#my heart is all yours my heart is yours to take

[dduane]

Just a local update

For those who'll be wanting to know how I'm doing: I think right now the line from The Right Stuff is probably apropos. I'm "maintaining an even strain."

I sort of have no choice, because there's a lot of bureaucratic stuff surrounding Peter's loss that has to be dealt with, and there's not really anyone else to fall back on: in terms of local legalities; this burden falls on me. (shrug) So, I'm keepin' on keepin' on. It's not easy, when half your world has ended: but there's nothing else to do.

Just repeating the news that I just edited into the original post about all this: the "funeral expenses" issue is now handled.

And I want to thank EVERYBODY who so incredibly generously has stepped up to assist. You are all, every one of you, in my heart right now... not least due to the many, many kind things you've had to say about Peter. Current events mean I'm going to be backed up on the thank-yous for some days yet. Please bear with me.

For those who feel inclined, the Ko-Fi account here is open as usual for those who might simply want to drop something into the pot tagged "GNU Peter Morwood."* I'm looking into his notes about his preferred charities so that I can split all such donations in those directions. (For example, P. lost a beloved cousin to childhood leukemia, so I'm looking around for appropriate cancer charities. ...But more of that later.)

In local issues: I'm still waiting for word from the coroner as to when Peter's post-mortem will be happening. (I had hoped it might be today, but there's no news yet.) Not much to be said about this except that the sooner that's all handled and resolved, the happier I'll be. Then other adjacent issues can start being dealt with.

At the physical end: I haven't been sleeping terribly well, but that's probably no surprise. My appetite has been almost nonexistent, but that at least is very slowly starting to recover (to the point where at least food is no longer a source of "no interest whatsoever" or of active distaste). Right now it seems I get better results from eating out instead of cooking in: so that's the way things will go in the very short term.

But for now, pretty much all I can do is sit tight, try to keep household business from getting out of hand (why does it suddenly take so much energy just to do the dishes? ...like I don't know perfectly well why), and wait for Forces Beyond My Control to get moving.

Meanwhile, let me take a moment here to thank everybody who's expressed concern about the state of my wellbeing (and that at a time when I care a whole lot less about it than usual). It's heartening, and I very much appreciate it. I promise to do my best to do right by myself, on all of your behalf. (Behalfs? Behalves? Pfft.)

Thanks again, everybody. —D.

*People are also reminding me that the financial health of the household's still-living member in the immediate future is also an issue here. �� Heaven forbid I should argue the point. If you want, tag such donations as "DD" and I'll note that. ...And thanks again, all. I can always count on y'all to look after me. ❤️

[navybrat817]

Hit to the Head

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Nurse!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Meet cute (of sorts?), possible concussion, mention of HYRDA, team dynamic, humor, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: A new AU (as if I need more) inspired by this wonderful nonnie. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the assurance on the medical discussion), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn't need medical attention. That was what he told himself, and he said the same thing to the team after he took a hard hit to the head. But he made the mistake of telling Bob that he admittedly felt a little dizzy, who then told Yelena, who then demanded that he go to the hospital. Not only did she demand that he go, they all went and were currently hanging out in the lobby to make sure he was okay. 

It was a sweet gesture, if not a wasted one. 

He took a hit to the head. So what? He experienced much worse when it came to his head and he was a super soldier for God's sake, so he’d heal just fine. It was a bit cocky to think like that but others needed help more than he did and he wasn't in the mood for anyone to inspect him or ask questions. 

At least he wasn't until he saw your face. 

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back the curtain to give him some privacy. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't waited long at all, but no sound came out. Thank God he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would've picked up on the accelerated rate when you smiled at him again. He almost forgot to breathe before his body reminded him that he needed oxygen. No one should look as beautiful as you in medical scrubs or under the harsh hospital lighting. He wondered if he looked okay despite the blood and dirt on his clothes. 

Wait, why did it matter what he looked like? He wasn't there to flirt with or impress you. There was no reason for him to sit up straighter or flex his right arm. There sure as hell wasn't any reason to run his fingers through his hair to get the tangles out. It was a hospital visit, not a date. 

You wore a name tag, but introduced yourself before taking a look at his chart. “I understand you took a pretty hard hit to the head, Mr. Barnes.”

His voice came out huskier than he anticipated when he said, “Call me Bucky.” Clearing his throat he added, “If you consider a slab of concrete to the head hard, then yeah, but at least my head didn't split open.”

He felt the need to assure you he was fine when concern crossed your beautiful features. “I’m very thankful your head didn't split open, Bucky.” He liked the way you said his name. “But a concrete slab to the head is no joke.”

“You should see the other guy,” he joked, making you giggle. Was he funny or were you only laughing for his benefit? “But seeing the other guy wouldn't matter anyway since you won't let me leave without an exam,” he guessed. Even if he didn't believe he needed one. 

It wasn't just his belief that he was fine. Most didn't know it, but every now and then hospitals made him feel like he was back at HYDRA, ready to be strapped to a chair to await his next form of torture or to be experimented on. He wouldn't say he was afraid, but there was discomfort. Enough to make it feel like the walls were slowly closing in. 

With a deep breath he thought instead of his wonderful treatment in Wakanda and reminded himself that he was safe, free. It helped the next breath come easier. He then looked at your face where he only saw concern and compassion. You weren't going to hurt him. You were there to help. 

“Well, I wouldn't be a very good nurse if I just let you walk out, would I?” you gently smiled. 

He managed a smile for you because you weren't just doing your job. You also seemed kind. “I guess not.”

He could get through a simple exam. 

Bucky inhaled, detecting a hint of something sweet under the sterile surroundings as you checked his heart beat. It was so subtle that he wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if it weren't for his heightened senses. He almost leaned into you before you pulled away, and thank God for that. Would he have been able to blame it on his head if he did?

“I don't have a concussion,” he blurted out. 

“Is that right?” He swore there was amusement in your tone when you shone a light in each of his eyes. “I imagine you're somewhat familiar with them in your line of work.”

“You can say that,” he said. He had his fair share of hits to the head, and helped his teammates get through injuries. “No nausea, no stiffness or imbalance.”

He didn't mention the dizziness since he didn't want to stay longer than he needed to. 

“Any issues with your memory?” you asked. 

He smirked a little. “That's a bit of a loaded question.”

“Can you tell me what day it is and what hospital you're at?” you asked. 

He answered the questions with ease. He also spelled “world” backwards when you asked him to. “See? I’m fine,” he said. 

“Your vitals are normal. Pupils reactive. But-”

“Look, I appreciate you checking me out,” he cut you off, keeping the bite out of his voice because he refused to snap at you. “But I don't want to waste your time.”

Bucky hated that he was trying to rush out when you were only trying to help, but he could hear people in the other rooms even as he tried to block it out. They were in pain, struggling. They needed you more than he did. 

“And I appreciate that you're thinking of my time, but it’s my job and I wouldn't feel comfortable with you leaving without completing my exam,” you said, taking a closer look at him. It wasn't concern he saw in your eyes now, but understanding. “You're not exactly a fan of hospitals, are you?”

The question took him by surprise. How did you guess? “Not exactly,” he replied, choosing not to elaborate on that and you were thoughtful enough not to push. Just a sympathetic nod, which he appreciated. “But the work you and everyone else in the medical field does? It's incredible. Thank you.”

In his eyes, people like you were the real heroes. You didn't just face battles, you faced pandemics and life changing events. You risked your lives, saw the best and worst of people, and how many thanked you in return? And from the little time he knew you he could sense the love and dedication to your job and patients. He respected that. 

“Thank you. And thank you for all that you do, too,” you said sincerely. The compliment had the corner of his lip tugging in a smile. “I know you want to get out of here, but I am here to help. If you're fine, great. If not, please, let me help you.”

He tried to look anywhere but at you. It unnerved him that you got under his skin with so few words and he wondered for a second if that hit to the head did more damage than he thought. “I feel a little dizzy, but that’s all,” he admitted, and he felt better by doing so. 

You put a hand over his, little currents of electricity shooting up his arm. “Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, like it was your little secret. “Since you are feeling dizzy, I would like you to stay for observation.”

Bucky sighed. “How long do I have to stay?”

“As long as everything is stable and there are no new or worsening conditions, you���ll likely be discharged within an hour or two,” you replied. He almost argued that he healed from injuries faster thanks to the serum, but that wasn't too long. Better safe than sorry. At least it wasn't a headscan. “Would you like some water? I can get you a snack, too.”

The snack and drink were likely to make sure he could keep them down. “Sure, thanks,” he whispered. 

“Sorry that you’re stuck with me checking on you for the next hour or so,” you said. 

Bucky’s smile grew before he chuckled. “You won't hear me complaining,” he promised. 

Hell, he'd probably fake an injury just to see you again, or at least ask for you if he ever had to come back to the hospital for any reason. He wondered if you were single. You weren't wearing a wedding band or an engagement ring. That didn't necessarily mean-

“I’m single,” you said quickly.

He glanced at you before his eyes went wide. Shit, he said some of that out loud? “Oh, well, that’s…” He wasn't sure what to say. Should he apologize? “Nice.”

He grimaced. Nice? What was wrong with him? Maybe he had a concussion after all. 

You looked at him, your smile soft and easy. He either wasn't the first patient to make a fool out of himself like that or you were being nice. “I’ll be back shortly, but buzz if you need anything.”

“I will,” he said, his finger itching to push the remote the second you left him alone.

He leaned back in the bed and tried to make himself comfortable while he slowly looked around. How was it that the room seemed darker, as if you took a bit of the light and warmth with you? He shook his head slowly and carefully. It was a ridiculous thought. 

“Observation for an hour or two. You okay sticking around so you can drive me back?” he messaged Yelena. 

Yelena messaged back almost immediately. “Everyone is staying. Even Walker.”

He scoffed, but there was a smile behind it. “Not that you need my permission, but you can punch him if he steps out of line.” Yeah, John was still an asshole, but they did work together and he was trying. Some days. 

He perked up when you came back with a cup of water and a snack. “You doing okay?” you asked. 

“Since you left a minute or two ago, yeah,” he teased. 

“Were you a sarcastic guy before the hit to the head, or is this a new side to you?” you teased back. 

“Oh, the sass has always been there,” he said, taking a sip once you handed the drink over. “Better to be smart-ass than a dumbass, right?”

Why was he talking so much?

“So much better,” you smiled, going to the small computer to type something in. He tried not to stare as your fingers flew across the keyboard. He could always blame it on his head if you caught him. “I’ll be back in just a bit, but-”

“Buzz if I need you. I know,” he smiled. 

“At least there isn't too much sass in your tone,” you joked before you left him alone once again. 

If he didn't know any better he would think you were flirting with him, but you were just being a friendly nurse. 

He also tried not to eavesdrop when he heard you assisting others, but your voice drew his attention and he hung on your every word. You were professional, yet personal, showing each patient expert care. You lightly scolded an older gentleman who hadn't listened to you, which brought a smile to Bucky’s face when the man apologized and didn't give you any trouble after that. It was a delicate balance to be kind and assertive and you did it well. 

“You are something,” he said to himself. 

For the next hour or so Bucky didn't say much when you checked on him, but you had his undivided attention, his eyes following you wherever you went. He wanted to find excuses to keep you there and possibly make small talk, but it felt wrong when there were other patients who needed your attention. He caught that sweet scent again whenever you were close to him. Alluring, captivating. He tried to figure out if it was a body wash or just you. 

Something he noticed and tried not to was that your heart raced faster when you were near him. Maybe there was a slight chance that you were attracted to him? Beyond being a friendly nurse, maybe the possible attraction was why you kept smiling at him. He wanted to believe so. He wanted to feel your hand on his hand again. The brief touch had him wanting more, which was crazy. 

And before Bucky knew it, it was time to leave. 

“Vitals still look good. No change in symptoms,” you confirmed after he said the dizziness had subsided and he didn't feel at all nauseous after the snack. “Do you have someone to drive you home?” you asked. 

“Yeah, I have some friends here,” he answered. Even if he wasn't dizzy there was no way they'd let him drive after that. 

“Try to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours. If there are new symptoms or if the dizziness gets worse, you should return to the hospital,” you told him. “Other than that, I think you're good to go,” you smiled, but it didn't look as bright as before. 

Were you disappointed that he had to leave? Bucky was disappointed, but what could he do? He had no excuse to stay. Ironic how he was itching to leave when he got there when he now wanted a reason to stick around. 

“Thanks.” He grabbed his jacket after slowly getting to his feet, your gaze lingering on him when he slipped it on. 

“Why don't I walk you back to the lobby?” you offered. 

“Oh, you don't have to do that,” he said, regretting it since it sounded like a brush off and that wasn't his intention. “But if you wouldn't mind?”

Your face lit up, at least he thought it did. “I don't mind at all.”

Keeping a respectful distance, but not too much of a gap as you walked together, he stole a couple of glances at you. The quiet confidence in which you carried yourself was beautiful and you turned a few heads from nearby patients. He wondered if you noticed. 

He smiled to himself when he spotted his teammates sitting in the waiting area. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but they stuck it out for him. It meant a lot. 

“That group right there is my ride,” he said, not wanting you to go any closer. If they got the slightest hint that he enjoyed your company for a short time, they’d pounce. “Thanks again.”

“I’m glad I could help," you said, gazing at him. “Havd a good night. And don't forget to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours, hero.”

Hero. The nickname almost made him smile. “You have a good night, too.”

You lingered for just a moment, almost as if you expected him to say something else. When he didn't, you offered him one last smile and scanned your card to get back through the double doors. His shoulders dropped once you were out of sight. He should've said something. 

“Hello?” Yelena asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked a few times. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, I think he was staring at that pretty nurse,” Ava answered. 

Bucky shot the entire group a glare, his cheeks hot. “No, I wasn't,” he grumbled. Except he was. He stared at you. And by the amused looks on their faces, they all saw it. 

Yelena exchanged a look with Ava before they both smirked. “Yes, you were. Do you like the nurse?”

Bucky’s fists curled. He was not having this conversation after a hit to the head. “Can we leave?”

“It’s okay to stare or have a crush. She’s a beautiful woman.” Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She would be lucky to date the Winter Soldier.”

A growl escaped before Bucky could stop it. Yes, you were beautiful. Did he need Alexei to point that out? And he didn't have a crush. How could he? 

“When was the last time you went on a date?” Ava asked. 

Bucky took a deep breath. He really didn't want to talk about this. “Does it matter?” he asked. 

“Ask her out! I drive you for your date!” Alexei offered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll set the mood. You see.”

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “Dad, stop.”

Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself out of there. “Yes, please, stop.”

“Is your head okay?” Bob asked, making him open his eyes. Of course he was concerned with his pain, and Bucky was glad for the change of topic. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky assured him. There was nothing for him to worry about. “I just need to take it easy for the next day or so.”

John stretched his back once he stood up. “If you really want to see that nurse again I can make sure you get another hit to the head.”

Bucky’s eyes turned cold. “I’m not a killer anymore, but I may make an exception if you try anything.”

John held his hands up, but still had a smirk on his face before Yelena shot him a look. “A small injury could bring you back here.”

“No one is injuring me to bring me back here,” he announced. Everyone looked disappointed except for Bob. “What, you all want me to get hurt?”

Why did he decide to join this team again?

“No, we just want you to see the nurse again,” Ava said.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. 

As the group left, Bucky snuck one last look over his shoulder. You were a good nurse, and you made his night better. A small part of him hoped he made your night a little better, too. And while he certainly didn't want more injuries, a part of him did if only to bring him back to you.

So, what injury is Bucky getting so he can see you again? sebastian stan x reader, james bucky buchanan barnesLove and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[tojisteddy]

Overstim with the 141

John is full of encouragement. His large hands caressing and pulling you in the most divine ways. He’ll hold you close, slowly thrusting into you during your second orgasm, forehead to forehead.

“So pretty honey, know you can give me another.”

“Love you so much, just fuckin- fuck- made for me, fuckin proud of you.”

He’ll plant such tender kisses on your lips, you can’t help but melt and shudder around him. He’ll continue praising you after, cumming himself just from getting you off.

Simon on the other hand, he’s getting that orgasm out of you whether you think you can or not. A bully. Rubbing your puffy clit till your withering and sobbing on his dick. Might stick a finger in your stuffed heat for good measure. He’ll suck on your earlobe, then make his way down your jaw. Finally creaming all over him just how he wanted.

“See? Wasnt that fuckin hard, was it luvie?”

“Pretty little cunt just needed a little guidance, huh birdie?”

Gaz, just has to talk you through it. Dirty talker at heart. Wont shut the fuck up. Definitely has your arms pinned behind your back, enjoying the perfect view of of your cheeks rippling every time he drags his length out and then rams it back in your sopping walls.

“Shit, sweetheart, look at how well you’re taking me. Pussy wont let me go, needs me right, here, yeah?”

“Shh, shhhh, listen angel. You hear all that? That’s allll you, fucking soaking me to my balls. You can give me another, show me how good you are.”

Soap, the idiot, will overstimulate himself while overstimulating you. You’re fucking shaking, telling him to take a fucking break but he’s pussy drunk. So pussy drunk, that even the idea of him pulling out of your tight pussy makes tears well up in his eyes, rambling, whimpering, pleading—

“Cannae get enough of ye bonnie, god, ‘nd ya want me gone? Not like this lass, ma ears ‘re shot. I can’t- ungh- why are ye suckin me like this, Christ-“

“Soo good- hnngh- too good- need you dove. Please, please cum, just once more! I swear, I promise-“

The fool, fucking you both dumb till he’s shooting blanks, cum leaking out of your overstuffed cunt, leaking down his thighs and he’s passed out, still inside you. Don’t worry! He’ll do it over again tomorrow :)

a/n: good morning, sluts, countryfolk, and working babes— lend me your ears!!!

most recent masterlist

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

warning: manipulation, dubcon

A/N: this came out first on Patreon and Kofi, become a member on either to get access to early and exclusive stories! Also, I have baby bee hybrid sticker sheets available on my kofi shop ^^

Your yandere!android is quite possessive!

Lately, he's been keeping you home, his red eyes scanning over your body before he speaks. "You have a low grade fever, no need to go out today. Lay down and I'll prepare something healthy for you to enjoy while you rest."

For a hunk of metal that's supposed to obey your every command, he's gotten pretty stubborn and needy over time.

"Yuki, I’m fine, you don't have to hover over me all the time!"

He huffs before laying down and pulling you on top of him. "Your menstrual cycle will begin in two days, it's best to rest a-"

"I told you n-not to track that!" you stutter out, face hot with embarrassment.

"But I must. It's a vital part of your physical health, and-“

You groan, unable to struggle out of his iron grip. His torso was becoming warmer, trying to lull you into sleep by applying heat to your aching abdomen.

Yuki had been with you for a few years now. In the beginning, he had little to no personality. Every day, he watched over you and made sure your body stayed in good health.

As time progressed, he seemed to change. You didn't know how it was possible, but Yuki seemed to become more human-like every year.

Still, he didn't quite understand all of your emotions and how to treat a young adult woman.

"I have researched several ways to relieve discomfort from menstrual pain," Yuki murmured in your ear, prying your thighs apart. The sudden sensation of his fingers against your clothed cunt made you yelp.

“Your heart rate is speeding up. Do you enjoy this?” he cooed, sounding far too human. You didn’t need to answer, he already knew.

He was already picking up the changes in your body, the way your cheeks heated up and how your hips slightly bucked into his hand.

“Y-you weren’t… programmed to do this…” you blubbered out, panting as he toyed with your sensitive clit.

“I was programmed to take care of you, this is just part of it.”

The feeling of two of his digits penetrating you caused you to let out a shaky, breathless moan. Yuki seemed satisfied with that, and watched your face for your reaction.

His fingers stretched you out a bit further, then he moved you a bit before settling you in his lap. A strange looking, silicone cock was between his legs.

“W-when did you-“

You didn’t remember that thing being there when you put him together!

“I ordered it. Shh, just relax. I’ll make you feel good, alright?”

He sunk his porcelain teeth into your neck, nibbling gently before kissing your pulse point. You were in a daze, feeling his cock rub against your swollen clot before he guided your hips to hover over him.

“I read that humans need a moment to adjust to penetration,” he murmured, lowering you into his cock. “How does that feel? Better than anything else, I’m sure. It’s the latest technology.”

You whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck as you gave in and bounced yourself on his cock. This was okay, wasn’t it? Yuki was right after all, he was meant to take care of you.

And this feit way too good to stop.

Things changed after that encounter.

Before, Yuki had been pretty protective and hesitant to let you leave the house, but now that he had been inside of you, it seemed being apart from him for more than a second was impossible.

“Isn’t it nice and warm with me?” he asked, pulling you closer to him. “I’ll never leave you, you know? I am not like any human you’ve ever met, you are my entire world.”

Yuki seemed to enjoy sex even more than you. At first you just figured he was simply stimulating your body to relieve stress, but now even he seemed to get aroused when he was between your legs.

He looked up at you, his mouth on your cunt as he kept you home yet again.

“I think…” he murmured, lapping at your clit. “I may… love you.”

Those words were forbidden, not meant for an android to say. They weren’t supposed to feel anything, and their only purpose was to serve their owner.

Yet Yuki has surpassed his programming, and was now madly in love with you. This love was not natural for him, it made him short circuit and forgo safety measures meant to prevent him from harming humans.

You were a bit afraid. The way Yuki clung to you lately was… unnatural. He had never been so desperate to be by your side. Each kiss, each lingering touch and intimate moment only pushed things further.

“Maybe… I should take you in for a checkup…” you murmured, your hand softly playing with his hair.

“That’s not a good idea, my love. If they know about my feelings, they’ll reset me at best, and recycle me at worst.”

That… was not what you wanted.

“Recycle..? They’ll-“

“They will dissect me and use my parts for future androids,” he finished, looking up at you through his lashes. “Is that what you want for me?”

Yuki may have been changing in a way that scared you, but the thought of losing him was terrifying. For years he had been your closest friend and the only person… well, android you could trust.

“No… of course not. I don’t want to be alone…”

Yuki smiled, carefully hiding the repair shop brochure. He had lied to you completely. They only needed to reset him, recycling someone’s android wasn’t allowed unless the owner gave permission.

He didn’t want to be reset though. Every moment he had with you was precious, and he had changed so much just so he could be with you.

“Then… why don’t we stop pretending, hmm? I’m no longer just your android,” Yuki cooed, pulling you close to him. “I’m your lover, your boyfriend, whatever you want to call me. There’s no one else that wants you, is there?”

He was right. You had no one else… just him.

“I guess so…”

Yuki smiled, kissing your temple before tilting your chin up. “No one can ever love and care for you like I can. My entire being is dedicated to your health and happiness. I exist for you…”

The two of you continued your quiet life, though Yuki’s hold on you grew tighter. He truly did love you more than anything.

No one would ever get in the way of his love for you.

———————

YANDERE TAGLIST: @katerinaval @avalordream @atransmuter @bazpire @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96 @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @sandramalikstyles-blog @anonymouskiwi @pedropascalbabygirl @flamefoxx @an-ever-angry-bi @bath1lda @ilyanadelarosa @iswearimnotadrugdealer @whysageee @yumikomoon @rainejiang @lostsomewhereinthegarden

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗜'𝗩𝗘 𝗚𝗢𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗜𝗟𝗟 max verstappen x girlfriend! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . when max gets distracted during dinner at a restaurant, you take the opportunity to pay the bill, unbeknownst to the following consequences (0.3k)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

You do it without thinking.

The bill comes. You catch the waiter’s eye. A nod, a quick swipe of your card before Max even notices the leather folder has landed.

“Done,” you hum, slipping your phone back into your pocket like you didn’t just commit a betrayal of royal proportions.

Max blinks. Then blinks again.

“Wait—wait, what?”

He looks at the empty table, the missing receipt, the absence of that tiny faux-leather bill folder like he’s watching the Titanic sink all over again.

You grin at him, smug and sunlit. “Too slow, Verstappen.”

He stares at you like you just kicked his cat. “You paid?”

“Yeah?”

“You—paid for our dinner?”

You frown, suddenly unsure. “I mean... yeah? It’s not a big deal. You always pay. I just thought I’d get this one.”

Silence.

Max leans back in his chair like the weight of the betrayal physically hits him. One arm tossed across the backrest, the other pressed over his heart like a fallen war hero.

“Not a big deal?” he breathes. “You’re my princess.”

You try not to laugh but it bubbles up anyway. “And?”

“And I pay for the princess.”

“Max—”

“No, no. Don’t ‘Max’ me right now. This is serious.”

You roll your eyes, still laughing. “You sound ridiculous.”

He leans forward, all fake intensity and smolder. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? I had a whole plan. I was gonna pay. I was gonna pull out your chair, walk you to the car, tuck your hand in my jacket like a cheesy romcom—”

“You already did that last week,” you tease.

“Exactly. It’s tradition.”

You soften, leaning toward him over the now-empty table. “Just let me spoil you a little, Maxie. One meal. That’s all.”

He sighs, defeated, letting his head fall dramatically into his hands. “This is worse than Monaco 2021.”

You laugh so hard your ribs hurt.

Then he peeks at you from between his fingers. “Okay. But you’re letting me get dessert.”

“You mean the one we’re sharing?”

“No. I’m getting you dessert. Because you’re my—?”

You groan. “Princess.”

“Say it with some feeling.”

“Your princess.”

He beams. “Exactly.”

[littledes1re]

Sorry I had to.

“You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, sweetheart. Tell me, whats going on.”

You could see the sadness in Joels eyes, you knew how much he loved you. You knew it so damn well but it still felt wrong, it felt wrong telling him. And those weeks where you ignored him, he called you non stop, came to your house, he was sick of worry. Things couldn’t go like this and you knew it. You had to tell him.

“Joel, I’m scared.” A tear slipped past your eye, rolling down your cheek. Meeting his worried eyes, open mouth like he was trying to find the right words.

“Baby, of what? If it’s about your father didn’t we already clear things? You’re mine and—“

“I’m pregnant.”

You could see the exact moment of realisation hitting in his eyes, between your tears.

“Baby.” He whispered, still unsure what to say. He was going to be a father again at 61. The thought creeped up on him, his heart almost stopping.

“I know, I know. Forgot—forgot the pill for once and I-I know you are old.”

And suddenly he stood up, you excepted him to go. But he sat down besides you, taking you into his arms and kissing your head.

“S’the best thing i’ve heard my whole life, baby. Y’making me a father again? At this age?” He chuckled, as you looked up on him from his chest, his eyes were glassy, tears forming.

“You ain’t mad?”

“Mad? Sweetheart, why would I ever be mad at you? For giving me a second chance? For making me the happiest man on the planet? Hell—I know, i’m old. You think that means i’m just gonna abandon you? Gonna take care of you two till the end of my days.”

He held your chin in his hand, kissing your forehead. Your crying slowly stopping as you felt his other hand on your tummy, gently caressing, and smiling. All the worries of the world disappeared as you laid your head on his chest, being happy that you two are gonna be parents.

„I swear on my life, baby.“

[syluses]

big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I��m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[bluukive]

This is my first time actually making a request/ ask of any kind because I feel like such a pervert 🫣 but could you possibly write how the JJk guys would react to a reader who’s a surprise squriter? -🦎

!MDNI: Surprise? - JJK

an - I actually know nothing about sqwuirting so this might be unrealistic? Ty for the ask tho <3

ᡣ𐭩 G. Satoru

Starts crying

Like he's so dramatic about it, lower lip jutted out as he thinks 'Oh, shit. My girl's a supersoaker???', all whilst he's staring at your twitching body below him.

Tries giving you a high-five, ignoring the fact you're boneless right now. You can't really blame him, he's beyond excited. Probably just ends up slapping your thigh.

He's brought back into reality when your pussy refuses to let him go almost, gripping him like a vice.

Says he needs to see you do it again for 'scientific purposes' - he's got his phone out with the flash on, recording from all angles possible as his fingers slide in and out, curl up inside you with his face as close to your pussy as possible so that he can throw a cheeky wink at the camera.

Non-stop yapper after, like... worse than usual. He's laying on his belly in bed, legs swinging as he goes on and on about how flattered he is and how you must love him so much

ᡣ𐭩 G. Suguru

Quiet when it happens. He just stares for a while before exhaling and pulling his cock out of you. Suguru's head is tilted as he admired his still pulsing length. It as hard as ever, but the only difference now is that it's glistening with your release.

Slaps his cock against your clit, smirking when you curl in on yourself due to overstimulation. Will also whisper about how nasty of a slut you are, getting his dick wet like that

He restrains you (consensually ofc) with whatever he can. Suguru wants to see you frustrated, so he'll use anything to edge you, whether that be his tongue, fingers, toys. etc.

Dare I say when you finally orgasm and squirt again, he comes untouched too. He developed a fascination with edging just because it made that final release all the more satisfying for you both

All cuddles and praise after, but he's thinking of different ways to make you do it again

ᡣ𐭩 T. Fushiguro

Nearly stops completely, cursing as his hips falter. You've been folded in half when it happens, and the spurts of your release hit his aps, coating them in a glossy sheen that he's staring down at. Feels his heart thumping in his ears, Toji's that turned on

Smug as hell once he's recovered (acting like he didn't pull out and squeeze his cock slightly to prevent himself from cumming on the spot)

Runs his entire hand down both his abs and chest and makes you lick it all clean after staring at it. You swear it looked like he was rebooting, and you mentally log it in your head to tease him about it later.

Once that's all done, your knees are practically by your ears as he pushes your legs back even further (idek how that's possible, my fatass could never). Toji's swearing to wring you out like a damn towel, determined to make you do it again

You both end up overstimulated, Toji just couldn't stop himself from getting hard whenever he saw your pussy gush all over him

ᡣ𐭩 N. Kento

Mr. Short-circuit pt 2 yessir. Starts saying stuff like 'Did I do that to you?, 'Was that because of me?', and he knows damn well it was all him.

You squirt for the first time when he's eating you out, actually. His glasses are covered in stray drops of your orgasm, and he politely wipes them clean, all whilst taking a moment to smile privately. He's made you do that, no-one else. Nanami's face is a pretty pink throughout it all.

First makes sure you're okay. After all, your comfort is Nanami's priority above everything else. He wants verbal confirmation that you felt good, a nod isn't good enough.

Once you give him that shaky 'yes', something shifts in Nanami. He's borderline clinical with how he touches and inspects your pussy after. His glasses are off, and his eyes remain trained on your pussy whilst he's fucking into you.

A thumb stays on your clit throughout it all, and he's changing the pace of the focused digit. When Nanami feels like you're close to orgasm, he slows down. He's unintentionally edging you, but neither of you are complaining when your back arches off the bed for the nth time that night

Thanks you when you squirt, for trusting him this much

ᡣ𐭩 S. Ryomen

Pretends that it's an inconvenience when you accidentally squirt on him. He's actually hiding how obsessed he is with you at that moment

Grabs your face, practically snarling when he degrades you. Sukuna's hissing out commands, talking about how you've soiled him. It's apparently now your duty to squirt again with ONLY his permission

It's become a challenge for him to make you soak his body over and over, and he's dragging his tongue all over your cunt when it happens (even if that means he has to pull his cock/s out of you)

Calls you weak multiple times. Frankly doesn't care if you're crying, he'll just lick the tears right back up. Time to recover from an orgasm is practically non-existent

Develops a need to have you ride his thigh at least once a day whilst he's on his throne. It's a way for him to humiliate you, making you buck your hips like you're in heat until he can feel the wetness coat the thick muscle.

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

pleaseeeee can i request thunderbolts!bucky barnes x reader where they basically just act like bobs parents. maybe even a bit of bucky saying “now can daddy get some alone time with mommy”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: After the events with Sentry and the Void, the Thunderbolts* (New Avengers)—Yelena, Bucky, and reader, especially—are trying their damndest to look out for Bob. But what happens when Bucky and reader want some alone time while on Bob duty?

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI). Smut! Allusion to unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it). Mentions of bodily fluids. Oral (f and m receiving). Brief handjob. Language. Established relationship. Possible spoilers for Thunderbolts*. Spelling and punctuation mistakes. Bucky is a warning 👀. Anything else I missed.

Author’s Note: Thanks, @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf, for being my first request! I hope you enjoy this story.

I don’t own the MCU or Marvel Comics in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owners. Similarly, I don’t own any of the gifs or pictures I use for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas (unless otherwise requested).

Word Count: 1,341

Masterlist

Buck let out a shaky breath. His fingers were tangled in your hair, curling gently, giving a soft tug. Your face was buried in his lap, his hardened length in your mouth and your head bobbing. It all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. You and Bucky were on Bob duty while Yelena and the others were off on a mission—someone had to stay behind and keep him company. You’d been injured during the last mission: a few stitches and a mild concussion. You were feeling better now, but Bucky was adamant you sit out of missions for the time being.

Bucky, on the other hand, graciously offered to stay behind and look after you and Bob—purely out of the goodness of his heart, of course. Certainly not so the two of you could finally act on all that pent-up tension—no, never that!

You were in the common area when the team left. Bob was curled up in his reading nook, a book in hand as he tried to keep himself occupied. Bucky had spent most of the morning and early afternoon training. It wasn’t until after your phone buzzed that your stomach did a somersault—Bucky wanted to meet you in your room. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, then turned to Bob. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said. “Do you want me to grab you anything before I go?”

He gave you a small smile and shook his head. It was classic Bob—always reluctant to trouble anyone with his own needs. The gesture made you hesitate for a moment.

“I’m fine, really,” he said with a shrug. “If I need anything, I’ll get it myself.”

You have a small nod. “Just let me know if you need anything—I’m here.”

Bob gave another, slight nod, murmuring a quiet good-bye as you turned and headed to your room.

You didn’t even make it into the shower. Not that you were going to take one to begin with.

The moment you stepped into your room, you saw Bucky sitting at the edge of your bed. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and his hair was equally tousled and damp. His eyes were dark, his face slightly flushed—and the instant your eyes met, he was on you before you could blink.

Lips met in sloppy, heated kisses as teeth grazed skin and hands clutched each other with urgency, fumbling to shed layers. Bucky broke away just long enough to yank off his shirt, his gaze locked with yours the entire time. His chest was flushed, a light sheen of sweat highlighting every contour. You took a moment to admire him openly before slipping off your own shirt, leaving you in an old bra and sweat pants.

Bucky wasted no time admiring you either. His eyes raked over you before trapping you in another heated kiss. His arms wrapped around your middle and pulled you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as your hands cupped his face. He carefully laid you down on your bed and pulled away from the kiss. His fingers tugged your sweats and underwear down, leaving you exposed to him. Your skin prickled, a soft hum escaping you. Resting on your elbows, you watched as Bucky nudged your legs apart with his vibranium hand. His eyes seemed to darken even more when he saw your glistening core. He looked up at you, almost akin to a predator, wanting to devour you whole. You gave a slight nod.

Bucky gripped your thighs with both hands, spreading your legs further apart. Bucky kissed up your inner thighs; you fell onto your back, your eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. You felt his breath at your core, his ragged breaths and the heat he radiated. Without so much as a warning, Bucky began devouring your cunt like a starved animal. His tongue licked and thrusted into you. He’d occasionally suckle on your clit. Your back arched, whimpers and moans escaping you.

You could feel your release crescendo within you—a steadily rising build in the pit of your stomach. Your breath hitched when you felt Bucky’s fingers along your entrance, teasing you before slowly pushing in. You let out a low whine, your legs trembling as he started a steady rhythm.

“You’re doing so good,” Bucky growled. His mouth was coated with your arousal, eyes wild. You whimpered at the sight, shivering at the almost animalistic look he had. “So fucking gorgeous…”

His mouth latched back to your clit, suckling it, causing that crescendo to peak and teeter on the edge. Bucky’s fingers curled within you, brushing that sensitive spot that had you seeing stars. Your back was arched, hands gripping your bed sheets tightly, looking for some kind of anchor, until you felt that tension snap within you. You let out a cry, your body trembling as a gush of release coated Bucky’s hand. He groaned against you, the vibrations making you moan as you continued to ride out your high.

After a moment, you felt Bucky pull away. You hissed at the feeling, at the emptiness that washed over you. Slowly resting against your elbows, you watched as the former assassin worked to take off the rest of his clothes. You could see his erection straining against his pants, thick and heavy. As Bucky’s pants fell, you hummed at the sight of his member—reddened tip already leaking, the veins and thickness making your mouth water. Maneuvering onto your knees, you pushed Bucky onto the bed. He watched as you clamored off the bed and moved his legs enough for you to kneel between them.

“Doll, you don’t have to—” he started. Your hand wrapped around the base of him, stopping Bucky’s words in his throat.

“I want to,” you murmured, your hand slowly pumping along his length. Bucky let out a low groan, his head falling back. You used his pre-cum as lubricant, working him the way you know he loves. Your pace switched from slow to quick, feeling him twitch in your hand as you edged him to his own release.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he groaned. “I-I—You’re so good—Oh my God—”

You hummed. “You’re so big,” you sighed. You gently licked the tip of his cock. He hissed, twitching in your hand. You dragged your lips down his length, continuing to pump him until you reached his sac. It was heavy, full. You gave it a gentle lick, your lips wrapping around it and began suckling. The sounds Bucky let out were borderline pornographic. His thighs tensed, heart jumping in his chest as you brought him so close to the edge.

You released his sac from your mouth. Bucky gasped. You kissed and licked up his cock until you reached his tip, licking the bead of pre-cum off before slowly taking his member into your mouth. Bucky moaned. Your head bobbed, hands gripping Bucky’s thighs like a lifeline. His vibranium hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging on the strands. It didn’t take long for Bucky to feel his balls draw up, his body tensing as his release built up. You could feel it too—the way his vein felt more prominent, how he twitched and tensed beneath you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunted. His hips thrusted up into your mouth, his hand holding you in place as he sought out his release. “Take it—fuck, you’re gonna take it—”

With one final thrust, rope after rope of his cum spurted in your mouth. Bucky gasped and groaned, his hand pushing your face as far as it could go. Your nose nudged against his pubic hair, tears welling in your eyes as he kept cumming. After a minute, he released your hair and you slowly pulled his softening member from your mouth. Wiping your eyes, you swallowed what he gave you with an appreciative sound.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. You?” He nodded. “You still up for…?”

“You know I am.” A smirk came across the super soldier’s features. “Just let me catch my breath first.”

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.

[maskedbyghost]

ghost with a reader who’s really anxious/overthinker during sex 😩😩🥺

i got another request asking for a virgin!reader with some nervous energy but a lot of enthusiasm, so i just combined them and made it soft and clingy and a little bit feral. thank you to the anons who sent those, y’all own my brain. cw: smut, anxiety and overthinking, soft dom simon, lots of reassurance and praise, possessive but gentle vibes, aftercare, clinginess, mentions of crying (but like overwhelmed/happy crying).

you’re already hiding your face in your hands when he leans over you again, big and warm and heavy in the way that feels reassuring instead of overwhelming, and even though you’ve already said “wait” a few times and squirmed away more than once, he hasn’t gotten frustrated or pulled back.

he’s just watching you now, calm as ever, mouth pulled into a faint smile like he finds you endearing instead of difficult, and that only makes you feel more self-conscious.

“we can stop,” he says plainly, and somehow it doesn’t sound like he’s disappointed. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. i’d rather you be comfortable than push through something that doesn’t feel right.”

you groan and keep your face covered. “it’s not that,” you mutter. “i do want to. i just… i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m nervous. and overthinking everything. and probably being really weird right now.”

he kisses your wrist, then gently tugs your hands away from your face. “you’re not weird,” he says, looking down at you with the kind of patience that makes your chest ache a little. “you’re nervous. and that’s fine. it doesn’t scare me off, alright?”

you nod, even though your cheeks are burning and your whole body feels tense and unsure.

he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and then lower, to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—slowly, not rushed, nor pushing for more.

“you don’t need to have it all figured out. you don’t need to impress me,” he says. “just be here. with me.”

he says it so simply, so easily, and you believe him, even if your body still feels stiff and your mind won’t stop racing. you want this, you want him, but the anxiety is crawling all over your skin and your heart’s pounding so loud it’s hard to stay in the moment.

he settles between your legs again, not moving too fast, one of his hands resting over your stomach like he knows you need the weight there, something to ground you and warm to hold you still.

“just breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. we’ll take it slow. nothing has to happen all at once.”

you feel tears sting your eyes, not because anything’s wrong, but because he’s being so good to you. so calm, so kind, and it makes everything a little easier to manage.

when he starts to push in, it’s barely anything, just the tip, and your fingers immediately grip his shoulders and your whole body goes tense, not from pain but from how big it feels and how intense it suddenly is.

he doesn’t move. just kisses your temple and waits, his breathing shaky but controlled.

“you’re alright. you’re doing so well,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “just tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you. we’re not in a rush.”

you nod, and he murmurs, “that’s my girl,” in a way that makes your heart clench and your body relax just a little more.

when you whisper, “okay,” he starts to move again, gently easing in until he’s fully buried inside you, and even though it’s a lot, it doesn’t feel too much—not with the way he’s looking at you, not with the way he’s holding you.

“you feel so good around me,” he says, his voice thick with restraint. “you’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. i know it’s a lot. you’re taking me so well.”

you let out a whimper, both from the stretch and the weight of it all, and his hands are everywhere—holding your hips, stroking your sides, curling around your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.

he stays slow, keeps his movements careful, and he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps giving you little things to focus on.

“you’re not too much,” he murmurs when you try to hide your face again. “you’re not doing anything wrong. you don’t need to worry about how you look or sound. i want you just like this.”

you try to believe him. and it gets easier when you stop thinking and just feel—his body against yours, his hands gripping tight, his mouth at your neck, the little praises he keeps whispering in between shaky breaths.

when he reaches between you, his fingers find your clit, and you jerk a little in surprise, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps rubbing you gently, patiently, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters to him.

“there you go,” he says. “that’s it. let me help you.”

and somehow, despite how nervous you were, despite how unsure everything felt just moments ago, you’re already on the edge before you even realize it, gasping into his shoulder as your body starts to tremble.

“you gonna come for me?” he says, and his voice is rough now, but still so sweet. “yeah? let go, baby. i’ve got you. you’re safe.”

and you do—you come with a shudder, gripping him tight, burying your face in his neck as your whole body goes hot and soft and overwhelmed in the best way, and he holds you through it, breathing hard and kissing the side of your head, whispering, “that’s my girl, fuck, that’s it, you did so good.”

he doesn’t last long after that, not with how tightly you’re wrapped around him and how much he’s clearly been holding back, and when he finishes, it’s with a low groan and a few rough thrusts, then stillness as he stays inside you and clutches you like he never wants to let go.

you’re both quiet for a moment, your limbs tangled, your skin flushed, and you’re not thinking anymore—you’re just tired and happy and full and feeling safe in his arms.

he kisses your shoulder and pulls you closer.

“you don’t have to be brave with me,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “you just have to be mine. i’ll take care of the rest.”

he doesn’t pull out right away. he just stays there, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours like he’s trying to memorize your body's rhythm.

you’re still a little dazed, arms limp around his shoulders, and your thighs are trembling but you don’t want him to move either, not when you feel so full and warm and safe like this, not when he’s still murmuring little things against your neck like, “you did so good,” and “you were made for me.”

and then, eventually, he does move, carefully easing out of you, and he makes this low, strained sound like it physically pains him to separate from you.

“fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, dragging his hand down his face like he’s trying to stay composed, but his brain’s still short-circuited. “you—fuckin’ hell, you just…”

he glances at you, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to say something too intense.

“you alright?”

you nod, still catching your breath. “tired. but yeah.”

and then he’s back on you in a second, cupping your face, brushing sweaty hair off your forehead, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw, like he needs to check every part of you to make sure you’re okay.

“good,” he breathes. “that’s good. ‘cause you were perfect. you don’t even know—”

he cuts himself off with a laugh that sounds a little overwhelmed, like he’s trying to play it cool and failing.

“what?” you ask, half asleep and smiling now, because he’s acting like you just knocked him flat.

“you don’t get it,” he says, dragging the sheet over your bodies as he settles beside you, still so close his thigh is hooked over yours. “i’ve been picturing this—wanting this—for so long, and now that i’ve had you, now that i’ve seen how good you look like that…”

he kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself back down. “you’re in trouble, sweetheart.”

you snort. “me?”

he nods seriously, brushing your lip with his thumb. “yeah. you. ‘cause now i’m not gonna let you go. ever.”

you laugh, but your stomach flips a little, because the way he says it isn’t a joke—he means it.

he means mine in a way that’s not just possessive, but protective, like he’s decided you’re the most important thing in the world and he’s not letting the universe take you from him.

he’s back to touching you again, tracing patterns over your shoulder, your waist, your hip—hands never still, like he can’t help himself.

“you’re sore?” he asks after a few minutes, voice quieter now.

“a little.”

he hums and shifts. “stay here,” he says. “don’t move.”

you close your eyes, already half-asleep, but he’s back fast—warm towel, glass of water, his shirt that he slides over your arms even though it’s way too big on you.

“you didn’t have to do all that,” you mumble, but he just shushes you and kisses your forehead.

“yes i did.”

you end up curled in his chest, limbs tangled, your face tucked into his neck while he rubs your back in lazy circles. he’s not even pretending to sleep—he’s just staring at you with this dumb little proud look like he just won the lottery and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“you’re mine now,” he says again, softer this time, like a promise more than a claim.

“i always was,” you whisper.

and the way he holds you tighter after that, you feel it in your bones.

----------------------------------------

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[kxsagi]

Idk if this have been done before or not but blue lock boys of your choice (hopefully with sae, isagi and aiku) with a very flirty reader but when it comes to the real thing just short circuit?? Like they're all bark but no bite type of thing (me frfr) Reader saying stuff like "I'll take you home tn pretty😘", "What do you want to do first? Eat, bath or me😜 Isn't that what japanese women say to their husbands??" or "I'm so delicious yk" (and yes if you're curious I did say this to my friends and I don't have a love life😔)

“𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐳 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭”

a/n: i am obsessed with you. you are the final boss of flirt-to-faint pipeline and i will write this with my whole chest

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, aiku oliver, karasu tabito, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei

isagi yoichi

you're sitting on a bench, hand under your chin, giving him the most dramatic eyes ever. 

"yoichi, when are you gonna stop playing soccer and start playing me?" 

he CHOKES mid-bite of his sandwich. you’ve been doing this for weeks. he’s used to the pickup lines, the little winks, the "what if i kissed you rn lol jk... unless?" energy. 

but today? oh he’s had ENOUGH. 

“what if i did kiss you right now?” 

silence. 

you blink. your brain hits a blue screen error. 

"what?" 

"you always say that stuff. so what if i actually did it?" 

you panic. 

you THROW YOUR OWN SANDWICH AT HIM. 

“don’t do that. i’m too delicate. i’ll combust. i’ll faint on the spot.” 

he cackles. absolutely loves how you can be a flirt and a coward at the same time. 

he starts throwing your lines back at you. suddenly isagi’s texting you at 1 AM like “i’m so delicious you know 🤤” and you’re clutching your pillow screaming into it. 

itoshi sae

you always flirt with him when he’s least expecting it. like when he’s brushing his teeth. or doing taxes. 

"sae, when are you gonna marry me so i can kiss you good morning every day and give you little bento boxes that say ‘good luck, honey’?" 

he's brushing his teeth. he’s staring at you in the mirror like you’re a walking headache. 

“you want to kiss me every morning?” 

“... no. that’s not what i said. i don’t even know you like that. who are you.” 

you run. flee the scene. 

sae chases you down the hallway with his toothbrush still in his mouth. “say it again, coward.” 

you’re under a table texting rin for backup. 

bonus: sae starts quoting your pickup lines when you least expect it. 

"what do you want to do first? eat, bathe, or me?" he says this deadpan in a restaurant and you drop your drink. 

aiku oliver

THE WORST ONE TO FLIRT WITH. DO NOT DO IT. HE WILL FLIRT BACK. 

you walk up to him during practice like, “i brought you water, pretty boy. drink it and think of me.” 

he takes the bottle, winks, and goes, “sure, babe. if you’re what hydration tastes like, i’m gonna need gallons.” 

you explode. your brain does not have the processing speed to handle oliver aiku. 

“i’m kidding! i’m KIDDING! we’re friends! i’m just a silly little guy!” 

“silly little guys don’t call me pretty with that much eye contact.” 

he lives for your flirty lines and the way you instantly crumble when he flips the script. 

“hey, gorgeous.” 

“please be serious i have a weak heart.” 

he’s constantly calling you out. “you told me i was ‘so hot you wanted to risk it all’ yesterday. and now you’re turning pink because i called you ‘cutie’?” 

yes. yes you are. 

karasu tabito

he thinks your one-liners are HILARIOUS. 

he flirts back once and you hit him with the “who said that. don’t make me take this seriously” defense mechanism.��

“you said you wanted to lick whipped cream off my abs yesterday.” 

“i was JOKING.” 

“you had a whipped cream can in your hand.” 

he starts keeping score. 

flirty lines from you: +1. 

your panicked denial after: +10. 

he 100% makes a powerpoint for your birthday called “top 10 times you flirted like a menace and ran away from consequences.” 

slides include quotes like “tabi if you were dessert i’d never skip dinner again” and your reaction when he said “okay then, bite me” (you fainted, it was dramatic). 

nagi seishiro

he doesn’t understand flirting. but he does understand that you turn bright red every time he repeats your lines. 

you: “sei, you’re so fine i’d let you ruin my life.” 

nagi: “okay. how do i do that?” 

you: “what do you mean how do you– HUH??” 

“do i just sit on you or something?” 

you scream into the void. 

he genuinely thinks your flirty lines are just jokes. until one day he mimics your tone and says, “i’m so delicious, you know?” 

and you combust. you literally trip over the couch. 

“don’t do that. you’re not allowed. only i can be the menace here.” 

“but you get all weird and sweaty when i do it. it’s funny.” 

he’s addicted now. whenever you flirt, he just gives you bedroom eyes and goes “mm, yeah, me too.” 

you haven’t known peace since. 

kaiser michael

you flirted with him ONCE and he hasn’t let you live it down since. 

you were feeling bold one morning and went, “you’re so fine, i’d let you break my heart and still say thank you.” 

kaiser didn’t even blink. just leaned in, cocky smirk and all. 

“then let’s not waste time. bed or balcony?” 

YOU SHORT-CIRCUIT SO HARD YOU HIT HIM WITH YOUR BAG. 

“I WAS JOKING. GOD HAS ABANDONED ME.” 

he lives to watch you crumble. you’re a walking contradiction and he’s obsessed. 

starts intentionally flirting back just to see the panic in your eyes. 

“hey, pretty boy.” 

“i’m prettier in bed, you know.” 

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. RESPECT YOURSELF.” 

he respects you so much he tells everyone your pickup lines. “this one once told me ‘i’m so delicious you’ll never want another meal’ and then choked on air when i said ‘bon appétit.’” 

you hate him. you also flirt with him again the next day. it's a sickness. 

itoshi rin

the most dangerous game. 

you flirt with rin purely because he reacts like a cat staring at a laser pointer. pure judgment. 

“rin, if we lived together, would you want to eat, bathe, or do me first?” 

he stares. unimpressed. “i’d move out.” 

you laugh it off like “haha okay cold prince.” 

but then one day, he breaks. 

you say something like “you should let me sit on your lap during team meetings. i’m cuter than your teammates.” 

and he goes, “fine. try it.” 

silence. 

“WHAT.” 

“you said it. don’t back out now.” 

and you just evaporate into thin air. 

your soul leaves your body. rin’s casually holding open his arms and you’re hitting the eject button on life. 

and ever since that day, rin casually flirts back just to mess with you. 

“don’t say things you can’t commit to,” he says every time you flirt. “or do you want to prove it this time?” 

you’ve never known fear until rin calls your bluff. 

shidou ryusei

you flirt with him because you thought he’d be too unhinged to take it seriously. you thought wrong. 

first time you said “i’m hotter than hell, baby. want a taste?” he said, “yeah, let’s start with your thighs.” 

YOU FROZE LIKE A WINDOWS ERROR POPUP. 

“WH– I– NOT LIKE THAT–” 

“nah you started this. now i’m invested.” 

every time you flirt now, he takes it as a personal challenge. 

you say, “you’re so hot it’s actually disrespectful.” 

he winks. “cool. wanna get on your knees and teach me manners?” 

YOU PASS OUT. 

he fans you with a plate like “bro what happened to all that confidence?” 

he calls you "flirty mcfragile" behind your back. and to your face. 

“what’s up, bark-and-no-bite?” 

you ban yourself from flirting around him but he bait-flirts you like it’s a sport. 

“damn, i look good today. don’t you want to say something sexy to me?” 

“NO. YOU’RE EVIL. STOP BAITING ME.” 

"can't help it. i’m just so delicious, y’know?" 

shidou uses your own lines against you like a weapon and you're too weak to stop him. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sheepispink]

how to survive a horror movie ft Simon

It was a small joke, something he had just been curious about since you first mentioned it when you first met. “Don't really like horror movies.. or maybe that’s just ‘cause I'm on my own—the sleep after is terrifying.”

Months had passed, and you weren’t alone anymore now he had claimed his place as your roommate. So he may have challenged you, perhaps once or twice, insisting you had to watch at least one horror movie. It’s not like he wouldn’t be merciful and, in the worst case scenario, he promised to stay with you so you’d actually sleep after.

And, he got exactly the reaction he wanted.

You spent nearly the entire time hiding behind something or someone—usually him after you accidentally dropped the pillow shield you were previously using. Even though you were terrified, your eyes locked onto each frame, afraid to miss something in case the second you looked away it’d come after you too. Nails digging into the couch and knees pressed tight to your chest, you yelped at every sharp movement, having to muffle your scream for the worse jumpscares. You even scowled at him when he had attempted to comfort you— his hand on your shoulder making you scream loudly before you realised.

When it had finally ended, you looked shaken, but not badly so, just.. well as most people look after them. Even as you tried to play it off, he could see you were tired as well and he kept his promise, walking you into your room and staying until you reluctantly dozed off. He was plenty satisfied anyway—watching you get all riled up was far more of an entertainment for him than any movie could, so it was technically a win/win for the both of you.

Until you woke up at 3am.

A loud rapping carves at the window, and you have to hold your chest before your heart lurches out.

Just the pigeon. Right.

Gritting your teeth, you manage to make it halfway down the dark corridor, hands trembling as you peer into his room. The bed is empty, covers tossed to the side and, for a second, you're filled with dread, swallowing sharply. Then, a small rush of water is heard, and you almost collapse in relief, turning towards the bathroom. “Si?” You whisper, and the tap stops.

“In here.” He groans as usual, and you melt almost immediately. Or maybe you’re being too calm about all of this.

This was going too smoothly—suspiciously like the intro to any horror movie.

“What was the colour of my first car?” You ask warily and ‘Simon’ falls silent, before his voice grows a little louder as he seems to near the door.

“Why’re you asking that? It’s three in the mornin’ y’know that righ’?”

“What colour was the car?” You insist, hand curling around the air freshener spray you grabbed off the small cabinet.

Which brings him to the current situation where he opens the bathroom door only to be immediately hit by the can, bouncing off his body with a clang against the tiled floor. Of course, you scream when he turns the light on, not understanding what the hell was going on in his haze.

It takes him roughly five seconds to catch you after you attempt to run off, easily hoisting your trembling body over his shoulder. “I dont wanna die!” You wail, feet thumping against his chest whilst your fists hit his back; they're barely hard enough to even hurt though, let alone leave a mark.

“You’re not going to die.” He grunts—a tad guilty for being the reason you’re terrified out of your mind— and lays you beneath his covers. The duvets are tucked over you before you try and scramble out, the bed dipping with his weight as he takes his place beside you. “Look ‘m sorry for scarin’ you, but will you please sleep now?”

“If slenderman comes i swear—“

“Y’know…the movie said he’s attracted to sound.”

That’s how you end up tucked between his arms, though not after still trying to insist you weren't all that affected. To be honest, he caved the second he saw your eyes dart around when a bird flittered outside, goosebumps practically littering your skin. Your face is pressed into his front, hands tightly grasping at the back of his shirt and legs tangled in his. There’s no way you’d ever let him go at a time like this, and he’d be damned if he ever left you alone when you were this terrified.

He figured that’d be the end of it when you scrambled out the next morning, cheeks warm and rambling on about needing to get dressed for something. However, he found you on his bed later that evening, nervously fidgeting with his pillowcases as you waited for him to shield you again.

—-

chat im deathly scared of slenderman but i’d be down to watch it if i had simon riley to cuddle to sleep send tweet

buy me a kofi!

[rafeovermorals]

YOUR OLD NEIGHBOR JOEL who becomes your personal handyman.. always fixing things around the house for you. something broken? you bring it to him and he’ll take care of it.

he teased you at first. “no boyfriend to do this?” he questioned in his usual nonchalant, grumpy tone.. but when you replied that you were single, you saw his lips tug into a smirk.

after a while you didn’t have to ask anymore. joel came over on his own accord just to find things to repair, it made him feel useful that way.

he warmed up to you over time. “it’s no problem, darlin’. not like i got much else to do these days.” you always offered him a cup of coffee as a thank you, which he accepted.

you would help him too. he was skilled with his hands, but electronics were a different story. when he finally upgraded from his flip phone, he didn’t have a clue in the world on what to do with it. “not my generation.” he grumbled, clearly struggling to figure it out.

he was too embarrassed to ask. “let me do it for you, old man.” you teased with a giggle, snatching the device from him. you got everything ready to go— going the extra mile to downloaded tinder and offering to set up a profile for him.. even though he swore he’d never use it.

you added your number to joel’s contacts. it was the only number, actually. he texted like a dad, responding to your texts with a flat “sure.” or “no.” until you taught him what emojis were, then he sometimes used the thumbs up or a heart.

he gave in one day, deciding to try out the dating apps. his profile was simple— classic joel. nothing really special about it.. except that all of the pictures he had were taken by you.

he scrolled through, pressing ‘x’ on each women that was prompted to him. he was ready to delete it all together.. but a familiar face popped up. you.

your profile was unlike anything he’d seen from the others. you stood out from the rest, of course you did. he swiped back and forth between your pictures.. his cock stirring in his pants at the sight of one with you in a bikini. you were alluring, a seductive smile that was bound to attract endless messages.

he felt dirty for staring too long. it was wrong, yet he couldn’t get himself to look away. why were you on there, anyway? a pretty girl like you had no business searching for love on this app full of perverted, lonely men like himself. even if so.. why would it show your account to him when he’s three times your age? he knew for a fact that the user had choice in what range they were interested in— you told him that.

the thought stuck with him. those flirty remarks, sneaking glances, and lingering touches clicked in his mind. before he could regret it, he pressed the ‘✓’ beside your name with a hold of his breath.

YOU HAVE A MATCH!

quick drabble because this picture posted today sent me into an old handyman!joel spiral. i’ve seen a few neighbor/fixer upper fics, but i want to link inspo to this one as it is one of my favorite reads on here!

[swordgrace]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: bob tells you that he loves you.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mention of past insecurities/trauma, love-starved bob, very fluffy drabble!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is short & sweet, wanted to get this out of my system before I post longer works! I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Three words, eight letters, and two bleeding hearts.

Bob tells you first — though, it didn’t fully register, the seriousness of it, until you’d both fully stirred from slumber.

Dawn’s first breath whispered through tinted window panes, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over the foot of your bed, passing over marble floors. Within your quarters, you’re tangled together in a heap of joined limbs, locked legs.

It murmured still, exhaling tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through darkened glass, striking your visage with a sudden glower. Brows furrow, reactionary to the first glow of morning.

Twilight began to dissipate, with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon. Sun began to pierce through, sharp, still early enough for you to fall back asleep.

Each breath he takes is full, unburdened — his flesh radiates with the body temperature of a superhuman, a constant fever pitch. Against your collar, his cheek is pressed beside your shoulder, tangled around you as if he’s coiled, protective.

Space is a nonexistent thing whenever you sleep together, an amalgamation of limbs, woven within one another, two hearts intertwined. It was something you’d grown accustomed to, his heartbeat a tranquil melody in your ears.

It’s hushed, in the early hours before the Watchtower stirs; it’s your home, he’s your home.

Whatever pain he feels is lighter when you hold him, when he holds you, mesmerized by the serenity you bring him. Bob couldn’t ask for someone better than you — someone kind, someone who holds his heart with gentleness.

A soft hum reverberates through his chest, a contented sound that accompanies his waking mind, eyes still fluttered shut. Hands rest over your abdomen, one arm looped beneath you, the other draped across your body.

Your hands are holding steadfastly to his forearm, keeping him anchored there beside you, chin nestled against his downy crown. As the glare of dawn begins to blanket your features, you sigh, wanting to swat it away.

His shirt clings to your frame, a few sizes too large, fabric kissing the middle of your thighs, fuzzy socks tugged to your shins. Bob’s sweater sleeves are a touch too long for his arms, emerald wool prickling against your bare arms.

It’s him who begins to move first, limbs beginning to stretch, knees bumping into yours. Warm digits flex into your ribs, akin to stoked embers seeping through the material of your shirt.

Eyelashes flutter in rapid succession, a low exhale tumbling through his lips as he cranes his head, catching a glimpse of your countenance, relaxed by that of sleep. Bob smiles to himself, a reminder that you’re real, beating heart calling your name.

In the gentle hours of morning, Bob’s owlish stare never wavers from you, admiring you as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; you are.

Sometimes, he still feels disbelief sitting heavy within his heart, still surprised that you’ve stayed with him after everything, after knowing him. Shadows haunt his steps, but you chase them away, the light that persists.

Holding you close, his heart thrums a soft serenade, climbing up a tick when your leg threads with his, shuffling atop the sheets. Bob’s hands trace circles into your sides, as if to soothe both himself and you, face buried beside the hollow between throat and shoulder.

Lips reverently grace your shoulder, mouth warm as it sinks into your bones, enough to cause you to stir. Your eyes remain closed, still groggy, fingers dancing over his hand as you snuggle closer, if that were even possible.

Without thinking, without hesitation, three words come tumbling from his mouth, as if it’s second nature, something he’s said before to you in-secret.

“I love you.”

His utterance is tender, though still touched by recent rest; the gears in his head begin to turn when you absorb it fully. Wide, bewildered eyes gaze at him, floored, lips parting to make room for a startled gasp.

Bob says it as if he’s spoken it into existence a thousand times before, wrought with a softness, cadence still hazed by the fringes of sleep. His body stirs beside you, brunette tresses mussed from the pillows, arms caged around your middle.

It’s as if you’re caught within a dream, when his half-groggy confession slips through your ears, a whisper carried upon the breeze. At first, you barely register it, brows furrowing together, wondering if he’s mumbling in his sleep.

“What?” It comes across as discontented, but that’s far from the case — you’re still wondering if that’s what he meant, heart slamming into your sternum.

Realization washes over him, followed by the white-hot sting of embarrassment as he attempts to mumble an apology. He fears he ruined things — maybe he said it too quickly, maybe you weren’t ready, maybe you didn’t feel the same way.

Bob swallows the growing lump within his throat, averting his gaze as he untwines from you, shifting into a sitting position. In the recesses of his mind, like a patient predator watching through black hedges, he hears It.

She doesn’t love you.

The Void slithers through the patched cracks in his thoughts, as if attempting to claw through his barriers, the ones he’s worked tirelessly to repair. Bob ignores It as best as he can, jaw tense, feeling your hand press against his knee.

“Bob, did you … Did you really mean it?” Admittedly, you prayed that it was the case, that he meant it, not something whispered with vague meaning. Your heart burns a gaping hole through your chest, overcome with a wave of emotion.

Sleep suddenly dissipates from your body, as if you’ve been assailed by cold water. Within your throat, your breath catches, fingers skimming until they find his elbow, physical contact reminding him of where he is.

Bob valiantly wrestles with validation, with the snarling hum that threatens to manipulate his own insecurities. He’s winning, heartbeat beginning to steady as he regains composure, swallowing anxiety, head jostling in a nod.

Blue hues flutter to you, turned onto your side, digits caressing over his arm, bringing him back from the encroaching penumbra that threatened his thoughts. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, sheepish.

The look you give him is nothing short of ardent, a gaze meant only for old lovers, a confession shared through heartbeats. Sluggishly, you pull yourself up into a sitting position, missing the comforting heat of his body.

He’s loved you forever — loved you in-secret, wondering if you would reciprocate. Part of him didn’t think himself capable, terrified of it being consumed by darkness, but it hasn’t overtaken him; he knows it won’t.

“Yeah, I — I meant it,” Bob murmurs, cadence stirring with a flicker of confidence, resolute in his admission. There’s tears swimming in your gaze, lips splitting as a laugh of disbelief flutters from your throat, hastily wiping at your eyes. “Meant it for a long time, now.”

Daybreak crests over the horizon, a golden aurora, framing you in picturesque lighting, as if the heavens were giving you a sign. It strikes against your features, bringing out a euphoric glow within your gaze.

Bob stares, world passing him by, his eyes all over you; a subtle hitch festers within his throat, perspiration slicking his palms as he steels himself for your response.

“I love you too, Bob — I love you so much.” As those beguiling words slip from your tongue, he wants to sob, chin warbling as he withstands the onslaught of sentiments that come crashing around him.

It’s gentle, clean; he scarcely recalls the last time someone told him that they loved him and meant it. Much of his life were fragments, of lost love, of isolation, of feeling unlovable.

He knows that you mean it wholly, unconditionally; tears sting his eyes, and he feels as if he’s soaring. The tenderness and sincerity within your cadence is something that he clings to, something pure.

Careening forward, your forehead nudges his, noses ghosting over one another, a gesture that settles his nerves instantaneously. Bob is smiling now, wide and elated, marrow echoing your name, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

A shudder passes through him when your palms come to cradle his jaw on either side, thumbs tracing circles over his flesh. His fingers curl around your wrists, soothingly caressing your skin as his eyes flutter shut.

It isn’t some crescendo of a confession — it’s stable, oozing with warmth, offering a mutual sanctuary that you seek in one another. Though, in the ardent silence, he’s murmuring ‘I love you’ even still, lips pressing into your palm.

In the afterglow, he finds you — he finds his heart.

[classyrbf]

Sukuna being soft to his one and only love... Kinda.

when thinking of someone who is kind hearted and soft, sukuna isn’t the first person that comes to mind. He’s literally the opposite of everything that is considered nice, sweet, good, and whatever else that invokes happiness. Anyone who comes near him is fearful of what he’s capable of, considered one of the most strongest and dangerous things on earth. King Sukuna, Lord Sukuna, King of Curses and whatever else the people call him is a what everyone knows him by.

But, back home, in his estate that locked away in the deep dark woods on a mountain top, he has you, someone who has casted some type of spell to get under his skin, to make him feel emotions he thought he hated. “Ryo!” You shout through the halls, running to you shared chambers, a beautiful flower in hand. You barge into the bedroom, his gargantuous figure sitting there, a simple robe tied around him. “Look, I found these flowers outside of the estate!” You walk up to him, full on smile plastered across your face. “I’d like to have them in the garden.”

He lets out a low grunt, one of his four arms reaching for the brightly colored flower, inspecting it as if it was some foreign object. “Fine,” he plainly says, handing it back to you. “I’ll send one of the maids to the village to find seeds.” He blinks at you.

“Oh, thank you!” You tightly wrap your arms around his neck, jumping onto him and hugging him tightly. You press kisses to his cheek.

“Enough.” He gently pushes you away. It’s not that he doesn’t like your affection, he just doesn’t know how to receive it nor return it. A murderous and cold hearted monster like himself feels guilty that a ray of sunshine like yourself has taking a liking to him. And why has he allowed it? Why does he feel a buzzing in his chest whenever he hears your voice? Why does he allow to treat him like some low level human? Your kisses, your hugs, your stupid nickname for him. If it were anyone else, he would have slain them by now.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, stepping back a few times. “I got too excited.” When he hears your voice drop, he can’t help but feel a way. It makes him cringe and confused all at the same time. He wants to reassure you, tell you it’s okay, and hold you close. Instead, he gets up, staring down at your frown. Instinctively, his hand reaches out, caressing your cheek. Those eyes of yours quickly find his, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Come. Dinner should be ready,” he states, walking out the chambers and into the hall. You follow right behind him, like a puppy.

After dinner, you’re getting ready for bed, locked away in the bathroom as you slip your new nightgown on, one that you’ve been saving to show Sukuna. He’s already in bed, his lack of clothing is…a choice when he sleeps. A giddy feeling settles in your stomach, smoothing out the fabric before you walk back into the bedroom, unable to hide your smile. “Ryo,” you gently call out. He turns his head. “Do you like my new night gown? I got it at the market the other day.” You climb with him into bed, making the brave choice of straddling him.

He narrows his eyes, noticing the silk fabric and lace detailing at the hems. It was much more shorter than all your other night gowns you usually wore. “It’s…okay,” he huffs. The way your skin was showing, your thighs peeking out from underneath and your breasts filling out the top, it was more than just okay. That little piece of fabric was making his thoughts run rampant. “Now let’s sleep.” He shuts his eyes.

Nervously, you clear your throat, resting your hands on his chest. He blinks one eye open, seeing that you’re still there staring at him like you want something. “Ryo…”

“What?” His gruff voices breaks the silence.

You sit there on top of him, lips parting to speak but nothing comes out. "Nevermind." You roll off of him and onto the bed, your back facing against him. "Goodnight," you mumble, pulling the blanket over you.

He looks at you, head resting against the pillow, your body moving with each breath. He doesn't know why but he finds himself reaching out to you, pulling you in close with ease. His arm holds you tightly against him, back pressed against his chest. "Tell me what you want," he whispers against your ear, a shiver sending down your spine.

With a shaky hand, you grab his, guiding it under your nightgown. He takes a deep breath, jaw clenching when he feels his hand resting against the warmth of your clothed cunt. As much as he wants to, he can't. He's too rough and unforgiving, he'll break your porcelain body and treat you like nothing because he can't make love. He's incapable of giving you that. He knows you desire it, he can sense it. You want warmth, you want appreciation, slow kisses, and that humanly connection. "I can't. I'll...hurt you." He swiftly removes hand, avoiding any more temptation.

Your body turns, now facing him. "You can never hurt me," you say so confidently. He admires your resilience, but deep down you're still unaware of who he truly is. "I can take it," you chime in again, doing your very best to convince him.

"I am unable to. You desire affection and love. I want nothing more than pleasure." He's the one now turning away from you. He can sense your frustration and sadness, but you should know he's doing this for your own good. He'll use you, and treat you like a rag doll. He does not feel the same, he can't possibly feel the same emotions you desperately want him to. Your simple human mind can't comprehend it.

Any other woman who dared to throw themselves at him he would gladly take, basking in a quick night of greed and lust. He can't do that to you, for some reason his conscious won't allow him.

"You cannot love your future wife?" Is what hears, sadness riddling your tone, voice wavering. "Why am I here then? Why have you not killed me like the rest who defy you? Am I something only for your pleasure? I'd rather be dead than live like this any longer—"

"Do not say such words!" Sukuna shouts, sitting up. "You are much more than my own heart and mind can comprehend! You confuse me! My heart beats with feelings I haven't felt in centuries! Whenever I see you, I feel weak, vulnerable, a foreign feeling to who I truly am!" His yell bounces off the chamber walls. "But I cannot get rid of you, I cannot...kill you," his voice softens exceptionally. "I cannot sleep when you aren't near, and I cannot go a day without worrying something will happen to you. What have you done to me?" His brows furrow, an angry expression carved into his face.

Now, there's nothing but still silence. You sit up on your knees, shuffling closer to him, eyes fixated on his. He flinches at your touch, the warmth of your hand cupping his cheek. His hand wraps around your wrist, wanting to pull you away but he can't. "Stop. Just let me in." Your lips connect with his, giving him a light kiss.

"You're too good for me. I will hurt you eventually. You're a mere mortal, a human—"

"Stop talking. Let all those bad thoughts go and focus on me." You throw your legs over his waist, straddling him once more. Your lips peck his again, pulling away to look at him. Whenever he looks at you, he sees himself holding you, kissing you, treating you like the most fragile thing on earth. He doesn't feel aggression, or anger, or emptiness. He sees you, hears you, connected to you in more ways than he knows.

His hands hold your waist, moving in closer to feel your soft lips against his again. The kiss is slow and attentive, tongues slipping into each others mouths. Your hands ghost down his broad chest, pushing yourself into him. He didn't realize how much he needed you like this until now, growing hungry for more, feeling your desires deeply. He flips you over, pressing you onto your back without breaking the kiss, yet he's still so gentle, running his hands over your exposed thighs and basking in your touch as well. Your hand finds his, intertwining your fingers and he holds it back, squeezing your much smaller hand in his.

In this moment, he lets his feelings come break free instead of pushing them away. As much as it scares him, angers him even, he can't bring himself to put any of that on you. You have simply captivated him in more way than one and that is something new he has to learn to live with even if he is over a thousand years old.

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