he wasn't a Zevran type (and I LOVE Zevran, but for that we already have him!) He was just a weird little ace that had no fucking idea what was happening most of the time.

This is only when It comes to romantic love because he's really observant. He so quickly realizes what's wrong with every companion, he only really has THAT type of relationship with Davrin because he's matching his energy and honestly I think both of them think it's kind of funny at some point. He's good with people but in such a weird way where he doesnt know he is? He's just... Happy. I think he's truly happy for the first time because he has people that can rely on him and he can fully take care of. And in turn you can show him that he's worth those things too.

Things I never would have guessed from fandom osmosis before actually playing the Dragon Age games:

-Alistair is actually pretty smart, and has a lot of knoweledge to share about the topics he's interested about.

He's also not that shy, and flirts with a warden pretty smoothly, if a bit innocently for his lack of experience and general humorous persona.

And his primary motivator is revenge which is an interesting way to take a character like him.

-Zevran is the only character who actively searches for consent even in simple flirting like calling someone beautiful. If you tell him to stop he never makes a mention again.

He's also one of the most loyal and sentimental companions you can have. He cares a lot, want to admit it or not.

-Merrill is one of the most educated and smart characters on the series, she takes calculated risks based on her own studies and research, and the only reasons she fails is because nobody trusts her and refuses to treat her like an adult.

Part of it is also the game refusing to frame her as anything but a naive child when she's anything but.

-Isabela has the most emotional intelligence out of all the characters in DA2, she knows exactly what they're feeling and what they need to hear at all times. It's clear that she's wise and worldly, and just needs time to build confidence between her and the others because she's been hurt a lot and her respect is gained.

-Fenris has an amazing sense of humor and you can find him consistently laughing at both Hawke's and companions he likes silly jokes. He's just really deadpan when delivering his own jokes.

He's also considerably patient and doesn't lose his temper unless confronted with people who have actively abused him.

-Anders spent SEVEN YEARS protesting peacfully, and it took the risk of genocide on his people to reach the desperation of act 3.

-Dorian is incredibly reserved. He tries to avoid talking about his life with a veil of humor and sarcasm, but he's specially guarded around his sexuality and love life. He only comes out to the Inquisitor in a moment of fury to piss of his father and he may have not done so if not pressed.

If in a romance with Bull the only reason the others find out is because Bull exposes it in front of everyone (I wish they would have find out a better way to let the player find out than Bull ignoring Dorian's wishes of privacy)

If romanced by the Inquisitor he's in his first real relationship and it shows, he's lost most of the time but tries to hide it by acting cocky. It's really funny.

He's also a huge nerd, I wasn't expecting that but I was pleasantly surprised.

-The Iron Bull it's not just smart, he's so caring, he shows you around so you can meet the people, the ones nobody cares about, he introduces you to them.

-Sera also goes to the pile of characters who are really smart and nobody gives them credit for it. She says it herself, she's just really bad with words, but as long as you try to understand her she makes a lot of sense.

The game just gives you no other option than to treat her horribly, which I sense a pattern of framing the neurodivergent coded characters in a certain light with Merrill and Anders.

-Vivienne is the only one (with Dorian) that asks the Inquisitor if they're okay after Haven, and gives beautiful words of afirmation.

She's really affable if you bother to befriend her.

[yzzart]

Ok...so...I was thinking...MORE OF GIRLDAD! DANTE. I wanna see more of his wife and daughter. How would Eva and Nero interact? Maybe?

⋆˚࿔ LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.. ── PART TWO.

୭˚. ᵎᵎ content warnings: Dante being a girl's dad, Interactions between Nero and Eva, mention of Kyrie and Nico, part one is here!

⭑.ᐟ Children ask questions, question everything, absolutely everything, and it was normal. — And, of course, Eva couldn't skip, omit this phase of her little curiosity. — Every two minutes, or only during the times when you or Dante put her to sleep, she asked something.

⤷ Dante, being the main victim of her questions, didn't know how to answer — he always got confused, saying things that didn't make sense; he tried in every way to change the subject, but he never managed to — and he always asked, begged, for your help. — But, there were some questions, about a subject, or rather, someone specific that Dante never failed to answer; his daughter always asked about her grandmother.

⤷ Eva asked about Eva; it was funny, any creature could agree. — Little Eva, especially when she was going to sleep, would ask what her grandmother was like; both her appearance, her characteristics, her story. — She always showed her curiosity, enthusiasm when it came to her. — Dante spent hours and hours talking to his daughter about his mother, he didn't care what time it might be, that was the only rule that father and daughter liked to break.

⤷ One night, while the only dim light that was present in the hallway came from the little child's room, Dante was there; showing a photo he kept of his mother to Eva. — It was the only photo he had in his hands and he considered it a treasure, something precious. — The old but so beautiful, angelic image of Eva was admired by her granddaughter.

⭑.ᐟ Nero, even with his classic temperament — influenced by the blood that runs through his veins — always got along well with little Eva; sometimes, he took it upon himself to take care of her, because of you and not because of the annoying and comedic demon hunter. — He made fun, mocked Dante's jokes and puns in front of Eva.

⤷ And she was still laughing! Dante's heart was breaking, with so much sadness and melodrama, with the terrible betrayal; this was unacceptable. — She could only laugh at the provocations, the small humiliations, if they were done by you. — That man was whipped by you.

“If your father were to live as a comedian, he would starve.” — Nero pointed the screwdriver at the little girl, shaking it and crossing his arms. — “Like, the most precarious situation of hunger.” — Eva’s cheerful, radiant laugh echoed through the garage. — “That old man wouldn’t even support a crow.”

⤷ Nero was fond of his adorable little cousin; considering he was good with children. — On the days he looked after Eva, he would take her to meet the orphans he fed and cared for, alongside Kyrie; thus, forming friends.

“Can i stay with Nero today, please?” — Eva asked, tugging on the hem of her father’s gray and slightly dirty shirt, who, just hearing that name, sighed deeply. — “He promised he would take me for a ride in the van with Nico.”

“I’m losing my daughter to that brat.” — Your husband complained, exaggeratedly, drama overflowing his chest.

⭑.ᐟ Dante had loved his daughter's eyes ever since he first held her in his arms; those little orbs perfectly resembled your own. — They showed, transmitted an air of sweetness, pure ingenuity, something that was divinely beautiful. — Just like yours.

⤷ You insisted; claiming it was a mix between you and him. — However, Dante denied it, maintaining his concrete certainty. — Eva had your eyes.

[p1astr81]

Could you do Oscar x Next door neighbor Reader where like he hears her moans through the wall all the time and gets off listening to her, they bump into each other outside one day she invites him over for dinner/coffee/something and eventually confess to him that she let him hear her on purpose then he fucks her brains out?!

Yes? Please?

Thanxx xoxo

Anon I’m sending you to horny jail cuz WHAT

uh anyway, warnings: smut (bye bye minors), everyone is so wrong in this I’m in tears, masterbation (f & m), mean!Oscar (at the end), degradation, sub space, dacryphilia

The first time it happened, he thought he was imagining it. Soft little gasps from the flat next door.

Must’ve been the air vents carrying the sound.

He tried to ignore it, he really did. Tried to go to sleep and pretend he wasn’t getting harder with every little sound. But then a pretty little moan reached is ears and he couldn’t ignore the throbbing pain.

Palming himself through his boxers hardly gave him any satisfaction. So he shed his underwear.

It was already slick with beads of precum. His hand wrapped around the base, and the moan he let out was loud and unrestrained.

It was fully immoral, getting himself off to the sounds his neighbor was making. He knew that. But he wouldn’t dare stop himself when it felt as good as it did.

And maybe all his senses were heightened because of the stimulation, but he could’ve sworn your sounds from next door were getting louder. Needier.

Every moan sounded like you were sat right next to him.

His hand pumped the length of his cock, fast, with a tight grip. He was too desperate to even pretend to tease himself.

Oh! Oh, yes!

The sounds you were making were sinful, and shamelessly loud.

Oscar’s breaths grew ragged, his head thrown back as the pleasure built in the core of his stomach. He was pumping himself without restraint, just chasing his release with no care to prolong the pleasure. He couldn’t stop the groans and curses that slipped past his lips.

Oh yes! Fuck yes!

He could tell you’d cum by the pitch of your moans and the slight knocking against his wall—probably due to your writhing. The thought of it threw him in to a blinding orgasm, groaning loudly, not a care for whether you heard him or not.

Morning runs were never his favorite. He was too tired and it sucked all the energy out of him before he’d even began the day.

He closed his apartment door as he stepped into the hallway, jumping when he realized he wasn’t the only person in the confined space.

“Oh, hi!” You greeted. Too sweet. Too innocent sounding. He knew that was far from the truth, and his face burned red at the reminder of how he’d been getting off to your sounds for the past two weeks. “I don’t see you around much. I guess you’re busy traveling the world, right?” You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You were acting normal. Not suspicious of him or avoiding him. Perhaps you couldn’t hear his moans through the wall as he had heard yours.

The thought eased him enough to converse with you like a regular person. “Yeah, I guess.” He laughed. “But I’m on break right now.”

“You know, since you’re home, are you up for coffee? I’d like to get to know my neighbor a bit more.” Your smile never faltered.

He didn’t have to think for long. Any excuse he had to not go run was a great one.

“So, I don’t keep up with the sport much. But I know the basics and whatnot. So, around here, how do you not hit the walls all the time? It’s such narrow streets and you’re going so fast.” You leaned forward, a mug of hot coffee cradled in your hands, eyes sparkling with interest.

He tried to find a happy medium between a confident and cocky response. “Well, we’ve done it for so long, and we have simulators that we can use to practice on. At that point, it’s more or less muscle memory.”

Still, you looked fascinated. “Wow.” You paused, then leaned in closer, lowering your voice. “Is it also muscle memory for you to get yourself off whenever you hear me?”

Oscar nearly spit out his hot chocolate at that. “Sorry, what?” He coughed, trying to play it cool despite looking guilty.

You breathed out a laugh. “If you can hear me, I can hear you.” The sparkle in your eyes was no longer one of interest, but of mischief. You recognized his guilty look. “Don’t worry.” You leaned back. “I wanted you to hear.” You grinned.

He stared, convinced his ears were deceiving him. “You… wanted me to hear you? Why?”

“You’re a smart guy, Oscar.” You tilted your head. “Handsome, too.” You bit your lip, eyes trailing down his body. “Why do you think?”

You gasped as he threw your naked body onto the mattress. “So this is where you’ve been driving me insane, huh?” He rasped, towering over you, caging you in with his muscled arms.

A little pink toy sat on your nightstand, catching his eye. He picked it up, holding in front of your face. “This what you’ve been using?”

You trembled, trying to close your legs but his own legs stopped you from being able to. “Mhm.” You nodded. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, more than ever before.

He turned it on to the lowest setting, placing it on your stomach and dragging it lower, lower, lower-

“Fuck!” You shouted when it made contact with your clit. Oscar smiled at that, and the way you whined when he shoved two fingers into your dripping cunt. Everything was so slow with him—the vibrations against your clit, the thrust of his fingers. He wanted to drive you insane, wanted to break you, reduce you to a needy, begging mess.

And he knew he had you right where he wanted you when you thrust into his hand. “Do that again, and I’ll leave right now.”

“No! I’m sorry- fuck!” He turned the vibrator to the next highest speed. Your moans spilled over like a boiling pot. One after the other echoed around the room. You were so close.

Oscar withdrew his hands, leaving you without a release. He licked his fingers clean, moaning dramatically at the taste.

“Oscar,” you mewled, reaching for his bicep. You looked so drunk on him already, and you hadn’t even cum once!

That sure went to his head.

He took both of your wrists in his hand, pinning them to the sheets. “You wanna cum?” You nodded desperately, receiving a devilish grin. “I don’t think you deserve it.”

The whine you let out almost made him feel bad. Almost. “Please! I need it so bad!”

He only laughed at your pleas. “I wanna hear you apologize first.”

“What?”

“Apologize for torturing me for weeks. Letting me hear your pretty little noises.” He placed hot, wet kisses along the length of your throat. “Apologize.” He demanded, unsatisfied with your lack of response.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry it was just so hot!” You rushed out, arching your back, trying to entice him.

“Such a slut.” A cruel grin spread across his lips, his fingers dancing across your tits. He gave one of your nipples an experimental squeeze, satisfaction filling him at how you gasped in response.

Handling you like a rag doll, he flipped you over. He pulled your ass into the air while pressing your head into the pillows. You let out a small moan at being handled in such a way. He scoffed.

“If you’re going to act like a slut, I think you deserve to be fucked like one, no?”

You wiggled your hips, shifting back on your knees. Trying anything to entice him. “Please, Oscar! Just please fuck me!” And when he didn’t do anything for a beat.

“Not so fun being tortured, is it?” His fingers circled your clit. Slowly. Teasing. Just enough pleasure to feel it but not get you anywhere.

“Please! I’ll never do it again! I’ll let you have me whenever you want!”

He eased the tip in, earning a high pitched moan out of you. His hands ran along the length of your back, running down your sides before he gripped onto your hips. “Of course you will.” He spat, yanking your hips to slam against his, successfully plunging his cock into your cunt in one thrust.

A loud moan was punched out of your lungs. “Fuck! yes!” You moaned. Oscar gave you no time to adjust, setting a brutal pace right away. He reached places inside of you the you didn’t even know someone could reach before. Each thrust forced another moan from your lips. It was like Oscar’s own personal concert, and his favorite song being played on repeat.

It felt incredible, so good you didn’t even notice the tears rolling down your cheeks. Oscars hand found your throat and he yanked you back so your back was flush with his chest. You moaned louder at the change of angle. Your head lulled back to rest on his shoulder, eyes rolled back in bliss.

“Aw, enough with those tears, this is what a slut like you wants, isn’t it?” He feigned remorse, he kissed the tears away, groaning when he felt you tighten around him. “You like being called a slut?”

You couldn’t answer, too fucked out already.

He pulled out of you, letting your body flop onto the bed. You let out a noise of protest, then gasped as he flipped your body over again. “I asked you a question.” His voice was level, seemingly unaffected by the loss of your cunt around his cock.

“Yes!” You moaned as he slammed back into you. Back arched off the bed, your fists tried to find purchase in the soaked sheets.

“Prettiest slut I’ve ever seen.” Oscars arms looped around your knees, pressing your legs to your chest, effectively folding you in half. The noise you let out walked the line between a scream and a moan.

You couldn’t even warn him before you were gushing all over his cock. Your cunt was sucking him in, begging for him to cum inside you. And he did with a shout of your name, fucking you through both of your orgasms.

He eased out of you, careful of your sensitive body.

“Should I run a bath or do you want a shower?” He asked, already standing in the en-suit.

You didn’t respond.

He came back out, concern etched on his features. You were blinking slowly, unfocused eyes staring at the wall. He smiled softly, taking your face in his hands. “You there, pretty girl?” His thumb stroked your cheek.

Still, no response.

He was conflicted between concern and letting his ego inflate. “C’mon baby.” He took you in his arms, stroking your hair.

When your eyes finally focused on his face, he smiled. “There you are.” You gave a weak laugh at that.

Bath it is then.

[kurokawaia]

HICKEY, PLEASE? 彡 Dabi, Aizawa, Hawks

| MDNI - 18+ | WARNINGS :: bakugou x fem!reader, hawks x fem!reader, dabi x fem!reader, x fem!reader, shoto x fem!reader, implied! virgin! reader / innocent! reader, heavy sexual tension and suggestive dialogue, experienced partner x shy partner, marking, d/s undertones, praise kink, light begging, teasing, slight possessiveness, size kink? + more? MINI ONESHOTS. total wc :: 2.5k+

SYNOPSIS. Asking mha men (Dabi, Aizawa, Hawks) for a hickey for the first time. (this is inspired buy a smau prompt by @nanaslutt )

DABI

You didn’t say anything, not directly. But Dabi knew the look on your fac, the way your eyes lingered on him, a little too long, when he passed by. You were fidgeting more than usual, tugging at the hem of your shirt like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite bring yourself to.

Dabi could practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of you, but you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of outright asking for anything. Not yet.

He leaned back on the couch, stretching out lazily. You were sitting across from him, legs crossed, head resting on your hand, eyes flickering nervously toward him whenever he caught you. And when he finally did he let a smirk fall upon him as he watched your face flush in embarrassment, "You look like you wanna say something. Or maybe you’re just too shy?"

You blinked, looking away quickly, but Dabi could see the pink creeping up your neck. You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt again, eyes glancing back at him. You didn't respond, but that was enough for him.

"You’re acting like a brat," Dabi mused. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

Your cheeks burned as you hesitated, and Dabi watched the way you shifted uncomfortably. It was cute—too cute.

"Nothing…" you muttered

He raised an eyeborw. "If you’re not gonna tell me, you know I’m just gonna have to figure it out myself."

You froze. It wasn’t hard for Dabi to see through your act. He knew you were trying to keep your thoughts hidden, but you couldn’t hide the way your body was responding to him.

He leaned forward slowly, watching you flinch as his gaze softened and then hardened again. "You’re nervous," he observed you, enjoying the way you were getting nervous. "But you want something, don’t you?"

Your mouth went dry, but you kept your eyes lowered, too embarrassed to admit it.

"C'mon, you can tell me, doll," Dabi hums in your ear, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you flush to his side, and you couldn't help but let out a breathy sigh the moment his lips skim down the nape of your throat.

With a small nibble of your lip, you confessed, "I was just thinking about it and people say it feels really good... and-" Dabi tuned you out as his thoughts slowed down, what was going on in that pretty little head of yours because it was about to make him go feral "-I was wondering if you could give me a hickey."

"Hickey?" Dabi’s tone was almost casual, but the way he leaned closer made the words feel like a command.

You though you said it outright, now that he said it, it felt like the air around you had thickened. "I—"

"Tell me," he cut in quietly, and you shivered as he closed the gap between you againt, his breath warm against your ear. "You want me to mark you, don’t you? To let everyone know you’re mine?"

You were caught. You felt your heart race, your cheeks flush with heat. You couldn’t answer. Not directly. But you nodded, just barely enough for him to notice. "Good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding to your jaw and tilting your face up. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Now hold still for me."

He didn’t wait for more permission before he was on you, his mouth hot against the delicate skin of your neck. The first touch was soft, teasing, just a feather-light brush of his lips over the sensitive flesh. You gasped, barely able to control the shaky breath that escaped you.

Dabi chuckled lowly. "You want it harder, don’t you?" His voice was a low tone as his lips pressed more insistently against your skin, and you moaned softly, not daring to move as he knew exactly what you wanted. 

He pulled away just enough to admire the flush spreading across your skin, his fingers tracing the outline of your neck, where he could already feel the warmth of his mark beginning to take shape. Dabi's grip on your waist was tightening, as if you were about to slip away from him and his touch combined with how his lips felt on your body was enough to make you numb of the feeling. "You want everyone to know you're mine, don't you?" he mumurs and you could feel his patience running thinner. 

You nodded, feeling that aching pull in your chest, wanting him, but still too shy to ask.

"Good," he whispered, before he descended again, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck just before he bit down gently. The pain was brief, but it was enough to make your breath catch.

He pulled back after a moment, watching the dark bruise form, before he took a step back and leaned against the couch. "There," he muttered, admiring the mark he left on you. "Now you’re mine for everyone to see."

You couldn’t speak. You were too lost in the haze of sensation, your heart racing, skin tingling. Dabi ran a hand through his hair, watching you carefully. "I think you needed that. But don’t think you’re getting away with just one."

AIZAWA

You didn't realise, but you have been squirming around for the past five minutes as you lay beside Aizawa. Both of you are nestled under his blanket, your curled agasint his chest as he lazily combs his fingers through your hair slowly, trying to help you to fall asleep. It was working, at the start, not until you remembered something you saw today. 

Your cheeks are flushed red, as you fiddle with the hem of his sweats, he doesn't mind, but he really wants to know what you are thinking about that has you all fidgety. Your heart thuds a little harder the longer you stay quiet. You want to ask, you really do, but you're nervous. You know that Aizawa won't judge anything you say, maybe a little joke and tease, he would never ridicule you. 

However, the words can't come out as easily as they should, not when you've been daydreaming about it all day like some lovesick little thing. Aizawa let out a low hum, he couldn't take it anymore. "You're thinking too loud," he says in a quiet tone, making sure not to jump you out of your thoughts too fast.

You could feel your cheeks burning even more as you hid your face in his shirt. Inhaling the soft, clean smell of laundry detergent and faint hints of vanilla, from you, of course. This is what managed to calm you. Well, only just a little bit.

"M'not thinking anything," you mumble, obviously lying, you can't slip anything past him. 

Aizawa hums, he doesn't like to push answers out of you, he never does, but you know that he is waiting for a truthful reply. 

You take a breath, lifting your head from his chest, "Shou'...?" Your voice comes out in a whisper so quiet you're surprised he heard you.

He tilts his head slightly to look at you, hair falling over his tired eyes. "Yeah?"

As long as you say it, it's fine. You don't think you could make yourself look him in the eyes as you say it. 

“Uhm… could you…” Your fingers twist tighter on the hem of his sweats. “Could you maybe… give me a… h-hickey?”

"Look at me," Aizawa encourages gently. You glance up shyly, blinking at him through your lashes. You feel so silly. But something about the way he’s looking at you makes you melt. “Say it again,” he murmurs. “Slowly.”

“I… I want you to give me a hickey…”

His eyes were half-lidded. He’s quiet for a moment. And then he hums again, deeper this time, like he’s pleased with you. He has told you multiple times that you don't need to feel embarrassed talking to him about stuff like this. 

“You want me to mark you,” he says more than asks. “Let everyone see who you belong to.”

You nod, heart racing. He shifts, his hand sliding up to gently cup the side of your throat. Not tight—just enough to hold you still. To make you feel how big his hands are. How much control he has. And how careful he is with it. And Lord, you loved how it made you feel. 

“Where do you want it, sweetheart?”

Your eyes dart down to your collarbone. A vulnerable little spot that would peek out if you wore a tank top tomorrow. He chuckles softly, "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you, dirty girl," he degrades softly and a heat began to grow between your legs. You couldn't even answer him, you're already trembling from how he's making you feel. He smirks, just a little. "Stay nice and still, sweetheart."

And then his mouth is on your skin, warm, slow, open, and you whimper when his teeth scrape lightly along your collarbone, followed by the soft, aching pull of his lips as he sucks your skin into bruising heat. It's overwhelming your senses with heat, and it feels so good. You feel like you’re burning and melting at the same time.

"That’s it," he murmurs against your throat. “So sweet for me..."

HAWKS

The evening started like no other. You were curled up next to Hawks, his wing holding you close to him as both of you watched a movie. Keigo had an arm around your shoulder as you snuggled closer into him, his finger massaging your scalp, running through your hair. 

You feel safe with Keigo, and you couldn't ask for anything else. He never pressured you to do anything you weren't comfortable with, and you love him for that. 

However, something was pressing heavily on your mind, which left you aching. You tapped restlessly agasint Kiego's shirt, mindlessly as you shift every so often. Hawks knew something was up, but he really didn't want to press it out of you. Every time he took a glance at you, you quickly looked away, trying to suppress the urge gnawing at your stomach.

You knew what you wanted, but you didn't know how to ask for it. 

Hawks couldn't take it anymore, letting out a soft sigh, hand moving from your hair to soothingly rub your shoulder, he says, "You're fidgeting a lot, baby? Got something on your mind?"

Your cheeks began to heat up with embarrassment, and you avoided his gaze, aiming to look at his shirt rather than him. "Would it be... I... Could you give me a hickey?" you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you nervously bite your bottom lip. 

"A hickey, huh?" Keigo teases, holding you tighter as he teases you, "You're asking me to mark you, baby? To make sure everyone knows you're mine? You want that?" Everyone who fell out of his mouth only furthered your embarrassment.

You didn't know what you were expecting. The teasing was a given, but it felt a lot more embarrassing when he actually said it out loud. Although his teasing made your breath catch in your throat, it was this that made your body heat up in places you weren't used to.

A playful frown makes its way onto his face as he lowers his head to meet yours. "C'mon, baby, what's wrong? What do you want?"

You said softly, “I… I want to feel it. Want to feel you. My best friend was talking about how good it felt and I just," you continued, going on a whole ramble but that was all going in ear and out the other to Keigo, all he was thinking about was was making sure he stayed under control. 

He leaned in slowly, interrupting your ramble, causing you to freeze when you felt his lips brushing against your ear. "You’re so cute when you’re shy, baby. You want me to make you feel good?"

You bit your lip, too nervous to answer, but he didn’t wait for you to respond. His fingers trailed along your jaw, gently tilting your head back just enough for him to press his lips to the curve of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin and it made a dull throb slide down between your legs.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing against the delicate skin below your ear. “Tell me you want it, baby bird. Say it.”

You nodded again, a soft whimper escaping you as his lips hovered just above the spot where you wanted him most. He could tell you were practically trembling under his touch.

“Yeah?” He smiled against your skin, teasing you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

The pressure in your chest was unbearable. You wanted to ask for it, needed to ask for it, but the words got stuck in your throat. He noticed the hesitation, a quiet laugh escaping him as he kissed the corner of your mouth, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’m right here. Just say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath hitched. This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for. You gathered all your courage and whispered, “Please, Kei'… I want you to, too. Please."

You inhale a shaky breath, feeling a sly smile agasint your neck, pushing down a moan that was about to fall out of your lips. "Such a good girl," he praises and a breathy exhale is finally made by you.

He didn’t waste another second. His lips pressed to your neck, sucking gently at first, letting his tongue graze the sensitive skin there. You gasped at the feeling—his warmth, the pressure of his mouth as it moved lower, his hands tightening around your waist to keep you steady. You could feel him smiling against your skin as he worked, knowing how badly you wanted this, how much it was affecting you.

"You like that?" Keigo groans agasint your skin. "You like me marking you?"

You couldn’t form words, just nodding as your heart pounded. His lips continued their slow, steady journey down your neck, leaving a hot trail in their wake. Soft whimpers, the soft moans, any noise that came from you only made Keigo more desperate for you, gods, you sounded so sweet, so innocent.

Finally, after teasing you with just enough pressure to keep you on edge, Keigo sucked hard at a spot just below your ear, marking you with a deep, dark bruise. You let out a soft cry, your fingers gripping his shoulder as your body involuntarily arched toward him.

He pulled back slowly, admiring the mark he left on you. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this, baby,” he whispered, sighing deeply, feeling his bulge strain against his sweatpants. 

Your legs felt weak, the warmth between them now unbearable. "Kei'," you mumbled, flustered, not knowing what to say, too dazed. 

"Guess you did like it," he playfully hums, circling his arms around you as you make your way onto his lap, holding him close.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

There are so many grammar and spelling mistakes, I’ll edit this later x

[steveseddie]

clarity

written for @steddiebingo hop into spring mini event | prompt: first time | rating: e | wc: 2,9k | no cw | tags: minor steve/male character, feelings realization, friends to lovers, first time, frottage, hand jobs

read on ao3

Steve hoped that coming here would clear some things up for him. It’s why he suggested driving to Indy and going to a queer bar when Robin said she wanted to do something fun for the weekend.

Of course, Steve told her it was so she could meet a cute girl. He never said he wanted to find a cute boy to try to figure out some things about himself. As far as she knows, he’s just being a supportive friend, that’s all.

Only now that Robin has disappeared into the dance floor with a pretty brunette, leaving Steve alone by the bar, he can stop scanning the crowd for girls that Robin might be into and start looking for guys that he might like. Because that’s the question Steve is trying to answer– whether or not he’s into guys.

A few of them catch his eye, but that doesn’t clear anything up– Steve has always been able to appreciate a hot guy when he sees one. That doesn’t mean he’s attracted to them, just that he has eyes. Or at least that’s what he thought until he asked Robin if everyone else did that. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

“I don’t,” Robin said after thinking it over for maybe two seconds.

“No?”

“Nope, like, I know what most girls find hot, but I’ll look at those guys on posters and magazines and I just think they’re– eh,” she said, sending Steve into a spiral for the rest of their shift.

Maybe that’s what he’s doing here, he thinks. Maybe those hot guys are just guys he thinks girls would like. Maybe it doesn’t say anything about him.

He has almost convinced himself of this when he makes eye contact with a guy leaning against the bar. When he smirks at Steve and starts to approach, he feels less sure about it. 

He’s seen guys try to hit on Robin a few times, and he’s seen firsthand the uncomfortable and panicked reaction that comes with being approached by someone you’re not interested in at all.

That’s not what Steve is feeling right now.

He’s panicking a little, yes, but his stomach is also flip-flopping in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

It reminds Steve of how he feels when he’s with–

“Hey, darling,” the guy says, sliding into the stool next to Steve’s.

The pet name throws him for a loop, and he blushes. “Hi, uh, hey.”

“First time here?” The guy asks, giving him an obvious once-over.

“Yeah, I’m here with a friend. She’s– she’s dancing.”

The guy cocks his head, grinning. “Do you want to dance too?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He lets the guy drag him to the dancefloor, lets him put his hands on his waist after guiding Steve’s arms so they wrap around his neck. They’re pushed against each other by the people moving around them, and Steve’s stomach flip-flops again when their chests and hips press together.

Maybe his plan was a good idea. This does clear some things up.

Turns out Steve is into guys. Huh.

He’s definitely into dancing with someone as tall as he is, and he’s into big hands gripping his waist and the scratch of stubble when they move closer and their cheeks press together.

He’d probably be into kissing this guy, grinding against him, dragging him back to his car for more–

Or at least he would if his mind didn’t keep drifting to someone else– the reason why, after years of blissfully ignoring this part of himself, Steve finally decided to explore it.

Eddie. And Steve’s now confirmed crush on him.

He can’t help but think about him when the guy’s warm hands sneak under his shirt, wondering if Eddie’s would feel cold because of his rings. When Steve’s hand tries to tangle in the hairs at the back of the guy’s neck, he’s a little disappointed when he doesn’t find soft, long curls to grab onto. When the guy starts to lean in, his blue eyes sparkling with interest, Steve wishes he could be staring into big brown eyes instead.

“Shit, uh, sorry, I–” Steve stammers out, placing a hand on the guy’s chest.

“Everything okay?” He asks, pulling away.

Steve brushes his hair back. “I can’t– it’s just– there’s this guy–”

“Ah, did you come here to try to forget about him?” The guy asks, he seems a little disappointed, and Steve can’t blame him for that, but at least he’s also giving him a sympathetic smile.

It’s probably what makes Steve want to tell him the truth. "No, I– I came here to try and figure out if I really like him. He’s my friend, I don’t want to hurt him if I’m just– confused, you know?”

“Are you? Confused?”

“No,” Steve says without hesitation. There’s that clarity he came looking for. “I do like him.”

“Well,” the guy says, squeezing Steve’s hip. “You should tell him that.”

With that, he walks away. Steve leaves the dance floor and heads back to the bar. His spot is no longer available, but it’s fine; he feels like getting some fresh air anyway. He scans the crowd, looking for Robin, and finds her still dancing with the same girl. When their eyes meet, Steve gestures towards the door to let her know where he’ll be, getting a thumbs up in return before her attention returns to the pretty brunette.

Shouldering his way outside, Steve steps out into an empty alley. He’s only been there for a few seconds when the door opens behind him and someone else walks out.

“Stevie!”

The flash of panic he feels at being recognized in a place like this is quickly replaced by a fluttery feeling when he recognizes the voice.

He turns around and sees Eddie, and when his breath catches in his throat as he takes him in, from the eyeliner and the cropped shirt he’s wearing to the bright smile he’s flashing at him, Steve feels a little stupid for ever doubting he was into him.

“Hey, Eds,” he says with a little finger wiggle.

“I knew it was you! I’d recognize that Farrah Fawcett hair anywhere,” he says, and Steve remembers he needs to make Henderson pay for spilling that one. “But I gotta say, Stevie, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Steve could say the same thing. Eddie might be the reason why Steve even knows about this place, but he never said he was planning to come here anytime soon. He didn’t even tell Steve he was driving to the city!

Then again, Steve didn’t say anything either.

“Well, Rob wanted to do something fun, and we remembered you mentioned this place– She’s inside, dancing with a girl.”

Eddie whistles. “Get it, Buckley!" He says, and Steve chuckles. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Did you dance too? Pretty boy like you must’ve gotten quite a few invitations,” he says with a wink that makes Steve feel warm all over.

“Oh, uh, yeah, there was this guy,” Steve says, noticing the way Eddie’s finger tightens around the pack of cigarettes in his hand. “We danced for a while until–”

“Until the guy got handsy and you had to tell him you’re straight and only here to support your lesbian friend?”

Steve thinks about the guy he danced with, the reason why he turned him down, how he urged Steve to tell Eddie, and he thinks about the jealous tilt he can hear in Eddie’s voice right now–

“That’s not the only reason why I’m here actually,” Steve says, which makes Eddie pause in the middle of lighting a cigarette. “I– I thought this was a good place to figure some things out.”

“What things?” Eddie asks, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He realizes that the hand that’s holding the lighter is suspended mid-air and brings it to the end of the cig, flicking it and lighting it up, taking a quick drag–

Only to start coughing when Steve says, “Whether or not I’m into guys.”

“You– what?” Eddie sputters in between coughs. “Uh, I didn’t know– uh, did you– did you figure it out?”

Steve’s lips twitch at the hopeful yet cautious look on Eddie’s face. “I did.”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Good, good, that’s– but you know, you didn’t have to come to Indy, Stevie. I could’ve helped,” he says before his eyes widen and he starts shaking his head frantically. “Not like– not like that! You know, like, talking since I’m into guys myself.”

Steve smiles amusedly at Eddie. It was his own feelings that Steve needed clarity on, not Eddie’s, because Eddie always wears his heart on his sleeve. Or rather, his face. Right now, he looks hopeful but a little scared, so Steve decides to make things easier for him.

Anticipation runs through him as he moves closer, pressing Eddie against the alley wall. “I couldn’t talk to you about this.”

“Um, why not?” Eddie mumbles, his eyes widening as Steve presses closer.

“Because I was also trying to figure out if I’m into you.”

Eddie curses under his breath. “And are– are you?”

Lips curling into a grin, Steve reaches for the cigarette between Eddie’s lips and puts it out against the brick wall before letting it fall to the floor.

Then he grabs hold of Eddie’s neck and surges forward, pressing their mouths together. Eddie makes a surprised noise but starts kissing back instantly, his hands settling on Steve’s waist. He shivers when the cold metal of his rings comes in contact with his skin, where Steve’s shirt rides up, much like he figured it would be like.

Steve’s hand shifts to the back of Eddie’s neck where it grabs a handful of hair, fingers tangling in the soft curls. He gives them a playful tug, angling Eddie’s head a little better so he can deepen the kiss.

When he pulls back so they can catch their breath, his gaze meets Eddie’s big, doe eyes, blown and a little darker than usual.

Steve is so glad he waited for this to be the first time he kissed a guy. For Eddie to be the first guy he ever kissed.

He’s also the second, and the third, and the fourth– and after that, Steve loses count. One kiss mingling with the next as they make out against the wall.

“Is this– did the guy you danced with– did you kiss him too? Is that how you–” Eddie mumbles between biting Steve’s lip and licking into his mouth.

“No, he was going to, but I stopped him,” Steve admits, trailing kisses down Eddie’s neck. “He was hot, but all I could think about was you– doing this with you.”

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, and then he’s shoving Steve’s back against the brick wall, switching their positions. “Stevie– Jesus, I’ve thought about doing this for so long, sweetheart. I hoped, but I can’t believe–”

Steve shuts him up by hitching up his leg and hooking it around Eddie’s waist, pulling him closer. It brings their hips together, and he feels that Eddie is hard in his jeans. Steve isn’t far behind either.

“Motherfucker–” Eddie curses with a wounded noise when their erections brush together. “Stevie, as embarrassing as it sounds, I’m gonna cream my fucking pants if we don’t slow down.”

Eddie’s words do the opposite of what he intended. They urge Steve on, making heat pool in his stomach. He grinds against Eddie again.

“Fuck, Steve, we’re– are you sure you don’t want to– oh fuck, go somewhere else?”

Steve shakes his head. “I know you’ve hooked up here before,” he says, grabbing Eddie’s shoulders for leverage so he can keep rutting against him. “One time when we got drunk you told me and I– fuck, Eddie, I was so jealous. I thought I was just pent up and annoyed that you were getting any and I wasn’t, but– fuck, I was jealous of the guys who got to do this with you.”

“Oh my God, Steve, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Eddie gives in and tucks his face into Steve’s neck, matching the movement of his hips.

“I wanted it to be me, Eds. I wanted it to be me who jerked you off, who– who sucked you off,” he admits, tugging on Eddie’s hair, making him whine against his neck. “Fuck, Eddie. Wanted to be the one you fucked.”

It’s the last part that drags a strangled moan from Eddie and makes his hips stutter, his entire body shuddering as he comes in his jeans.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve,” Eddie pants as he comes down. Steve is painfully hard and twitching in his jeans so he does his best to move them so he can get friction from Eddie’s stomach without grinding against his overly sensitive dick.

“Eddie, Eds–” He moans because making Eddie come in his pants is probably the hottest thing Steve has ever done, and while the friction feels good, he needs more if he’s going to come.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, his lips brushing against Steve’s neck, pressing kisses against his pulse point.

“Touch me,” Steve pleads and feels Eddie grin.

“I got you, big boy,” he whispers, letting go of Steve’s waist and pushing one hand between them. He undoes Steve’s pants and reaches inside his underwear to pull out Steve’s cock, wrapping his fingers around it and giving it a few strokes, which are almost enough to make Steve lose his balance.

Because Eddie’s hand is big and his fingers are rough and calloused, but they move expertly, and they feel so good. Steve doesn’t think he’s going to last.

“God, Eddie, I– I’m close,” he stammers out soon enough, his voice breaking when Eddie thumbs at the slit.

“Already, sweetheart?” He asks, half-teasing and half-awed.

If Steve’s brain wasn’t melting out of his ears he’d make a bitchy comment about not coming in his jeans at least this but he can barely string two words together as it is.

“Y–yeah, please, Eds,” He whines brokenly when Eddie speeds up his hand, pleasure building up almost painfully. “Oh, fuck!” He moans as he topples over the edge, his knees buckling as he comes all over Eddie’s hand.

Eddie has Steve pinned against the brick wall, which is probably the only reason why he doesn’t collapse to the ground after his legs stop working. Resting his head back against the rough surface, he tries to catch his breath. Meanwhile, Eddie reaches into his back pocket for his bandana and uses it to clean his hand before tucking Steve back into his underwear and zipping up his pants.

It’s still blatantly obvious what the two of them were up to– their hair is sticking every which way, their faces are flushed, and their clothes are a mess, not to mention there’s a wet spot in the front of Eddie’s jeans. But at least this way, they won’t get arrested for public indecency if anyone decides to step out into the alley for a smoke. It’s already a miracle no one has walked through the door yet. They really should go before anyone does.

“We should head back inside,” Steve says, playing with a lock of Eddie’s hair.

“Er, you go ahead. I’m–” He gestures at the front of his pants, and Steve bites down on a laugh. “Hopefully I’ve got a change of clothes in the van or it’s gonna be a very uncomfortable drive home.”

“Sorry,” Steve says sheepishly.

Something hot flashes across Eddie’s face, and he cups Steve’s jaw. “Fucking worth it,” he says with a low voice and a wink.

Steve wants to kiss him again, but if he starts, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop, and he really needs to head back inside–

“I gotta find Rob, we should be heading back too,” he says, averting his eyes from Eddie’s tempting pink lips.

“Think she got lucky too?” He says with a ridiculous eyebrow waggle.

Steve cocks his head. “Is that why you came here? To get lucky?”

Eddie shrugs, tugging a lock of hair across his face. “I thought– I figured it was a good way to get my mind off– well, you, Stevie.”

“Was it working?”

“Hell no, when I saw you, I thought I was losing my mind, that I was hallucinating you.” A laugh tumbles from his lips. “I’m not sure I ain’t hallucinating this.”

“You’re not,” Steve says, tucking the hair behind Eddie’s ear. “I really like you, Eds.”

“I really like you too,” Eddie says with a giddy smile.

“Hey, wanna come over for breakfast tomorrow? Rob will be there, but she’ll probably want to sleep off her hangover, so we could–” He grabs the hem of Eddie’s cropped shirt, trailing off.

“Sure, sweetheart. I’ll come over,” Eddie says, giving Steve a short kiss. “Now go find Birdie. I’ll see you back home.”

“Bye, Eds.”

Steve watches the way he awkwardly waggles towards the street, laughing to himself, before heading back inside.

Where he bumps right into Robin.

“Dingus! Guess what? I kissed a girl!” She says, aggressively shaking Steve’s shoulders. “A girl kissed me!”

Grinning, Steve offers his hand for a high five. Then he blurts out, “I kissed a guy! Hooked up with him actually.”

Robin’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “You– what?”

“It’s Eddie!” He says, and her eyes grow impossibly bigger. "Also, we might be dating now."

At that, her jaw goes slack. She gawks at him before her face scrunches up. “I can’t believe you’ve been gay for five minutes and you’re already better at this than I am. Ugh!” Grabbing Steve’s hand, she starts pulling him towards the exit. “We’re leaving, dingus,” she says, “I need all the details.”

Steve sniggers. It’s a good thing that the drive back to Hawkins is two hours long.

[k1mbe3rly]

heyy can you do yeon si-eun x reader where he gets a bj for the first time ever?

the whc1 fandom on tumblr could fit in suho's helmet😭😭

First bj

Warning: light smut, blowjob, whimpering, sub?sieun, short

You and sieun never really officially did anything intimate, the most yall have done was just making out and groping each other, that’s how far it went but mainly because you both were taking it slow

It’s been awhile in the relationship and you were ready for something a bit..more next leveled, today was the one year anniversary of dating, and you planned on making it special which is by giving him his first ever blow job!

After hanging out and everything you waited for the moment, kissing him and sitting ontop of him, his hands awkwardly on the bed sheets kissing you back, your hands traveling all over his chest as you pulled back, staring into his eyes, his eyes basically telling you that he needed more.

You smiled at him, “Hey i was thinking..we could do something else other then kissing and stuff” you said, “Something more? like what..” he asked, he never really had an expression which made it hard to read his face but his eyes was everything you needed to be told

“I don’t know..maybe, a blow job or..you know?” you asked a bit shyly, he got flustered quick but didn’t dare show anything, he stayed silent for a moment, “Yea..we could try it..” he said lowly

You were quick to get everything off for him, taking off his boxers and staring up at him, his cock was already hard from the makeout + you asking him a sudden dirty question

You first started with a kiss on his tip which made him shiver a bit, grabbing his length and moving your hand up and down slowly and licked his tip, he opened his mouth slightly watching as you licked around his tip

You removed your hands and begin licking his length getting his cock wet with your saliva, finally taking him full in your mouth inch by inch, he gasped out feeling your warm mouth on him, he wasn’t sure what to do but his body was moving on his own, he throws his head back against the headboard, his hips bucking up to meet your mouth, his hips jerk up as you swirl your tongue around his sensitive tip

You pushed your head down and begin bobbing up and down, soft gags and slurps coming from your mouth, his eyes flickered back as he let out a low whimper, he back slightly arching as his hands gripped on your hair tighter, your warm mouth sucking him off was the only thing he could feel, your hands on his thighs steadying yourself as you begin deepthroating him determined to make him cum, he gasped when you suddenly take him deep, your nose pressing against his stomach, his orgasm building quickly

His cock deep down your throat as a loud gag falls out your mouth, keeping yourself there and shaked your head a bit as he let out a loud moan, his hips bucking up again as you lifted yourself for a breath and quickly went back on his cock, you continued sucking him trying to swirl your tongue as well, “A-ah!~ baby fuck i think i’m gonna cum!” he whimpered out his eyes squeezing shut, you continued and tried going faster feeling your jaw getting sore already

His cock twitching inside your mouth as he whimpers and whimpers, uncontrollably falling out his mouth, his hand gripping on the sheets, his back arched

He suddenly threw his head back, letting out a loud whimper as he suddenly felt a wave of pleasure hit him, he finally came in your mouth, you quickly tried to swallow it pulling back with a cough swallowing whatever you could

He panted staring down at you breathlessly, “H..how are you so good at that?” he asked you, you shrugged “Bananas.” you simply said

[manicpixiedreamkira]

halfway home

megumi x reader, college!au, no curses!au, roommates to friends to lovers, aged up, drinking, reader is described as small/smaller than megumi (i also imagine him taller here, since he’s older—like 6’1/6’2), mentions of family trauma, smut, size kink if you squint, hair pulling kink (megumi), unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), use of pet names, tattooed!megumi, pierced!megumi—he has a dick piercing (amongst others), dirty talking, aftercare, not beta'd

w.c: 11,973

The apartment wasn’t perfect. It was a third-floor walk-up in an aging building that creaked in winter and trapped heat in summer, the kind of place where the shower knobs had to be turned just right or they screamed like a dying kettle. But the rent was doable, the location close to campus, and it had a living room with enough space for a couch and a secondhand TV. In Tokyo? That was gold.

You didn’t meet Megumi Fushiguro until move-in day.

He was leaning in the doorway of his bedroom—tall, lean, arms crossed over a plain black hoodie, quiet and unreadable as he watched you struggle with your suitcase. His hair was spiked in a wild way, eyes dark and watchful. 

Piercings caught the soft hallway light: one on his lip, another through his nostril, and a small silver barbell through the arch of his brow. The glint was striking against his otherwise quiet demeanor. He didn’t say much, but his presence was loud. Subtle tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of his sleeves: dark ink winding down his forearms, curling all the way up to his wrists, geometric and elegant and sharp like him.

You thought, he looks like he broods for fun.

"You're Y/N?" he asked. His voice was low, calm. Like someone used to listening more than speaking.

You adjusted your backpack and offered a small smile trying not to sound winded from dragging your suitcase up three flights. “That’s me. You must be Megumi.”

His nod was a half-inhale of air, barely perceptible.

“Or can I call you Megs?”

That got a reaction—barely. The tiniest twitch of one brow, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not annoyed, exactly. Just surprised. He looked at you a moment longer, then said, “You can try.”

Then—barely, but there—it was: the corner of his lip twitched, a breath of a smirk.

That was how it began.

—

Megumi wasn’t what you expected in a roommate.

You figured you’d be living with someone a little messy, maybe overly talkative, maybe glued to their desk and headphones. Instead, you got him—quiet, precise, hard to read but oddly present. He moved through the space like he didn’t want to disturb it, always barefoot, always hoodie-clad, always with a subtle awareness of his surroundings.

He didn’t offer much at first—just glances, half-smiles, low murmurs when you crossed paths. But the silences weren’t uncomfortable. He was the kind of quiet that filled a room without trying. The kind that noticed. If you left dishes in the sink, they were washed and drying the next day. He also never said anything when you forgot to take your laundry out—but you always found your things quietly moved, never scolded, just handled.

When you fell asleep on the couch during finals week, you woke up with a blanket over your legs. He kept to himself, but you never felt like he was avoiding you. If anything, it felt like he was learning you—quietly, carefully.

You didn’t see much of his body—he lived in layers, in oversized hoodies and dark clothes—but sometimes you’d catch flashes. Ink just barely peeking from the cuff of his sleeve when he reached up to grab something from a cabinet. A whisper of a tattoo above his collarbone when he leaned forward over the sink, hair damp from a late shower. 

He never mentioned them. You never asked.

The only reason you knew the extent of them was because you saw it one day by accident, when he walked out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips after a past midnight shower at the same time you were on your way back to your room from the kitchen, glass of water in hand. His chest and back were covered in ink, intricate and striking, with one long line of script that curved over his ribs. It was all you were able to glimpse in the dark.

There was an unspoken rhythm to your cohabitation. You weren’t friends, not yet, but something about him made it feel like you could be. He listened. He looked at you like he was actually seeing you—not scanning or assessing, but seeing. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand attention, but makes you want to give it anyway.

Shared coffee in the morning. Brief conversations in the hallway. Laughs here and there when you teased him about how his hair looked post-shower. You started calling him Megs more often, just to see that subtle eye roll he gave you.

Over time, it became normal.

One night, you got home late, exhausted, and found him sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. You plopped down next to him with a groan, your arm brushing his.

"You good?" he asked without looking up.

"Dead. But alive."

"That makes no sense."

You cracked a smile. “Neither does living with a guy who only wears black and never makes noise. You're like a ghost.”

That got him. He let out a quiet laugh—just a breath, but it made your heart stutter.

Then there was the night you couldn’t sleep.

It was past one in the morning when it happened.

You’d been tossing in bed for nearly an hour, mind buzzing with thoughts you couldn’t pin down. Too much homework, too little rest, the vague sense of loneliness that clung to the early hours of the morning. So you gave in, padded into the kitchen in your oversized sleep shirt and socks, and went for a glass of water.

The light was already on.

Megumi sat at the kitchen table, a mug in one hand, the other resting against his temple as he stared down at a notebook filled with scribbled notes and highlighted lines. His black hair was tousled, softer without product, and his hoodie was nowhere in sight—just a dark tank top that revealed the sweep of tattoos down both arms, inked patterns wrapping like smoke and feathers from shoulder to wrist.

You froze for half a second.

Not because of the tattoos—though they were undeniably beautiful—but because this was the most open he’d looked since you moved in. Bare. Human.

He glanced up when he heard you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.

You shook your head and crossed the kitchen to grab a glass. “Brain’s too loud.”

He hummed in agreement, a small sound deep in his throat. “Yeah. I get that.” That was the most personal thing he’d ever said to you.

You hesitated, then slid into the seat across from him, curling your fingers around your glass. He didn’t seem surprised. If anything, he looked like he expected it.

“What’re you studying?” you asked, tilting your head toward his notes.

He hesitated, then pushed them a little closer so you could read. “Social psychology. It’s a gen ed, but… not terrible.”

You smiled faintly. “It suits you.”

He quirked a brow.

“You’re always observing. Like some quiet, mysterious people-watcher.”

One corner of his lips twitched—the one with the silver ring. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“I think you like people more than you admit,” you said, surprising even yourself. “You just don’t trust them easily.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, something passed between you—soft, fleeting. A current you didn’t know how to name yet.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch.

“You’re… different,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way.”

“Thanks?” you laughed, a little unsure.

“You don’t hide. Most people do.”

The honesty in his voice made you look away, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. You took a slow sip of water, then whispered, “I try not to. Hiding never really helped me.”

His gaze lingered on you—curious, almost gentle.

“I notice that about you,” he murmured. “It’s rare.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else—something easy.

You sat there for a while, just drinking water and listening to the hum of the fridge, Megumi’s notes open between you, the scent of his tea filling the kitchen. You were tired, but you didn’t want to go back to bed just yet.

It felt like a beginning.

Not of something explosive or sudden.

But of something quiet and steady, like a new current under the surface.

Something you both felt, even if you didn’t have the words for it yet.

After that night in the kitchen, things shifted—just a little. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would have picked up on. But you felt it.

He started leaving the kitchen light on when he stayed up late, like he expected you to wander in again.

And you did.

Some nights, you found him reading or scribbling in a worn journal with ink stains on his fingers. Other nights, he was doing absolutely nothing—just sitting in the dark, hoodie draped over the back of the chair, tattoos visible in the low light, the ring on his lip catching the glow from the streetlamp outside.

He didn’t say much. Neither did you. But he made space for you in the quiet.

You learned things about him in fragments.

That he liked his coffee bitter, almost punishingly so.

That he hated loud music but loved the sound of thunderstorms.

That he had an older sister he didn’t talk about much—but when he did, his voice changed. Softer. Guarded.

That the tattoo over his ribs was a quote from a book he read at sixteen, one that stuck with him even when everything else didn’t.

He wasn’t easy to get close to, but he wasn’t cold either. Just careful. Like someone who’d had to build his own walls brick by brick, and wasn’t sure what would happen if they came down.

But with you, cracks started to show.

It began in the small, almost invisible ways.

Like when he made too much miso soup and slid a bowl toward you without a word.

Or when you were late for class and likely to leave without eating breakfast, only to find a neatly wrapped sandwich waiting for you next to your bag. No notes, just the sandwich.

Or when you were curled up on the couch after a long day, and he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

One evening, you passed by his door and heard music—something low and melancholy, plucked guitar strings and a haunting voice.

You stood there for a second, listening.

He opened the door before you could knock.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” you said softly, already backing up.

He didn’t look annoyed. Just blinked slowly. “You can come in.”

His room was… him. Sparse but warm. Textbooks stacked on the desk, a small record player in the corner, a half-finished charcoal sketch on the wall above his bed—black lines trailing the shape of a figure, mid-movement. You recognized the patterns in the drawing: the same ones inked into his arms and back.

“You drew that?”

He nodded. “It’s… old. I haven’t had time to finish it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, without thinking.

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was searching for something under your skin.

“You ever let anyone in like this?” you asked, gently.

His voice was quiet. “Not really.”

And that was it. Not a confession, not a declaration. Just a truth, placed in your hands like something breakable.

—

You started studying together sometimes, though neither of you ever officially suggested it.

Megumi would pull up a chair beside you at the dining table, flipping through his textbooks, his hoodie sleeves pushed up past his elbows. You sat cross-legged beside him, highlighting too much and chewing pens, your laptop blinking lazily between tabs.

Once, during midterms, you passed out right there at the table.

You woke up under a blanket, your notes stacked neatly beside you, and an unopened bottle of water set where your head had been. His handwriting was on a sticky note.

You drooled on your chem notes. I didn’t judge. – M

You kept the note.

—

Sometimes, you wondered how he saw you.

You were short next to him, almost comically so, your frame curvy yet small, half-drowning in the hoodies you stole from where he forgot them in the kitchen. You were louder, more expressive, and—let’s be honest—more chaotic. Your side of the living room was a mess of throw blankets and mismatched socks, while his was neatly kept, symmetrical.

But he didn’t seem to mind your presence. If anything, he gravitated toward it.

He started lingering in the living room longer when you were there.

Started offering to pick up food when you were too tired to cook.

Started asking quiet things like, “Did you eat today?” or “You okay?” with a kind of earnestness that made your heart ache.

One rainy Saturday, you both ended up on the couch watching a movie neither of you cared about. The storm rolled outside, wind howling against the glass. You were wrapped in a thick blanket, tucked into the corner of the couch, and Megumi was stretched out beside you, socked feet barely touching yours under the covers.

You didn’t talk much. Just sat in the hush between thunderclaps, the kind of silence that felt like trust.

At one point, you felt him shift.

Then—hesitantly—he let his head rest against the back of the couch, tilted slightly in your direction.

Not on your shoulder. Not quite.

But close.

Close enough that you felt his warmth, his calm, his quiet hum of presence.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too loud.

And in that moment, something inside you softened.

Not because it was romantic. Not yet.

But because it was safe.

Because it was him.

—

You started noticing it in the quiet.

How his presence changed the shape of your space. How the silence that used to make your apartment feel cold now felt alive when he was there—like the two of you were filling it together, without ever needing to speak.

He’d begun doing this thing.

When he walked past the couch and you were there, curled up reading or scrolling on your phone, he’d rest his hand lightly on the back of it. Not for long. Just a second, fingers ghosting over the fabric. It was casual—almost thoughtless—but you felt it every time. The warmth of him. The comfort.

And when he sat down next to you now, he sat close. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to thigh. He never said anything about it, and neither did you. It was just… natural.

But you both knew it hadn’t always been like that.

One afternoon, you came home to find him asleep on the couch, textbooks open on his chest, one arm draped across his face. You hesitated for a second—then walked over quietly, knelt beside him, and gently closed his book.

He didn’t wake. Just murmured something half-dreamed and rolled onto his side.

You noticed it again then, half-exposed under the hem of his shirt.

The ink that covered his ribs.

You didn’t stare, but you couldn’t look away either. You wanted to know what it said. Why he chose it. What it meant to him.

You wanted to ask. Not because you were curious.

Because you were starting to care.

—

You cooked together more often now.

At first it was practical—splitting groceries, saving time—but it became something else. A soft ritual. A kind of choreography you both eased into without thinking. You’d play music low from your phone, swaying around each other in the kitchen like two orbiting stars, never colliding, always just close enough. He always took over the knife work—his movements clean and practiced—while you handled seasoning and taste testing. You started wearing one of his hoodies half the time—because you were always cold, and he never seemed to mind.

One night, you were baking—well, trying to—and you accidentally knocked over the bag of flour. A whole puff of white exploded into the air and rained down across the counter like a soft, slow-motion snowstorm.

“Shit,” you gasped, hands halfway out like that could somehow stop it.

Megumi blinked at the mess, then at you, brushing his fingers across his now powdery hoodie. “Seriously?”

“I’ll clean it up, I swear—”

Before you could move, he reached down, scooped a small handful of flour, and gently patted it to the side of your cheek.

You froze. “Megs.”

He tilted his head. “You’re in the splash zone.”

“That’s not a thing—!”

But you were already laughing, lobbing a pinch of flour toward him. It hit his hoodie and left a ghost-white smudge. His mouth curled into a smirk—crooked and rare.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

“I regret nothing.”

Soon, flour was everywhere. On the counter. On your–his–sweatshirt. In your hair, even smeared across your cheekbones. He had it streaked across one of his eyebrows and down the side of his neck. You both leaned over the counter, breathless and trying to catch your breath, cheeks flushed from laughter.

“Kitchen’s a crime scene,” he muttered, surveying the mess.

“All your fault,” you shot back, grinning. “You look like a failed pastry,” you wheezed, looking him up and down.

He gave you one of those rare, unguarded smiles—the kind that curved more on one side than the other and softened the hard edges of his face. “And you look like you lost a fight with a Pillsbury can,” he shot back, brushing a bit of powder from your temple.

His fingers lingered for a second. Not long.

But long enough.

You looked at him. And in that beat, something softened. The kitchen was dim. The apartment quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the wind tapping at the window. His face was so close.

Still amused, still light-hearted—but there was a shift underneath.

He broke the quiet first.

“I used to hate shared spaces,” he said, voice low.

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Everything felt temporary. Like I was just… passing through.”

You leaned a little on the counter, matching his softness but your chest tightened. “I get that.”

He glanced at you. “Not just physical spaces. People too.”

That hit somewhere deep. You knew the feeling.

“Like you never really belonged to any of it,” you murmured. “Not fully.”

He gave the smallest nod.

And then, after a long pause his gaze flicked to yours. “But this—” he gestured vaguely to the kitchen, the chaos, you “—doesn’t feel like I’m passing through.”

You watched him, heart suddenly loud in your chest.

There was a pause.

Then—his voice, softer than ever—“I’m not sure if this is home,” he said. “But it’s… closer than I’ve ever been. Maybe… halfway there.”

Your breath caught. Your voice was barely a whisper when you said, “Halfway home.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not surprised. Just steady.

Like he’d been thinking it too.

And he nodded.

Like that meant something.

Like you meant something.

—

Later that week, it happened.

The kind of night where it all cracked open.

You’d gotten into it with your mom again. One of those calls where every word felt like a scratch. The kind where the conversation starts with “How are you?” and ends with you curled up at the kitchen table, staring at your untouched tea.

You weren’t crying.

But your eyes were glassy and your hands were trembling, and that was worse somehow.

You didn’t hear him come in. Just felt his presence. He said your name softly.

You looked up, trying to laugh it off. “It’s stupid.”

He crouched beside you. “It’s not.”

And just like that, something inside you cracked.

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t push. He just opened his arms, and you leaned into him like it was instinct.

He held you for a long time. One hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head, slow and grounding. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The low hum in his throat when he murmured, “I’ve got you.”

And you believed it.

Not because he said it like a promise.

But because he said it like a fact.

And that was what scared you most.

Because maybe you’d never had that before.

Maybe this wasn’t home yet.

But god, it felt like the map.

—

The shift came quietly.

Like a door slowly swinging open, not creaking. Like the breath before a kiss—not the kiss itself. You couldn’t name the moment it happened, but suddenly, everything meant more.

Every glance. Every brush of fingers. Every silence.

He started standing closer. His hand would rest on your lower back as he passed behind you. When you handed him something, your fingers would touch, and neither of you would pull away right away.

Not anymore.

One night, he walked in while you were on the couch reading, legs tucked under you in a pair of old gym shorts and one of his hoodies. You didn’t realize you’d stolen that one, too. It still smelled faintly like him—like cedar and fresh laundry and something you couldn’t name but always noticed.

His eyes landed on you, lingering just a beat too long.

“You’re always stealing my clothes,” he said.

You shrugged, not looking up from your book. “You’re always leaving them on the kitchen chair. Finders keepers.”

A pause. Then: “That one’s my favorite.”

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He scratched at his eyebrow ring, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “It’s the softest.” 

You held his gaze a moment longer than you should have. “I’ll give it back.”

His voice was low. “I didn’t say I wanted it back.”

Something buzzed under your skin.

You looked down at the page and didn’t read a single word.

But you didn’t give back the hoodie either.

—

The next time you were both home on a rainy Saturday, you found yourselves in the same place again—doing nothing. Not even pretending to be productive. Just existing, in parallel, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were sitting on the floor against the couch with your laptop, browsing through Pinterest, earbuds in. He was stretched out on the cushions behind you, hood up, sketchbook balanced on his stomach.

He did that sometimes—drew when he thought you weren’t looking. He never let you see the pages, but you’d catch glimpses of bold ink lines and intricate forms. Once, when he fell asleep with the book open, you saw the edge of a figure. Shoulders. The curve of a hip. The shape of someone sleeping, maybe.

You’d wanted to ask if it was you.

You didn’t.

But the idea stayed in your chest like a warm stone.

You’d both been quieter that day. Not uncomfortable—just still. The kind of still that sinks into your bones. You didn’t realize how much time had passed until your stomach growled, embarrassingly loud.

Megumi looked up from his sketchbook. “Was that you?”

You groaned, stretching your arms. “I think I’m dying. Feed me or I’ll haunt this apartment forever.”

He closed the book and stood. “Cursed with your ghost sounds about right.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “You’d miss me.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t. Instead, he held out a hand.

You blinked at it.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll cook.”

He made ramen.

Not the instant kind. Actual noodles in a pot, soft-boiled egg, scallions, seasoned broth. The whole thing. He didn’t talk much while he cooked—he rarely did—but you liked watching him. His hands were precise. His movements efficient. He tasted the broth with a spoon, made a face, added more chili oil.

You leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching steam rise from the pot.

“You’ve done this before,” you said.

He nodded. “My sister taught me.” He stirred the broth slowly. “She liked her ramen so spicy it’d make your eyes water.”

You smiled a little at that. “Is that what you’re going for?”

“Kind of a tribute.” He glanced over at you. “Haven’t made it like this in a while.”

He said it like he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

He stirred a bit more, then lowered the heat. “I used to make it like this for her when she had rough days. Just… figured I’d try it again.”

There was something careful in the way he said it. Like the memory was fragile, even now.

You hesitated. “Are you two close?”

A pause.

“We were,” he said. “She’s… not around much anymore.”

You nodded, not pushing. The air between you had settled, softened.

When you sat down at the table and he handed you the bowl, it was with quieter hands.

“You’re a domestic goddess, Megs,” you said, voice lighter.

He smirked. “Eat before I take it back.”

Halfway through the bowl, you found yourself glancing at him again. The curve of his brow, the line of his jaw. Something soft had gathered behind his eyes since that moment by the stove.

And maybe it was the warmth of the soup, or the weight of the story he hadn’t told—but you braved the question.

“Do you…” You paused, lowering your spoon.

His chopsticks stilled in the bowl.

You hesitated. “Do you miss it? Home?”

He didn’t answer right away.

You added quickly, “Sorry, that was—kind of personal. You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” he said. Then: “Not really.”

You nodded, gently. Let him go on.

“Never felt like a real place to miss,” he said, quietly. “Just somewhere I waited to grow out of.”

Your chest ached at that. You both chewed in silence for a few moments.

“I think that’s why I like it here,” he added, softer now. “Not just this place.” he clarified.

He looked at you.

“The way you let me take up space. Without asking.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to say something. Me too. Or You do the same for me. Or I notice every time you leave a hoodie on the chair just so I’ll steal it.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you reached for your drink. Your hand brushed his on the table.

And this time, neither of you moved.

—

It was later that night—closer to midnight—when you caught each other in the hallway. Both of you on the way to the kitchen. You paused at the same time, facing each other across the short stretch of hardwood.

He looked… soft. Sleepy. His hoodie had slipped halfway off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo, curling down from his collarbone. You couldn’t see the whole thing, but it was intricate. Sharp lines and dark shading, disappearing beneath the fabric.

You tilted your head. “What’s that one?”

He glanced down at where your eyes had landed, then shrugged the hoodie back into place. “Just something I drew once. Got it done last year.”

“You draw your own ink?”

He nodded.

You stepped closer. “Can I see?”

He hesitated, eyes catching yours.

Then, slowly, he pulled the hoodie down again, off his shoulder this time.

The tattoo started on his chest and curled up across his collarbone, snaking toward his shoulder. Sharp black lines softened with curves—some kind of wolf motif, maybe—but abstract, not literal.

You lifted a hand before you even thought about it. “Can I…?”

He nodded.

You ran your fingers lightly along the ink, careful not to press too hard. His skin was warm. The tattoo was beautiful. Intimate in a way that made your breath go shallow.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But something changed in that silence.

You felt it in the air. Thick. Tense. Waiting.

He caught your wrist gently, not to stop you—just to hold it. His thumb brushed your pulse point.

You looked up.

And he looked down.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

—

It was Friday night. Cold, damp, and strangely quiet. The kind of night where campus emptied out and everyone either went home or drank their way through the ache of the week.

You didn’t feel like going anywhere. Megumi hadn’t planned to either.

So you both stayed in.

It started, like most of your nights lately, in the kitchen.

He was standing at the stove, stirring something with minimal enthusiasm—a boxed mac and cheese situation that smelled better than it probably should’ve. He had the hood of his dark sweatshirt pulled down, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, exposing the black ink winding up one arm. You still hadn’t seen all of it, just pieces. An arrow across his bicep, a wolf’s skull peeking out above his elbow. Sharp lines and precise shading. It suited him.

He caught you looking. Didn’t say anything—just arched one brow.

You rolled your eyes and reached for the fridge. “Don’t flatter yourself, Megs.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it.”

“I was born with this face,” he said, deadpan.

“Tragic.”

He snorted.

It started with the wine.

You found it in the back of the fridge on a night that didn’t seem to want anything except quiet—behind some sad lettuce and an expired packet of tofu. Plum wine, half-forgotten since the start of the semester and slightly sticky at the neck. 

You held up the bottle like it was a prize. “Look what I found.”

The cork crumbled a little when you opened it, which made Megumi raise an eyebrow. His piercing catching the light. 

He squinted at it. “That’s definitely off.”

“It’s wine, Megs. It doesn’t go off.”

“That’s not how chemistry works.”

“I don’t see mold.” You shrugged, pouring it into two mismatched mugs. “Then we’re good.”

He accepted his cup with only a small shake of his head that said if we die, it’s your fault and leaned against the opposite counter. Hoodie sleeves still shoved to his elbows, collar stretched a little too wide. You could see the black edge of a tattoo on his chest where the fabric fell just off-center. Just a glimpse—no more than that—but you couldn’t help looking.

It wouldn't be the first time.

The ink curled like smoke over his collarbone, disappearing down where you didn’t dare let your thoughts follow.

He caught your eyes and didn’t look away.

You took a too-fast sip of wine.

Dinner was low-effort comfort. The kind of meal you made when the day had taken too much out of you to pretend to care. You ate side by side at the little kitchen table, laughing over half-drunken stories you probably wouldn’t have shared otherwise, bare feet brushing accidentally (and then not-so-accidentally) under the bench. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence between conversation. Soft things. Easy. Familiar. It had started to feel like that a lot lately.

After the food was gone and the bottle was mostly empty, you lingered with your chins propped on your hands across the table from each other, your legs stretched lazily under his.

“So,” he said, voice low, “what’s your terrible movie pick tonight?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m the one with bad taste.”

“You think The Mummy is high art.”

“It is.”

“I rest my case.”

By the time the bottle was gone, you were both buzzed.

Lightheaded. Warm.

But not enough.

“Hey,” you said, nudging him with your socked foot under the table. “Let’s go to Lawson.”

He didn’t look up from his phone. “No.”

“Come on. We need beer. Or chu-hi. Or… whatever looks the worst.”

“We have classes Monday.” 

“It’s Friday.” 

“And it’s raining.”

You tilted your head at him with exaggerated innocence. “Are you scared of getting wet?”

He gave you a flat look.

You kept going. “You, a grown man, covered in tattoos, pierced like a delinquent, scared of a drizzle?”

He sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

Another long pause.

Then, deadpan: “Get your shoes.”

—

You came back with two bags.

You bought cans based solely on the labels—one with a polar bear in a Hawaiian shirt, one bright pink with hearts, and one that claimed to taste like salted plum and regret.

Megumi made fun of your choices the entire walk home.

He carried both bags anyway.

You were already laughing as you pushed yourself up the stairs and into to your shared apartment, padding barefoot toward the living room. The rain had turned your hair damp, your sleeves cold at the cuffs. You both peeled off the soggy layers and he followed you suit behind, hoodie left behind on the chair. His t-shirt clung to his chest in a way that made it difficult not to stare. The fabric stretched slightly around his arms, where more tattoos snaked up from the elbow, curling in black ink over pale skin.

After dumping everything onto the coffee table, you put on a hoodie that was draped over the armrest—his favorite one—and collapsed onto the couch with a blanket, letting it drape over both of you. He sat close—closer than necessary, and yet you didn’t move away.

He smelled like clean cotton and soap and something warmer beneath. Maybe the wine. Maybe just him.

The first can was awful.

So was the second.

By the third, you were both half-laying down, legs tangled, and laughing at a stupid movie you didn’t even recognize. Some terrible action comedy with bad dialogue and worse CGI. You didn’t remember the name. You didn’t care. You were warm from the booze and warmer from his knee resting next to yours.

By the time you opened the fourth can, your head was buzzing. Somewhere in the middle, he shifted slightly and slouched deeper into the couch, resting one arm behind you. Not around you. Not touching. Just there.

The distance between you disappeared in degrees.

First, when your shoulders bumped and didn’t pull away.

Then, when your leg rested fully against his beneath the blanket.

Now your legs were draped over his now, his hand resting absently on your shin.

The warmth between you wasn’t new.

But tonight it felt… uncontained.

You watched him as he tilted his can back, the curve of his throat, the glint of his lip ring under the flicker of the TV.

You’d always known he was attractive. But being this close—this comfortable—was starting to feel dangerous.

“You always watch movies like this?” you asked, voice small, eyes back on the screen.

“Like what?”

“Quiet. Tense. Judgy.”

“I’m not judging.”

“No?” you chuckled, then, when you looked up at him—and found he was already watching you.

You held the gaze longer than you meant to.

His mouth parted just slightly. His lip piercing glinted.

You dropped your eyes.

“I’m watching.” he said. 

He wasn’t talking about the movie. You knew that. He knew you knew.

The air between you felt different now—thicker. Not uncomfortable. Not bad. Just tight. Like something was waiting to break open.

“You know you’re hard to read, right?” you said softly, gaze determined to focus on the movie once more.

His head turned slightly. “You’ve told me.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“I know.” You paused. “You just… you never say what you’re thinking.”

There was a long moment before he replied. “Neither do you.”

You glanced at him. Your skin felt too tight.

Your voice dropped. “If I did… would you listen?”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I always listen to you,” he said.

You shifted a little to face him better. He didn’t move.

Your voices stayed low. Muted. Like you were both afraid to disturb something too fragile to name.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked.

He studied you for a beat too long.

Then: “I think you know.”

The moment swelled, heat under your ribs. Your chest tightened. You licked your lips. His eyes followed the motion.

He was looking at your mouth now.

You didn’t look away. It wasn’t intentional at first.

Until it was.

Until you shifted a little and his fingers slid higher up your shin. Not high enough to be obvious, but enough that you felt it. Enough that your breath caught.

“You’re drunk,” you whispered.

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “No.”

“Tipsy, then.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in, slow and careful.

And then, softly—too softly to brace yourself for it—his lips touched yours.

It was barely a kiss.

Barely pressure.

Just warmth.

Just a breath.

But then it deepened—his hand on the side of your neck, the plush drag of his lower lip catching yours. You felt the cool flick of his lip ring before his tongue brushed yours, and that made your breath catch.

There was metal there, too—a piercing. You could feel it. Smooth, hard, unexpected. The weight of it against your tongue sent a flicker of heat down your spine. You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, soft and startled against his mouth.

The kiss became deeper. Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric. You whimpered softly against his mouth. He groaned—quiet, rough.

And then—

He froze.

Pulled back.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

His breath was heavy, lips kiss-bitten, pupils wide.

His hand was still on your neck, thumb ghosting over your jaw like he hadn’t meant to stop.

You were stunned. Dazed. Wanting.

But then—

He pulled his hand back, dragging it down over his face.

“No,” he said, voice rough now. “Shit. We shouldn’t.”

You blinked at him, breath shaking. “Why?”

“You had wine.”

“So did you.”

“That’s the point,” he said, shaking his head.

He closed his eyes for a second, like he was trying to center himself.

 “I don’t want it to be… I don’t want this to happen because we’re tipsy and bored.”

You swallowed.

You were still staring at him. Still thinking about the way he’d kissed you. About the weight of his mouth and the heat of his body.

But then—he exhaled, slower this time.

“I want you,” he said. “But I want it to be real. Not like this.”

The room was spinning slowly.

You didn’t argue.

Because even in your tipsy haze, you knew he was right.

Your chest was a tangle of nerves and something softer—something that twisted beneath your ribs in a way that was almost painful.

You nodded.

Quietly. Gently.

And he nodded, too.

He exhaled and leaned his forehead against yours for a moment before he pulled back completely, gently tugging the blanket higher between you.

Still close.

Still touching.

But not crossing that line again.

Not yet.

The air was suddenly tighter. Not hostile. Not uncertain. Just pressurized. Like one wrong breath would push you into the next thing—and maybe that scared you more than you expected.

You looked down at your lap. “This is stupid, right?”

“What is?”

“This…” You gestured vaguely between you. “Us.”

A pause.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You glanced back at him.

And this time, you saw it clearly. The want.

Not loud. Not burning. Just real.

Settled there in the blue of his eyes like it had always been.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Then what is it?”

His hand moved—slowly—toward your knee. A light touch. Just his fingers resting there, warm and steady.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’m not in a rush to name it.”

Your throat went tight.

You could’ve kissed him.

Right there, in the flickering glow of the shitty movie and the soft scratch of his calloused fingers brushing circles on your skin.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Because for the first time, you understood what this was.

It wasn’t a moment waiting to break open.

It was one waiting to settle.

You turned back to the screen. The movie was still playing, somewhere behind all of it. Some explosion. A line of terrible dialogue.

Neither of you were watching.

And still—

He stayed beside you.

Still close.

Still warm.

Still waiting.

Eventually, you fell asleep there—legs tangled, cheeks flushed, his hand still resting lightly on your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to break.

Not until it mattered.

Not until it was real.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—

Whatever this was…

It had already changed.

You weren’t just roommates.

You weren’t just friends.

You were something else now.

Maybe you’d always been on the way here.

Maybe you’d always been halfway home.

—

The next morning wasn’t awkward.

It should’ve been, probably. You’d fallen asleep on the couch tangled around each other after making out like two teenagers with bad impulse control, and yet—

When you woke up, his arm was still around your waist, your cheek pressed to his chest, and neither of you moved right away.

His heart beat under your ear, steady and slow.

You didn’t speak. Just breathed in the quiet.

Eventually, he shifted a little and looked down at you, hair a soft mess, voice rasped from sleep.

“You drooled on me.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled.

“You kissed me,” you whispered, as if to counter.

He blinked at that, unreadable for a beat, then:

“Yeah. I did.”

And for the first with this new glint in your eyes, you let yourself fully smile at him.

—

Nothing broke after that.

That was the strange part.

You thought the tension might shatter into something awkward or forced. You thought he might avoid you, or pretend it didn’t happen.

But Megumi didn’t run.

He made pancakes instead.

Real ones, too—from scratch. With eggs and milk and a drizzle of vanilla that you knew he didn’t own until that very morning.

You didn’t ask where he went to get it. Just sat on the counter watching him whisk, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed back, tattoos ink-dark across his arms. There was one on his inner wrist you hadn’t seen before—clean lines, a small lotus. You stared longer than you meant to.

He caught your gaze, but didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “You want coffee?”

You nodded. “With milk and sugar.”

“Figures.”

“Judgy.”

“Just accurate.”

You didn’t talk about the kiss.

But it hovered.

In the way he moved around you in the kitchen. In the way his eyes lingered on your mouth longer than before. In the way his hand brushed your lower back when he passed behind you.

It didn’t feel like it wasn’t being talked about.

It felt like it was still happening.

Slowly.

Carefully.

You had to go to work that afternoon, and so did he, but you lingered too long before leaving. Your backpack half-zipped. Your shoes still untied.

“I’ll see you later,” you said, standing near the door.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was quiet again. Thoughtful.

Then, softer: “Be safe, princess.”

You didn’t answer.

Just looked back at him once before closing the door behind you, heart skittering like a secret you weren’t ready to say out loud.

—

You didn’t kiss again for three days.

But the days felt different.

He texted more.

Sent you dumb memes during lectures and followed up with “you better be paying attention” when you took too long to reply.

He cooked twice. Once with too much salt, and once with enough effort that it felt like more than just a favor.

On the fourth night, it rained again.

This time you didn’t even ask—you both just ended up on the couch, the blanket between you again, knees pressed close, a movie you weren’t watching on in the background.

This time, it was you who turned to him first.

“Do you ever think about it?” you asked.

He glanced down at you. “About what?”

“This. Us.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said.

You nodded.

Your throat was tight.

“I’ve never had this before,” you admitted, voice small. “Whatever this is. With someone.”

His brows pulled together a little. “Something safe?”

You hesitated.

“Something that feels like… home,” you said. “But not the kind you leave.”

His mouth parted slightly, surprised. And maybe—

Maybe a little bit moved.

“That’s what I was trying to say,” he murmured. “When I said that before. Halfway home.”

You looked up at him.

“You’re the first place that felt like one.”

Silence stretched.

Warm. Solid. Real.

And then, slowly, he leaned down, and this time—this time when his mouth met yours, you weren’t drunk. You weren’t trying to avoid the edge.

You stepped into it.

The kiss was different.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just full of everything you hadn’t said yet.

He kissed you like he meant to stay. Like he’d wanted to for longer than he’d admit. Like it was the start of something new, not the ruin of something comfortable.

You broke it first, breath shaky, and looked up at him.

“You still sure?”

His thumb traced your cheek. “Yeah.”

You nodded once, then leaned back in—and this time, the kiss didn’t stop.

Not when your hands found the back of his neck.

Not when his settled at your hips.

And not when the blanket slipped off your shoulders and the rest of the world went quiet except for the sound of two people finally letting go of the tension they’d carried for months.

His mouth was warm. Open. Slow.

You weren’t drunk this time. Not even tipsy. You could feel everything—his breath, the pressure of his hands, the flicker of his tongue ring sliding against yours, cool at first, then hot, wet, dizzying.

You moaned into him without meaning to.

The kiss became deeper, languid and unhurried, like neither of you wanted it to end. His hand slid up your side, not groping, not urgent—just there, deliberate, like he was mapping the shape of you, reminding himself it was real.

You tugged at his hoodie, fists curled in the fabric, and when your fingers slipped up into his hair, he groaned. Low, throaty, unexpectedly desperate.

You froze.

Pulled back just enough to look at him, breath shallow.

“What—”

His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark and shining, his lip ring catching the light as he swallowed.

“Do that again,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Your hair?”

He nodded once. Barely.

So you did.

Fingers buried deep, nails scraping lightly at his scalp.

He moaned, jaw going slack, and something in your chest fluttered.

You grinned. “Holy shit. That’s your thing, huh?”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, flushing slightly, though his hips had pressed forward like a tell. “You’ll abuse it.”

You tugged again, a little firmer.

He cursed softly. “Fuck. Princess.”

It hit low. Tight. A pulse between your legs you hadn’t fully acknowledged until then.

“You like that?” you whispered, mouth brushing his.

His lips curved—barely.

“You have no idea.”

You kissed him again.

Hungrier this time. Messier. The kind of kiss you felt all the way to your spine.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he pulled you onto his lap. His hands found your thighs and dragged you closer, legs parting over his hips like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were in loose shorts and an old cotton sleep top, and he was still in that damn hoodie—black, oversized, hiding everything but the heat of his body under your hands.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, head tilting back, the fabric of his hoodie catching on your fingertips as you gripped the hem.

“Take it off,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you as he pulled it over his head.

And then—

Fuck.

You’d seen bits and glimpses of his tattoos before. Knew they were there. A flicker when sleeves rolled up, the shadow along his back when he walked past shirtless after a shower.

But this close? With your hands on him?

They were everywhere.

Ink swept over his chest, his shoulders, down his arms—clean black linework, fine and sharp, a contrast to the way his skin felt. Warm. Soft, where it wasn’t hard muscle.

And on his ribs—just under the curve of his left pectoral—a line in black script:

you don’t have to be whole to be loved.

You reached for it before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing the edge of the lettering.

He flinched—barely, but enough.

“I like this one,” you said softly. “It’s true.”

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you like you’d stripped him naked with that single sentence.

Maybe you had.

Your hands slid down, brushing the line of his waist, and you felt the way his breath hitched.

“Take me to bed, Megs.”

He exhaled slowly. “You sure?”

You nodded.

He stood without hesitation.

You were light in his arms, legs locked around his waist. Not princess-style—cradled, close and tight, your center pressed to the thick, hard line of him beneath his sweats.

Your heartbeat was a storm in your throat.

His mouth found your neck as he pushed the door to his room open with his shoulder, and you gasped when his teeth grazed your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I want you,” you said. “That’s all.”

His voice dropped lower. “You’ll have me, pretty girl.”

And then he laid you down—slowly, like you were something to be unwrapped.

The room was quiet except for breathing. Your shirt was the first to go—peeled up and over, leaving you bare. No bra. No modesty. Just flushed skin and peaked nipples, chest rising and falling fast under his gaze.

He froze.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You couldn’t help it—you arched into him.

He kissed down your throat. Over your collarbone. Took his time getting to your chest, his mouth hot and wet when it wrapped around a nipple. Tongue ring dragging just enough to make you gasp.

“Megs—”

His hand slid down your stomach, rougher now, and then under your waistband.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “All this from just kissing?”

“Hair pulling,” you teased, gasping when he pressed two fingers against you, slow circles. “You’ve got a thing for it.”

“Princess,” he warned, then—smirked.

He tugged your shorts and panties down with too much ease. And for a moment, he just looked at you.

Eyes dark. Face flushed. Breathing shallow.

“You sure?” he asked again, quieter now. “Because once I go down on you, I’m not stopping.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I’m sure.”

His mouth curved. Wicked.

“Good girl.”

Megumi slid to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your legs over his shoulders like he had every intention of devouring you.

He looked up from between them—eyes dark, mouth already wet from kissing you stupid.

“You gonna keep looking at me like that?” he murmured, voice thick.

Your throat was dry. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to memorize me.” his thumbs pressed into your inner thighs, spreading you wider. “You don’t need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then—

He kissed you.

There.

Warm, slow, filthy.

Tongue soft at first, just a wet glide over your clit, before he added pressure. His barbell on his tongue rolled against you—a new texture, a new spark—and your hips bucked in surprise.

“Oh my God—”

He laughed into you. That tongue piercing? It wasn’t just a decoration. It was a fucking weapon.

He took his time. All of it. Flattening his tongue, then curling it up, then circling—soft, then firm, then teasing. Every motion was practiced, patient, like he liked this, like he was learning you by feel and sound alone—to the way you whined and breathed and fisted the sheets.

And when you buried your fingers in his hair, tugging instinctively—

He groaned.

Low and rough, deep in his chest.

So you did it again. A little harder.

He moaned.

Then he pulled back just enough to speak, mouth glistening, voice wrecked.

“You trying to kill me, pretty girl?”

“I didn’t think you’d like it that much,” you breathed.

“Now you know.”

His mouth slammed back down.

Sloppier now, his mouth messier, wetter. Your thighs started to tremble. Your breath hitched with every suck, every pass the pink muscle. It was too much and still not enough, and when you clenched on his tongue, he growled—a real sound, needy, low in his throat.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, fingertips pressing into the soft part of you. He sucked your clit into his mouth and rolled the barbell across it—and your hips snapped, needy, desperate.

He gave you one last, deliberate lick, then kissed your thigh—open-mouthed, tongue dragging.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You were dripping. Ruined.

But he wasn't done.

“You taste fucking amazing, pretty girl.”

His name slipped out of your mouth like a prayer. “Megs—”

“Could stay down here all night,” he rasped. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You were panting. “Megumi—please—”

He didn’t answer. He was already moving again.

Faster. Deeper. Rougher.

The wet glide of his tongue, the flick of the piercing. The suction. The rhythm. You were unraveling, fast and helpless, no thoughts except more, more, more.

And then he slid two fingers inside—crooked just right—and sucked hard at the same time, tongue flicking and curling and sucking until your back arched off the bed, until you gasped his name and shattered into his mouth, thighs clamped around his head, shaking, soaked, ruined.

He loved it.

You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling. His name on your lips, broken. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips grinding against his mouth.

He didn’t stop. Just slowed, licking you through it, moaning quietly like he couldn’t get enough.

You felt him groan into your cunt, like he was trying to memorize your taste, like he couldn’t help it.

Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, but weaker now, your muscles gone soft and boneless and slick with sweat. When he finally pulled back, his chin was wet, his pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your hip, then up your belly, slow and reverent, until he hovered over you again.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeated, breathless. “That was—holy shit.”

He smirked.

“Come here,” you murmured, tugging him down, your legs around his waist again.

He leaned down slowly, settling over you, weight braced on one forearm as the other slid behind your head. His hoodie was already off, forgotten somewhere between the couch cushions. The ink across his chest and arms glowed dark in the low light—sweeping blackwork, linework down his ribs.

And below, he was already naked.

He must’ve kicked off his sweats when you weren’t looking—silent and practiced. His cock hung heavy between you, thick and flushed and so pretty it knocked the breath out of your chest.

You reached between you, slow, curious—fingers wrapping around him.

And you felt it.

Not just the heat, the weight—but something… hard. Not just him—though he was hard, thick and heavy and pressed against your thigh—but something else. Something smooth and firm under the ridge, something…metal.

Your brows twitched, just slightly.

His breath hitched. You looked up at him, question rising.

“You—?” you started.

His jaw tightened. He looked almost…shy.

“…Megs?”

He hesitated.

You palmed him curiously and he twitched.

“There’s—” You looked up at him. “Are you pierced?”

His breath caught.

You stared at him, lips parted. “You have a dick piercing?”

“…Yeah.”

You blinked.

You glanced down again to get a better look, thumb brushing over the spot carefully. Holy fuck.

Thick. Long. Pierced.

The barbell of the piercing gleamed, curved through the head, metal catching the light.

You swallowed. “What kind?”

He looked like he was seriously debating lying, but finally said, low:

“Apadravya.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“Jesus Christ.”

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to make a life-altering decision.”

You bit your lip. “How long have you had it?”

“Since I was eighteen.”

Your brows shot up. “That’s early. Why?”

His cheeks actually turned a little pink.

“You ever do something stupid just to feel like your body was yours?”

You paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

His hand found your face, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“I didn’t do it for anyone else. Didn’t think anyone would ever see it.” He laughed quietly. “Definitely didn’t think it’d make someone look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

You stared up at him.

“You mean like I want to push onto the mattress and ride you until I forget my name?”

“Exactly like that,” he rasped.

He kissed you again—deep, tongue curling past your lips—you felt the tongue piercing once more—familiar now—as your mouths moved in tandem.

 “You okay?” he asked, quiet now. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him and giving it a soft squeeze.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Princess—”

You leaned in and kissed his neck, just below his ear. “Let me look at you.”

He let you.

And you did. You traced every tattoo, every line of his body—ink across his shoulders, ribs, chest, a stretch of fine black lines and text that ended in the soft skin above his hips. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. “Anytime.”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

You wrapped your legs around him again, slower this time.

And he rocked into you, still outside, just the pressure of him against your slickness making your whole body pulse.

He groaned.

“You’re gonna take all of me, baby.”

You gasped. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, bending to kiss you again. “I’ll make it fit.”

Your brain melted.

But he didn’t rush it. He never rushed.

He ran his hands over your body like he was savoring it—inch by inch, breath by breath. Worshipping it. And when you were whiny and squirming beneath him, he took a step back, eyes full of dark heat.

“You’re perfect.”

You grinned, breathless. “Then come here and fuck me already.”

He groaned.

And then slapped your ass—just once.

You gasped.

He smirked.

“Get ready, pretty girl.”

You could feel the weight of him above you—his forearms braced on either side of your head, body flushed against yours, skin warm and buzzing. His cock pressed heavy against your stomach, thick and hard and aching.

You reached down again, wrapping your hand around him, and this time he groaned against your mouth, voice low and helpless.

“Fuck, baby…”

You rolled your thumb under the head, slow. Felt the bar again—the piercing. It shifted slightly under your grip, smooth and hard. You were soaked already, throbbing. The idea of how it would feel inside you—

“Need you to lie back for me,” he said roughly, nuzzling into your neck, kissing your jaw. “Just like that. Legs up—good girl.”

You didn’t correct the pet name. Couldn’t.

He moved back slightly, sitting on his heels between your thighs. His hands slid over your hips and up—slow and reverent—just warm skin and heavy breath and the sharp, hot sweep of his eyes as they roamed.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered.

You flushed, hands fidgeting at your sides. But then he leaned down—kissed your sternum, your breast, circled your nipple with his tongue, then sucked, sharp and wet—and you forgot how to think.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful, princess,” he murmured, voice gravel. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

He kissed down your ribs, slow and wandering. You felt his lips pause, then press again—right under your breast, where he sucked the skin a bit harder.

You ran your fingers through his hair, dragging them gently at the roots.

He groaned again. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Why?” you asked innocently.

“You’re gonna find out,” he said, and grinned. “Keep doing it and you’ll see.”

You did.

When he lowered himself again, kissed between your thighs, and licked—deep this time, slower, intentional—you curled your fingers in his hair, tugging, and he moaned so loud it vibrated through you.

He looked wrecked when he pulled up. Flushed, pupils blown, lips wet.

“You like that?” you asked, giggling breathlessly.

“I fucking love that,” he growled.

He kissed you again, slow and hungry.

Then he lifted your hips—just like that—hands under your thighs, hauling you into him, legs wrapping naturally around his waist. You gasped, fingers clinging to his shoulders.

“Megs—”

“You okay?”

You nodded, flushed and dizzy.

You reached down, guiding him, and paused.

“Wait,” you whispered, breath catching. “You—do you have—”

He reached toward the drawer, then hesitated. “You on the pill?”

“Yeah.”

His jaw ticked. “Clean?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Still, he waited. “You sure?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

“Yes.”

He pushed in slowly—so slowly it made your breath hitch, your spine arch, your hands grasp for something to hold onto.

The stretch made you gasp—hot, overwhelming. You could feel the piercing slide in, the way it dragged against your walls, made your whole body twitch.

“Holy shit,” you whimpered.

Megumi groaned, deep in his chest. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuck—feels so good, baby.”

You tightened around him and he shuddered.

“You feel so tight, so warm—shit—this pussy’s perfect—”

His words sent a jolt through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

He rocked into you, slow and deep, and you felt everything.

Every vein, every inch, every press of steel and flesh and heat.

His hips ground into yours, angling just right. The piercing nudged something devastating inside you, and your whole body jerked.

“Megs—”

He kissed you hard, messy. His hands were everywhere—your thighs, your waist, your tits. And when you clawed at his back, he grinned.

“Go ahead,” he breathed, “mark me up. I don’t care.”

You dragged your nails down his spine, and he growled.

And then—crack—

His hand landed a slap to your ass.

Not rough. But firm. Possessive.

You gasped.

He kissed your cheek. “Too much?”

“No,” you whispered, dazed. “Not enough.”

He laughed—low and dangerous.

And he fucked you harder. He fucked you like he meant it—like he was unraveling, like the sound of your voice did something to him he couldn’t take back. His rhythm stayed steady, devastating, but there was an edge now. A roughness. Desperation behind every thrust, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

Every thrust felt deliberate—slow but powerful, like he needed you to feel all of him. Like he wanted to carve himself into your memory with each push of his hips. His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded as he watched every expression flicker across your face.

You felt everything. Every inch of him. The head of his cock, that piercing, kept catching right there—just inside—sending shocks through your whole body. You moaned, loud, unrestrained, and he groaned in response, burying his face in your neck like he needed to ground himself.

“God, baby, you feel—fuck, I can’t—” he gasped. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

The room spun, heat thick around you, sweat-slicked skin sliding against his as he drove into you, harder, deeper. Your legs were locked around him, thighs trembling, and you couldn’t stop moaning—couldn’t stop saying his name like a prayer.

“Megumi—God—please—”

His breath hitched. “I know, baby, I know. You feel so good—fuck—you’re taking me so well.”

You whimpered—your whole body on fire, nerves lit up. You could feel the piercing with every roll of his hips, dragging along your walls, stroking something almost too much. Too sharp. Too good.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice thick. “Taking me so fucking well.”

“F-Fuck, Megs—” your voice caught, high and trembling.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet and messy, then pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded, eyes wide, lips parted. “Yeah—God, yeah—just…”

He smiled, soft and wrecked. “I know. I know, baby. You’re doing so good.”

His thumb slipped between your bodies, found your clit with practiced ease—two fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles as his cock dragged deep. Slow. Cruel. Perfect.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Just let it happen, princess. Let me take care of you.”

You clenched around him, helpless, and he groaned—deep in his chest, like he could feel it everywhere.

“You feel that?” he breathed, leaning in to kiss your throat. “That little flutter—fuck—you’re close, huh?”

And then, as his cock pushed in again, deeper than before, he shifted his weight and brought one hand down to your lower stomach.

He pressed gently—right there, just above your pelvis—and you gasped.

“Right here,” he said, voice dark with wonder. “You feel me, princess? That’s me. All the way inside.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, heat rushing through your veins like fire. The pressure of his hand paired with the drag of the piercing made your whole body twitch.

“Megs—”

He smirked against your neck, breath hot. “I know, baby. I know it’s a lot. You’re taking it so well.”

He kissed your jaw, slow and sweet. “I want you to cum for me,” he whispered. “Right here. While I’m inside you. Wanna feel this perfect pussy squeeze around me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your body coiling tighter with every stroke.

“You can do it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and soothing. “You’re already so close. Just let go.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit hard—white-hot, overwhelming. Your body locked up, then shattered all at once. You cried out, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. The wave of it crashed over you again and again, endless, dizzying.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, thrusting deeper. “You’re so fucking tight when you cum—gonna make me—shit—”

His rhythm faltered, turned rougher, messier, as he lost control.

“Pretty girl—shit—gonna cum, baby, gonna—”

“Cum inside me,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Please, Megs.”

He moaned—loud and wrecked—and buried himself to the hilt.

You felt everything. The heat, the pulse, the way his whole body locked down as he came. His mouth pressed to your throat, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away.

He stayed there, buried inside you, panting against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the sweat on his back, the way his fingers stayed tangled in your hair.

Then he lifted his head, kissed you—slow and raw, lips dragging over yours like he didn’t want the moment to end.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby. You don’t even know.”

You touched his face, thumb stroking under his eye, and he leaned into it—like it hurt not to. Like he needed it more than air.

The moment stretched—bodies tangled, breath shared, your walls still fluttering around his softening cock.

And he was still inside you.

Still holding you like a lifeline.

Like he didn’t know where he ended and you began.

None of you moved at all, really—just stayed there, his weight heavy but comforting, his breath fanning against your cheek. One arm curled around your waist, holding you close, like the aftershocks were still rolling through him too.

You exhaled slowly, boneless, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Megs…”

He hummed, low in his throat. Kissed your temple, your cheekbone, then your mouth—soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, flushed and hazy. “Yeah. Just… can’t feel my legs.”

He gave a breathless little laugh, nuzzling into your neck. “That might be the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You smiled—tired and full.

After a moment, he eased back, still buried inside you, his hand brushing your cheek. His expression was unreadable—something caught between awe and disbelief and maybe something a little softer.

“You’re really something, you know that?” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him. “You make it sound like I just saved your life or something.”

His smile crooked. “Feels kind of like you did.”

That silenced you—for a beat too long.

He caught it, of course. Looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. That was probably too much.”

“No…” You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “I just didn’t expect you to say something like that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Neither did I.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything else—gentle this time, like he needed the feel of you more than the words.

Then he pulled out carefully, slow and warm and messy, and you both winced a little.

“Shit—sorry,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a warm, damp towel and one of his shirts. You stayed sprawled on the sheets, utterly wrecked, and let him tend to you.

His touch was careful. Reverent.

He cleaned you up with soft little apologies under his breath, then helped you into his shirt—big and worn and smelling like him—and tucked you back into bed before crawling in beside you.

You turned toward him automatically, curling into the warmth of his body. His arm wrapped around you like muscle memory, hand stroking slowly up and down your back.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and your breathing syncing up again.

Eventually, you mumbled, “We’re definitely gonna have to talk about this tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “But not now.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm.” His fingers traced lazy patterns against your spine. “Right now, I just wanna hold my girl.”

You froze—just for a second.

Then smiled, into his chest.

He felt it, and pulled you closer.

—

When you woke up, the light was soft—barely morning.

You were warm.

Your limbs tangled with his under the sheets, skin to skin. Megumi was still asleep, mouth slack, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hair sticking up in every direction. 

His arm was heavy across your waist, hand curled against your stomach like it belonged there.

You could feel him breathing—slow and steady. Completely relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

You blinked at him. Wondered, for a moment, if last night had actually happened.

But then you shifted, and your body answered for you—sore in places you hadn’t used in a while, hips aching, thighs a little raw.

And you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.

Heat crept across your cheeks.

You tried to move without waking him, carefully peeling the blanket back.

No such luck.

His eyes cracked open—barely.

“Where you goin’?” voice rough and sleep-heavy.

“Bathroom,” you whispered.

He hummed, eyes falling shut again. But his hand slid lower—resting just above your thigh, possessive even half-asleep.

You disappeared for a minute, returned to find him still sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over your side like a claim.

When you climbed back in, he rolled toward you, dragging you against him without hesitation.

You yelped—softly. “Jesus, Megs.”

“Mmm.” He buried his face in your neck. “You smell like me.”

You froze.

Then laughed—quiet, breathless. “You’re such a menace.”

He grinned against your skin. “You like it.”

You did.

You didn’t say it.

His hand skimmed under your borrowed shirt, fingers tracing lazy lines along your hip.

“Still good?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Sore, but good.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His expression was unreadable again—sleepy, but serious beneath it. That focus of his, like he was seeing straight through you.

“You sure?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “We should talk about it.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

Another pause. His thumb brushed the side of your thigh.

“But not yet?”

You smiled. “Not yet.”

He kissed you then—soft, like a promise.

And you let yourself melt into it, let the morning wrap around you like warmth, like quiet, like something new.

Something that didn’t feel temporary.

© MANICPIXIEDREAMKIRA - do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[clarkeysbedchem]

slut era interlude

harry lewis x fem reader

summary: harry offers to help get over your heartbreak.

warning: mature content (18+ only)

masterlist | main masterlist

Harry hadn’t really been someone you paid much attention to; he was just there. A friend of a friend really, you couldn’t think of a singular conversation you had with him that was more than two words.

But tonight, something was different. Maybe it was the drinks; maybe it was the mess your ex left you in; maybe it was how Harry’s been looking at you all night like he’s seeing you properly for the first time.

You were one too many drinks deep, tucked into a booth away from the others as you drowned in your pities alone. That was until Harry slipped in next you not saying a word, just watching the group dance wildly. His thigh pressed against yours, his hand rests casually on your knee like it had been there many times before as fingers tapped against your skin in a rhythm that drove you crazy.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, "You know," he murmured, his voice low and rough from drinking and shouting over music all night, "I could help you forget about him."

You whipped your head around to look at him, half-laughing, half-shocked, “Yeah?" your response came out like a breath, the word slipping out before you can second guess yourself.

The grin on his face made your stomach flip, "Yeah."

His hand slid higher on your thigh, a slow and deliberate as if he was testing the water. Your breath hitched, as your eyes flickered to where his hand was and back up to his blown pupils. He was so close that you could smell the whiskey on him making your head spin.

"You don’t deserve to sit here feeling like shit because of some idiot," he said, words slurred just enough to be dangerous, "Let me fix it."

Your mind was a blur of Harry's blue eyes, the feeling of his hand on your bare skin, the heavy pulse of the music thudding through your chest. You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you were kissing him desperately, like you need him to breathe.

He groaned against your mouth, deep and guttural, gripping your waist and pulling you into his lap. You gasp when his teeth graze your bottom lip, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue slid against yours in a way that made your whole body shudder.

Around you, the bar keeps buzzing with blurred laughter, clinking glasses but none of it registers. All you could focus on was Harry and the way his hands travelled over your skin like they belonged there.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips, tugging you even closer, "You’re driving me mad."

Before your mind could catch up you were being guided out of the booth, Harry’s hand in yours pulling you towards the dark hallway near the bathrooms. He spun you around pushing you against the wall the second you’re out of sight, and his hands were everywhere - your waist, your hips, under your shirt.

"You sure?" he rasped, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing just as ragged you.

"Yes," you whispered, not a second of hesitation. "God, yes."

And after that there was no more talking. Just heat, and hands, and mouths. Harry’s kissing you like he was starving, like he needed you to survive. His hands at the edge of your shirt, dragging it up slightly, and honestly? you didn’t care if anyone saw, you just need him, now.

Every movement was messy and reckless, but it was exactly what you need.

And the second Harry mutters, "Forget about him. Just me. Just us," against your skin, you let yourself believe it.

For tonight anyway.

Harry’s mouth is everywhere possible, your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your jaw. Desperate kisses being pressed to your burning skin like he can’t get enough of you.

Your back hits the wall with a soft thud as he pressed himself into you fully, his body hot and solid against yours. One of his hands slipped up your side and under your shirt, his thumb grazing the underside of your bra. You gasp into his mouth, fingers knotting into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer.

"You feel so good," Harry gasped, his voice rough and needy. His hands were shameless, sliding under the hem of your jeans, thumbs tracing circles over your hips. You shiver, hips tilting toward him instinctively, needing something, needing him.

He groans low in his throat, feeling you grind against him, "Fuck, y/n," he muttered, forehead falling to rest against yours again. His hips rock into you sending heat sparking through your veins.

"You sure you wanna do this here?" he asked, trailing kisses down your neck, sucking a mark just above your collarbone that made your knees buckle.

You nodded frantically, tugging at his shirt, "Please," you begged, breathless, needy, "I need you."

The way the words tumbled from your mouth made something snap in him. His hand slipped down the front of your jeans without hesitation, fingers finding you through your underwear, making you whimper into his mouth.

"Shit," Harry hissed, feeling how wet you were, "All this for me?"

You whimpered something that might be his name as his fingers teased you slowly through the thin fabric in maddening strokes that made your head fall back against the wall.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

His free hand slips up under your shirt, finally unclasping your bra with a clumsy flick, and his mouth was on you again pressing hot open-mouthed kisses across your chest as his fingers dipped beneath your underwear.

The moan that slipped passed your lips as he touched you for the first time was helpless, coming out louder than you had planned but your brain was too scrambled for you to think straight. Harry lips met yours in a hard kiss muffling your needy sounds, his tongue sliding against yours in the kisses that turned into all teeth and desperation.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me," he growled against your mouth, two fingers sliding inside you and curling just right making your hips jerk against his hand.

You were barely hanging on, clutching at his shoulders, his hair, whatever you could hold on to as his fingers worked in and out of you expertly bringing you toward the edge. His thumb brushed your clit in devastatingly slow circles, and you knew you weren’t going to last much longer.

"Come for me," Harry muttered, voice dark and completely wrecked, his mouth on your ear. "Wanna feel you lose it."

It only took a few more thrust of his finger before you were falling apart them, muffling your cry against his mouth, your body shuddering through the waves of pleasure.

Harry kept you pinned to the wall through it, kissing you like he never wants to stop, like you're the only thing in the world.

When you finally pull away catching your breath, chest heaving against his, you realize he’s still rock hard - pressed against your hip, his breathing ragged against your bare shoulder. Every nerve in your body still buzzing, but the sight of him desperate, trembling slightly, and needing you lit a whole new fire under your skin.

You smirked, feeling bolder now, tipsy on adrenaline and the way Harry’s still clinging to you like he might fall apart without your touch.

"Your turn?" you whispered, your voice breathy as you brushed your hand lightly over the thick length of him straining against his jeans.

He groaned, a sound so low and broken that it vibrates through your chest, and before you can tease him further, he grabs your wrist - firm but careful - and guides your hand properly into his jeans, pushing past the waistband of his boxers.

"Be a good girl and help me out then," he murmured, pressing his forehead hard against yours, like he’s barely holding it together.

You slid your hand around him, feeling him just how big and hot he was against your palm, and Harry cursed under his breath, hips jolting up into your hand instinctively. His fingers dug into your waist like he needed the grounding, the control, but you felt it slipping from him.

"Fuck, just like that," he moaned, eyes squeezing shut as you start to move your hand slowly, teasingly, dragging your thumb across his tip to smear the precum leaking there.

His pants in your ear, muttering half-formed curses and your name like it’s the only word he knows. Every sharp breath he takes, every broken sound he makes, fueling you, makinh you stroke him harder, faster, feeling him twitch helplessly in your hand.

"Y/n…" he groaned, low and ragged, "Gonna lose it if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You bit your lip, watching him, his cheeks flushed and jaw tight as his chest heaved against yours, completely under your control. He pressed you harder into the wall, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as you kept working him with your hand.

"You close?" you whispered, biting back a smile as you squeezed him a little tighter, flicking your wrist just right.

He shuddered violently against you, "Fuck, yeah. Shit. y/n."

And then he came undone in your hand, hips jerking against you in tiny, desperate thrusts as he spills over your fingers, gasping your name like a prayer into your neck. You guide him through it, a slow pace and tender words leaving your lips, until he was trembling against you, totally fucked.

He leaned his whole weight against you for a second, breathing hard, forehead still pressed to your shoulder. His hands find your hips again his thumb absent-mindedly drawing shapes into your skin.

"You're trouble," he muttered against your skin with a small laugh. There was no bite behind it, just something warm, almost disbelieving.

You laughed softly, slightly dizzy with the power of it all, with him.

You were both wrecked.

Still pressed against the wall, hearts thundering, limbs tangled, breathing each other in like oxygen. Harry’s forehead resting against yours, and for a long second, neither of you moved.

The distant thrum of the bar seeped back into focus - the music, the laughter, the clatter of glasses. You blinked up at him, dazed, and Harry gives you a crooked smile.

His fingers brushed your cheek, gentler now, tracing the curve of your jaw like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, "You alright?"

You gave a small nod, still too breathless to speak, and Harry leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. It was different now, it wasn’t frantic or not desperate. It was warm and steady, his thumb stroking your cheek like he was trying to calm you down, ground you.

"Come on," he murmured after a moment, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, "Let’s get out of here, yeah?"

You barely managed a nod before he laces his fingers with yours and tugging you toward the exit. You catch a glimpse of your friends across the bar - no one’s noticed you’re gone, too deep in their own drunken chaos.

The cool night air hit you like a slap, but Harry's hand tightened around yours, keeping you steady. He pulled out his phone with the other, ordering an Uber with fumbling fingers while you both giggled like teenagers sneaking out past curfew.

Minutes later, you were bundled into the backseat of an Uber, crammed close together, the space crackling with something electric and new. Harry slouched low, spreading his legs wide, and pulling you into his side without a second thought.

You dropped your head to his shoulder, suddenly so tired that your eyelids felt heavy. His arm loops around you, hand resting low on your hip, fingers idly tracing patterns against your side.

"You’re so pretty," he mumbled into your hair, his breath warm against your temple, "Dunno why he ever let you go."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You turn your face into his neck, inhaling the scent of him and squeezed your eyes shut.

"He's an idiot," Harry said firmly, voice thick with sleep but something else, "You deserve better."

You shifted slightly, looking up at him, and he met your gaze, his eyes bright even in the dim cab light.

"Like you?" you whispered, half-teasing, half-terrified.

He chuckled, "Yeah," he replied, no hesitation, "Like me."

You stared at each other for maybe a beat too long, and then Harry lent down, kissing you again slowly, sweetly and a little clumsy.

By the time the cab pulled up outside his building, you were half asleep on his chest, and he was rubbing circles into your back, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

Harry paid the driver, pulling you into his side again, and lead you upstairs.

And when he pulled you into his bed, curling himself around you like you’re something precious that needed to be protected, you realized that you weren’t thinking about your ex at all anymore.

Only Harry and he held you like he already knows he’s never letting go.

taglist: @jamiekluivert @reidyourpalms @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz @happyclifford @golden-hoax

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon Riley is a nudist

And hear me out with this one, okay?

Simon loathed clothes. Ever since birth, he couldn’t stand wearing them. Tight shirts felt suffocating, clinging in all the wrong places, while loose shirts bunched up every time he sat down, irritating his skin like sandpaper. Socks made his toes feel trapped. Jeans? Felt like leg prisons.

So as he got older and lonelier, finally getting a place to call his own, he took full advantage of the one thing he had control over: being bare. Naked, free, relaxed. It was like finally exhaling after holding his breath for years.

He slept nude, cooked nude, cleaned nude, and lounged nude. If a neighbor caught a glimpse through the blinds? So be it. This was his damn house. His sanctuary.

He never had a problem with it… until he got a partner.

Simon didn’t really get the memo at first either. He didn’t think you’d mind. You were his, after all. And besides, he trusted you enough to be comfortable in his own skin and scars. And at first, you said nothing. You were happy he felt that at ease around you. Proud even.

But there came a point. A moment where things tipped.

A point where you could no longer ignore the way his balls quite literally stared at you while you were trying to eat lunch. A point where his nuts were uncomfortably pressed against your back at night because he liked to sleep curled around you. Hell, you could barely take him seriously during conversations not when all you could see was his ass swaying as he turned to grab something off the counter.

Still, you let it slide. Until that day.

Your friend was over, and Simon: tired from work and on autopilot made his way inside, tugging off his shirt, undoing his belt, already stepping out of his cargo pants and down to his boxers. The same boxers he was about to take off when he walked into the living room… and froze.

Silence.

Your friend’s face was a picture of horror. Yours was painted in full body embarrassment. Simon? Confused, holding the waistband in his hand.

That was it. The final straw.

You sat him down that night and had the talk.

“Look, Simon. I love you but can you at least wear boxers around the house?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like having to see your ass when I eat. And I can’t take you seriously when you’re butt naked trying to lecture me about safety knives.”

“What’s wrong with my ass?”

Eventually, he relented. He agreed to boxers. And it worked. Peace was restored. You had no further complaints.

Until he got an idea. A plan.

What if he converted you?

It started subtle. He hid a few of your shorts. Nothing major. And soon you were walking around the house in nothing but your panties and one of your shirts. Then he escalated. Began hiding your shirts too. But you simply grabbed his, oversized and soft.

So he played dirty.

He ordered some itching powder off the internet. Just adding a little sprinkle in your shirts, his too: he had to sell the lie. And sure, you could just wash them. But that took hours. Hours you’d be bare.

So when you said you were hopping in the shower, he smiled and sat back.

The door swung open as you stomped out of the bedroom, frustration written all over your face.

“Ugh! Everything I wear is uncomfortable and itchy!” you whined, dumping handfuls of clothes into the washer with enough force to shake the drum.

Simon sat on the couch, arms behind his head, casual as ever. “What I’ve been sayin’, love. Clothes are the curse of people.”

You pouted, flopping down beside him with crossed arms. “Maybe I’ll just go nude like you.”

His grin stretched wide, wolfish and smug.

“Would never say no to that.”

And from that day on, the conversion was complete.

You were barefoot, panty clad, and happy. No shirt, no pants, no problem. Sunlight touched your bare skin as you made breakfast, as you lay in his arms on the couch, skin to skin. You slept bare chest to bare chest with him every night, feeling every steady breath and heartbeat. It was peaceful. Intimate. Freeing.

Until you found the itching powder tucked behind some boxes in the closet.

You almost laughed.

Sneaky bastard.

You should’ve been mad. But you weren’t. You just smiled to yourself, grabbed the bottle, and poured a little bit into his boxers.

Let’s see how he liked it.

Might write more for theses two if I have any ideas since I liked making this