#romantic in a broad or even the sense of the word

[theskyexists]

Shut. UP!!!!!

THERE IS NO MURDERBOT/DR. MENSAH ON AO3 IN THE TOP RELATIONSHIPS??????

Fucking yaoi strikes again

[ishikawayukis]

blaming, or pinning geto and gojo's relationship as the whole reason the jujutsu kaisen world is fucked is so wild to me, because if anything their whole relationship shows how cursed that whole system was before hand and no matter what they did they wouldn't be able to escape it like they are victims of said world not the creators of it

[gyusimp]

𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐢 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨 [𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭]

ᴹⁱⁿᵒʳˢ ᴰᴺᴵ! | ᔆᵐᵘᵗ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ | ᴬʳᵗ ᵇʸ⠘ ˢʰᵃᵈᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᴸᴼⱽᴱ ᵒⁿ ᵀʷⁱᵗᵗᵉʳ

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Kenji will always be very sweet. No matter how stupid he made you after sex, he will treat you gently and help you get back on your feet. He will clean you up first and then himself and he will be happy to take a shower together if you are okay with it. Although he is a bit of a fussy person so it is 100% certain that he will not go to sleep without changing the sheets for new ones. For your comfort and his, and he might put some air freshener in the air lol.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I feel like Kenji is very proud of his entire body, but especially his arms and torso. Have you seen that broad back? That man is to die for and he knows it, that's why he loves sleeping shirtless and teasing you. As for you, he loves everything about you, but he definitely has a fixation on your thighs and touching your ass whenever he gets the chance.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He's open to possibilities as long as you are too. Besides cumming inside you, he likes to do it for some reason where a few drops get on your strands of hair or a few drops run down your collarbones. He has a habit of teasing you by kissing you after taste you, so you'll taste yourself on his lips.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He's fantasized about doing things with you in his Ultraman form, why? Because yes. It's really nothing more than a fantasy because not even his pinky finger could fit inside you, but imagining you so small and needy in the palm of his hand has made his thoughts go beyond the limits he thought he knew.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Nothing. Kenji has no prior experience, not even a little. As famous and handsome as he is, we know that he suffered from bullying in his childhood years which affected his social skills so if I can't imagine him with friends, much less having encounters of that kind. His first time with you was an adorable disaster but you took care of making him feel safe always and over time he managed to improve his technique quite a bit.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any one where he can see your face but is also addicted to you riding him or if he's too needy he'll let you on top and spread his legs for you to do whatever you want.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on his mood. He usually acts normal but if he wants to tease you or is really excited he might tell a couple of dirty jokes to make you blush.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

This man is a total grooming person. I can see a shelf in his shower full of hair products, aftershave, skin moisturizers and all that stuff so yes, Kenji pays attention to detail and if he isn't completely shaved there will always be a neat, impeccable trim. You're never going to see a mess down there. Ever.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

There are times when you two are too horny to get romantic but that doesn't mean it's just sex without love. But, when he's truly focused on making love to you in every sense of the word, he's the most romantic man in the world. He makes you feel like you're on cloud nine with his soft caresses and kisses, his words are so deep that when you both finish, you end up seeing everything in rose-colored glasses and even loving your insecurities after he completely praised you from the bottom of his heart.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I don't see Kenji doing this kind of thing, he's a mature adult and quite busy too so if he ever did it, it was in puberty out of pure curiosity. Now he has you so if he's horny he knows you can always help him and if he's lonely he'll just get moody.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

I think after taking care of Emi and researching parenting and fatherhood issues he had some praise kinks left, but nothing serious. He doesn't show it anywhere other than the bed and you discovered it little by little on your own when he told you things like how he was eager to fill you with his seed and how excited it made him to think of you carrying his baby in you one day. Whenever you bring it up he doesn't completely deny it but it's because he's a little embarrassed to admit it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Nothing like the comfort of his bed or yours but he's open to new places to make it more exciting. Places like his basement or the stadium locker room when the team has left have been the perfect spots for a quickie.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He likes you touching him, your hands are his weakness. Also for some reason when you are dressed up nicely, like clothes he is not used to seeing you in for example a skirt and heels to go to work or a nice dress for an event. He always thinks "is that my girlfriend?" and feels the need to rip your clothes off already.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He doesn't agree with the idea of hurting you so he's against BSDM. If you were to ask him to do something related (like asking him to hit you or call you names) he would try to do it at first to fulfill your whim but after a while he would feel uncomfortable and maybe not want to continue. Maybe what he would tolerate a little longer would be to call you names just by seeing your intense reactions and they would be mild words like "slut" or "bitch".

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

As I mentioned before, he is inexperienced in person until after a couple of times. He likes to receive but he prefers thousands of times to give. The feeling of your folds against his tongue and your pussy between his lips is indescribable for him. He loves to grab you by the thighs and wrap his arms around your legs while he gets lost between your crotch for hours being blessed with the sound of your voice before his actions.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It will also depend on his mood. A happy, romantic, sweet Kenji who longs to spend time with you after a long week at work will be deep and slow but careful. But a Kenji who is stressed out from losing so many games, fighting with players from other teams and tired of being a baby kaiju's single mother and breaking his back being Ultraman will throw you on the mat face down and grab onto your hips to pound you like there’s no tomorrow and then flip you over to put your knees on his shoulders because you’re dumb enough to do it on your own (of course you’re okay with all of this).

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He is a fan of quickies, he couldn't live without them. He tends to have mental breakdowns more often than you think and between so many games, interviews and training sessions he sometimes comes home too tired to do it slowly and formally, so you can also offer him several quickies a week so that they are little breaks for him and he can de-stress and continue.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He has a slight interest in doing it where he can get caught, like the time where his hands got too far with you in the stadium locker room before a game and his teammates were feet away getting ready in the hallway outside.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He is a professional athlete who is used to hours of training, cardio and all that stuff. His average is 3-4 rounds when he feels mentally stable and physically rested. You usually ends up with pain in your lower back and the back of your knees.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn't have any toys and he wouldn't use them on himself. If he ever bought one it would be to use it with you so you could both experience something new together.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He likes to embarrass you but in a good way. Maybe he'll mention things about how desperate you are or how abundant your release was today with just a few touches. This man's ego is big and it expands to the sky when he can see you under him sweaty and moaning his name repeatedly so it's the perfect setting for him to joke around in more egotistical and arrogant ways with you to make you blush.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

If you're in a completely safe and alone place, Kenji will never shut his mouth. He's unconsciously very expressive in that aspect and will say whatever he wants and needs to say, even if something bothers him. His tone of voice is thicker and more desperate as if he's throwing little tantrums asking for more from you. Sometimes it confuses you when he claims that you're too tight around him. Is he complaining or is he grateful for it?

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He loves to make dirty calls with you when you are at home and he is away from you. He feels very proud of himself knowing the power he has over you and how he manages to make you wet even when he is not present, calling you with some dirty nicknames that he saves just for you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's not too far from average. When the baby is asleep he's pretty normal sized although still noticeable in tight jeans or his Ultraman form. But when the baby wants action he's maybe an inch or an inch and a half taller than average. Kenji is a tall, thin young man so his strengths would be more length than girth.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

In the middle, not too low or too desperate. Although sometimes his thoughts are the ones to blame for making him feel horny and that's when he asks you for help to solve it, but on a scale of 1-10 I'd leave it at 7. He knows when it's more prudent to let himself go and when not to.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He won't fall asleep until you do unless he's had a bad day and all he wants to do is sleep in your arms right after he's cum. If he's tired enough to sleep on the same sheets you two made out with earlier.

[hangmanssunnies]

Heat To Boil

Summary: After a failed Tinder date, you go to hang out with your friend Jake "Hangman" Seresin. When you get to his house, you unexpectedly find him with a baby, and it is a sight that rewires something in your head. Jake needs a baby of his own. Right now — like yesterday, actually. And that is a task you would be more than willing to help with; now, you just need to find the courage to bring it up.

Pairings: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Word count: 9k

AO3 Link

Warnings: 18+ Only, Friends to lovers, baby fever, smut, P in V, Oral, Hangman with a baby (deserves its own warning)

Author's note: The attorneys at work keep bringing their babies in and letting me hold them, and @top-hhun has done absolutely nothing to discourage the subsequent baby fever I've been dealing with. Anyways, that's where this fic came from. I hope you enjoy this. My inbox is always open if you want to let me know your thoughts. Reblogs with your thoughts, opinions, and tags are gold to me. I love reading through them.

You had become friends with Jake unexpectedly some years ago, hitting it off at your mutual friend's wedding. Part of you had, of course, hoped the attractive blonde aviator would be interested in you, maybe in a romantic sense, but it never came to fruition. He shipped out the week after the wedding, but the easy rapport you carried with him started with sharing jokes about how trashed other people got at the reception, and eventually developing into a true and close friendship. 

It was for the best because the more you got to know Jake, it became clear to you that he didn't want the same things that you did. He was focused on his career and didn't have time for a partner. When he did talk about settling down, it was never in an authentic way, more joking that he was waiting to swoop in if Coyote's marriage fell apart or that his Mama would set him up with a nice southern belle who wanted to give her twelve grandkids. Jake would claim he was too busy for a relationship, away from home too much to be steady. However, none of that seemed to stop him from finding time for you, which is probably why you hadn't been able to completely repress your feelings for him despite some valiant efforts. 

Just today, after a failed lunch date with someone from Tinder, you texted Jake disheartened. He hadn't hesitated first to ask if you were okay and then invited you over for dinner to tell him all about it. He had even promised to cook you whatever you wanted. A special treat guaranteed to make you feel better, considering Jake's superb culinary skills. 

You walk into Jake's house without knocking or ringing the bell, knowing he left the door unlocked in anticipation of your arrival. After securing the front door's lock into place, you toe off your shoes, making sure to set them neatly in line with the others there. Jake's home is clean and tidy, just like it always is; the organization of the entry is no exception. You know from the smells and sounds wafting towards you that he must still be cooking, which is odd because he's almost always done by the time you show up. 

Venturing further into the house you see him, standing in the kitchen, with a baby strapped to his chest. It's an unexpected sight, and you're frozen by it. Jake's in a casual white teeshirt, jeans, and a dark navy blue sling with a camo pattern wrapped tightly around him, securing a tiny infant in place against his broad chest. His hair is fluffy like it often is on his days off, and the golden strands fall across his forehead. Seeing it like this always creates an instinctual desire to run your fingers through it. However, you can hardly even process that thought because you're so distracted by the bundle on his chest. Music is playing on his record player, and he is humming along. 

Jake suddenly stops the humming, and the prep he is doing, looking down at the baby. After a pause, a smile pulls at the edges of his lips, his eyes crinkle before he drops a kiss on the infant's head. And it's like everything is right. Jake with a baby seems so natural. The fact that he exists any other way than with a baby in his arms every day feels wrong. Your heart starts beating harder in your chest, and a thought pops into your head, instantly taking deep root: Jake needs a baby of his own. Right now — like yesterday, actually. 

You don't know what sound you must have made, but Jake looks up and finally notices you standing in the hallway. He doesn't appear at all startled as a wide grin spreads across his face as he greets you, "Howdy there, Doll!"  

"You have a baby," you say stupidly in an entirely delayed response. 

"Yeah, this little guy is Jackson. Coyote and the Mrs wanted a date day, so I offered to watch the baby for them. They were supposed to be here two hours ago to pick him up, but I'm sure they just got caught up." Jake laughs and presses another kiss to Jackson's head. Before continuing on, "I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," you manage to breathe out, unable to tear your eyes off Jake or even pretend you're not staring. He quirks an eyebrow at you but otherwise doesn't comment. After he gestures for you to join him, he returns to the cutting board in front of him. You are transfixed; when you sit down at the bar in the kitchen, it occurs to you that you should probably say something and not just stare like an idiot. "Do you want me to take him?"

"I think he is just fine here," Jake says, examining the sleeping baby strapped to his chest again. Jackson has hardly moved since you showed up, clearly passed out, not disturbed by the music or any of the kitchen sounds. 

"At least let me help finish cooking then?" You request. 

"No, Ma'am. Bubba and I have this dinner taken care of. I did pick up that wine you like from the store. Maybe you can open it up for us?" 

Entering the kitchen, you pull out two wine glasses from a cabinet. Opening the fridge you see your preferred wine stocked, as well as a few of your other favorite drinks stored there. Warmth blooms in your chest that Jake picked up things for you when he was at the store last. It was touching that he would take care to buy something he would never touch but getting it anyway just to have beverages you prefer on hand. After pouring the wine, you set one glass next to Jake's cutting board, making sure it's in easy reach for him. 

"Thank you," he says appreciatively. You sigh and lean against him, pressing your face into the bicep of his arm, careful not to disturb Jackson or the sling as you do. Closing your eyes, you breathe him in, looking for the subtle cedar scent of his cologne to soothe you. However, only a hint of it tickles your nose, the cedar not as strong as it usually is. Today, Jake smells more like clean laundry and his natural musk than anything else. You are surprised to find it still does the trick in helping settle your nerves, though. Jake hums but doesn't protest your closeness, instead asking, "Long day?" 

You don't answer with words, just humming noncommittally against his arm. You leave your face pressed there for a moment longer. "Not enough wine to talk about it yet," you eventually say into his arm before pulling away. Settling on the other side of the counter again, you take a long drink of the wine you poured. Deciding to admire Jake again, you ask, "How was your day?"

"It was pretty good. Javy dropped Jackson off this morning. We had tummy time, went on a walk, and to the grocery store to get things for dinner. Then we got a little cranky, so we rocked in the lazy boy for a while." You took a moment to picture Jake doing these activities and can't decide which is most swoon worthy. Jake is always swoon worthy, of course, but knowing that he was caring for a baby while doing it feels like an extra kick to the stomach or maybe ovaries. 

"And?" You ask him, taking another drink of your wine and pillowing your face on your palm. 

"And what?" Jake asks. 

"What else did you and Jackson do today? I want to hear every detail." 

Jake gives into your request easily. Starting his description of the day over, he tells you how even though he has babysat before, the Machados were still anxious to leave Jackson alone here when they dropped him off that morning. Jake told you about tummy time, which toys they liked and which were uninteresting. How long their walk was, and what they saw. He told you about the old woman who fawned over them in the store and how they helped her with getting her groceries to the car. It was endearing that Jake used the first person plural 'we' as if he and Jackson were a team with equal agency in their day's activities. It was especially cute when Jake told you about the tantrum they had thrown earlier in the afternoon as if he had been crying right along with his godson. 

Just as dinner was finished and you were setting the table, Jackson woke up and started to get fussy. Jake cooed to the baby affectionately, leaving to the guest room, where Javy had stuffed almost a car full of supplies for Jake to watch Jackson. Some of the just-in-case supplies included toys and clothes Jackson wouldn't even be able to use until he was at least a year old.  

When Jake comes back, both he and Jackson are wearing different clothes. Jake is in a soft green shirt and sweats, while Jackson is now wearing a giraffe onesie. He has the baby propped on his hip and doesn't offer you any explanation aside from that they had an accident. Then he sees that you have plated and set everything for dinner at the dining room table, and he offers a soft thank you. 

You watch as he balances Jackson on his hip and starts following the written out directions for making a bottle that's taped to his fridge. Jake isn't someone who struggles, and you know that this is something that he is fully capable of doing, but you also can't help but think that it would be easier for him if he had two free hands. So, you gently pull Jackson from his arms and into your own instead. 

The baby blinks up at you, his eyes still soft and sleepy. He babbles a bit of nonsense but otherwise makes no protest at you. Jackson has the same brown eyes and skin tone as his father. Even with his chubby cheeks, you can tell that the little boy is going to be Coyote's mini-me. The similarities in their appearance are so close it's like the universe had just hit copy and paste. 

He is so cute you can't stop the grin that stretches across your lips when Jackson snuggles into you. One of his hands starts grabbing at your shirt's fabric while he absently gnaws at his other one. The little boy completely steals your attention as you walk around the living room and dining room with him. Asking him how he feels about his day with his Uncle Jake, pausing for his babbling like they were real answers. Jake comes up behind you several minutes later, setting a steady hand on the small of your back.

 "Here, let me take him," Jake mutters practically in your ear while reaching for Jackson. 

"No," you protest, turning away from Jake's reach. "You've had him all day. I've only gotten to hold him for a few minutes." 

"Now, darling," Jake drawls. 

"Don't darling me."

"Doll," He says 

"Don't Doll me either." You snap, though the aggression of it is completely manufactured. 

"Fine, fine," Jake says, holding his hands up. "You can have him for a few more minutes, but then it's my turn again."  

"How is that fair?" 

"It's fair because he is my godson." 

You pout at Jake, and he pouts back." I can't believe you're going to be a baby hog like this. Don't you know sharing is caring?" 

"Jackson isn't a rental car, sweetheart. Can't just hand him out to anybody."

"So what? You don't trust me with him?" 

"No," Jake says, suddenly dropping all of his dry, teasing tone. "Of course, I trust you with him. Of course, I trust you."

Jake steps closer when he says this, crowding a bit into your personal space. His sea glass green eyes hold you in place, and you don't think you imagine that they flick downwards, that he has his sights set on your lips, that Jake could be considering kissing you. However, a breath later, he is swooping Jackson out of your arms and into his own, quickly back peddling. 

"You can have the baby back after I feed him, okay? I don't want to risk him throwing up on that pretty blouse you've got on." 

"Kidnaper! Baby Snatcher!" You half gasp, half yell, and start to chase after Jake as he runs away, holding Jackson close and carefully but still managing to evade you.  

You're both laughing, and Jackson has started joyfully screeching as well when the doorbell rings, startling all three of you. Jake hands Jackson to you wordlessly before going to check who's at the door. It only takes a minute for him to come back with Coyote in tow. Who immediately rushes to sweep his baby from your arms and press kisses all over his cherub face. 

After Javy examined his son to ensure nothing was out of sorts, he handed Jackson back to you to hold while he and Jake packed up all of his stuff and moved the car seat. This was only after he made a sly comment about how good you looked with a baby in your arms, though. 

When you are alone with Jackson again, you take a moment to admire yourself in the mirror hanging on the wall. It wasn't such a hard thing for you to imagine holding a baby, and it looking normal, like something right, especially when you start to picture one with Jake's features or one that would take more after you, possibly even some sweet mix. The feeling of casual want that started from seeing Jake when you first arrived suddenly twists into an unexpected ache and intense need. 

You expect it to let up, but it doesn't. Rather, the feeling smolders in you, burning hotter and hotter until it feels slightly consuming. Seeing Jake hug and kiss Jackson goodbye, promising they would spend another day together soon, nearly does you in. Heating your feelings from a low simmer to a roaring boil. 

When you and Jake finally sit down to actually have dinner, it gets a little hotter with every sip of wine you take. Every time that Jake smiles and his eyes crinkle around the edges, the way he asks about your failed date with the perfect mix of sympathy and care, even the way he reheated dinner, all adds to the fire. As Jake is starting to put away the leftovers from dinner, refusing to let you help, you can't keep it in anymore, and you boil over. 

"Jackson was so precious," you say, casually swirling the bit of drink you have left around in the glass.  

"Little mans is so fun. I love him. It's always a treat to babysit," 

"You were really great with him today." 

"Aw, thanks Doll. Now, what do you want to do with the rest of the night? Play a game, watch a movie? We can do anything you want."

"Anything I want?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jake says easily as he pops the lids of his pyrex container into place.  

"I want a baby." You say in a quick breath. You nearly slap your hand over your mouth in horror that had just jumped out of your mouth. You really haven't had enough wine to be this bold, but then again, maybe you were a little intoxicated on having seen Jake be so domestic. 

"What?" he asks with a laugh, probably thinking he misheard you. You grip the edge of the cool countertop trying to steady your nerves and prevent your hands from shaking. 

"Jake, I want a baby," you tell him more slowly, making sure each word comes out clearly. 

"No, you don't," he laughs, shaking his head. He starts tossing dirty dishes into the sudsy water of the sink and stacking up the food containers to put in the fridge. Jake turns away from you before saying, "I thought you've said you didn't want kids."

"It's complicated," you explain softly. "Are people not allowed to change their minds about things anymore?" 

"Oh, so are you debating or like —"

"I don't really know how to say this more clearly. I want to have a baby with you, Jake." 

He freezes. You see his shoulders tense, and he stares into the fridge for a long moment, slowly finishing storing the leftovers. When he closes the fridge, he still doesn't look at you immediately. 

"You want me to be the father of a child you have? You want to have my baby?" Jake asks you incredulously. You gulp, now feeling entirely too vulnerable to speak, so you just nod in agreement instead. Jake's eyes are piercing, and his body language is tense as he stands in front of the sink again. He heaves a heavy sigh, his lips flattening into a tight line. Then he scrubs his hands over his face before narrowing his eyes at you, "This is not a very funny joke." 

"It's not a joke, Jake. I want a baby, and I know you would be a good father." When Jake's demeanor still doesn't change, you continue on hurriedly. "I think we could do the whole platonic coparent thing easily enough. We get along so well, and we're already such good friends." 

There is a long pause where he does not say anything, turning on the sink, waiting for the water to heat, and sudsing up a scrub daddy sponge. Only once this task is started does he answer you in a very stoic, perfectly level tone, "No, I don't think I can do that. I can't just sleep with you."

"Oh, well. I see. Forget that I asked, please." You mutter, embarrassed but trying to not let the sting of rejection affect your tone. You knew that this could backfire, but you didn't think it would feel this bad. Feel like the pit of your stomach falling so low you are almost nauseous. 

"I'm sorry, Dolly." 

"It's okay, Jake, really. It's just the wine getting to me."

"Are you going to ask someone else?" 

"What?" 

"Are you going to ask someone else to give you a baby?" Jake asks in a gruff tone. 

You wouldn't actually, you wouldn't want one without Jake. In fact, this urge to have a child came from seeing him. However, you didn't know how else to play off your out-of-pocket request than to commit to the bit. Nonchalantly, you say, "Maybe." 

"I could help you find someone," he offers. 

"Please, Jake. It's okay you said no. You don't have to try and fix my situation."

He practically ignores you, asking, "What about Rooster?"

"I'm sure that I would have fun with the process," you say. Jake, who has focused himself with dedication on the dishes, looks up at you sharply. He quickly looks away again as you continue, "I'd be worried about having a baby that's born with a full mustache, though. So, no, thank you." 

"I'm sure Fritz would be happy to help you out." 

"No —"

"Harvard—" 

"No Hangman. Stop," You say much harder with emphasis, cutting him off and leaving no room for argument. 

"I tell you no for one thing, and suddenly I'm Hangman to you?"

"No, you're Hangman when you disregard the people around you, no matter what they say. You're Hangman when you decide something's a mission objective, and you refuse to let it go. This isn't your problem to fix or one to pawn off on one of your friends." 

"You made it my problem when you just asked me to give you a baby," Jake says, frustrated. Roughly scrubbing the dishes, rinsing, and setting them in the drying rack. 

"Well, the moment you said no, it's not your problem anymore. I'm absolving you of responsibility. It's my problem, and I will find someone for myself to put up with me, at least for a night." You joke, trying to lighten the mood again, not wanting to ruin the whole night from this mishap. Jake doesn't react more than his face darkening significantly, a deep frown pulling at his lips as he rinses the last dish and closes the dishwasher. 

"Put up with you?" He asks, his eyebrows knitting together. Jake reaches for a dish towel to dry off his hands, and you're momentarily distracted by the thick fingers and web of veins tracing up his arm. It's a better sight than meeting Jake's intense eyes, those eyes that can stare you down and leave no room for you to hide. 

"I mean, I know I'm a lot, but I think even I can get someone to fuck me once or twice. If I want and am very lucky, I'll only need one night. There are also other options, of course, like sperm banks and adoption. Let's just let it go. Okay?" When you don't get an immediate response, you glance at Jake once more. He is staring at you, but it's not a look you like. He's looking at you like you are a problem to be fixed, a puzzle to solve, an item to take off his to-do list. So you force a chuckle out and smile.  

"I don't think I want to. Actually, I can't let this conversation go." 

"We have to," you insist. 

"Why?"

"Because Jakers, it doesn't have anywhere else to go. I expressed a stupid desire without thinking. It was awkward, and that's okay. It doesn't have to stay that way, though. Now we laugh and forget it. There is no other option." 

"A lot. Put up with. Stupid desires," Jake scoffs the words as he rounds the kitchen island. He spins the bar stool chair you're sitting on by the back, turning you to face him. Then he sets his hands on the marble countertop on either side of you, effectively boxing you in. Even sitting on the tall bar stool, you have to tilt your head a bit to look up at him. When your eyes meet again, the green isn't as soft or kind as you're expecting. "I don't like how you're talking about yourself right now." 

"I'm just being honest. I'm taxing to deal with; people get tired of me. My past relationships have certainly taught me that I'm only desirable under the right conditions. And I am stupid. I just ruined our whole night because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. What kind of normal person asks one of their best friends to fuck a baby into them unprompted?"

"Oh wow, I'm not even sure where to start with all that." Jake breathes. You can't take seeing his furrowed brow and disappointed frown. So instead, you examine his right arm that's stretched by you, mapping out the moles and freckles there. "You've developed a warped sense of the truth, Doll."  

It's your turn to scoff and roll your eyes. When you do, the arm you've been studying shifts, and Jake cups your cheek. Gently, he urges your face to turn back towards his, and a calloused thumb sweeps across your cheekbone. "Listen to me good now. The things you want and desire they ain't stupid, and neither are you. You're not too much. You're just enough."

"Thank you, Jake." You whisper. And while his words are kind, you don't really believe them.  

"Don't say thank you."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Say you believe me and mean it," Jake urges you. 

"I don't want to lie to you. That's not who we are, that's not our friendship," You say. Jake's hand drops from your cheek, and he steps back quickly as if he's been burned. After you had been so surrounded by him, you nearly reach out to urge him close again. Running a hand through his hair, you can tell he's resisting the urge to pace. 

"Is that our friendship, one built on honesty?" 

"I thought so." 

"Then I've failed you, and I've failed us because it's not." 

"Jake, what are you talking about?" You ask him, confused. He shakes his head at you and doesn't respond, instead backing away further until he is abandoning you in the kitchen. Swiftly, you stand to follow him, "Where are you going?" 

"I'm leaving." 

"And going where? This is your house," you remind him. You've caught up to him in the doorway of his bedroom, where he's grabbing a hat and his wallet. "I'm sorry I ruined tonight, and I'll leave. You have to be honest with me before I do, though. I have to know we're going to be okay tomorrow." 

"I can't," Jake says tersely, not meeting your eyes and attempting to sidestep you in the doorway. 

"I was wrongly under the impression there wasn't anything you couldn't do, Hangman. But I guess we are finding a lot of things you just can't do tonight, aren't we?" You aren't expecting the little lash out of a taunt to get you anywhere. Jake is normally always calm, cool, and collected, acting with decisive precision. However, nearly as soon as you've finished speaking, Jake's hands are on your arms, and he backs you up until you gently hit the wall of the hallway across from his door. 

"You're asking for more self-restraint than I have, Doll." He warns roughly. The sudden movement doesn't make you back down like he was probably expecting. Instead, the rush makes you feel emboldened. 

"I don't care. I can accept you don't want a baby with me, that you don't want to fuck me. I can accept that you want to force me to talk, but I can't accept you making me question our friendship." 

"Oh god. You really don't understand. My honesty is not going to make this better," he warns. 

"Yes, I do. Whatever it is, please tell me. I can think of many things you could be referring to, like that I'm not attractive to you. How I would make a terrible mother. Maybe I'm not a good friend. Or you don't actually like spending time with me. Whatever it is, you have to tell me. I've never thought you would lie to me. So, I need to know, or it's going to drive me crazy." 

"There you are, all twisted up again," Jake sighs. 

"And whose fault is that?" You snap back. Jake still has you pressed against the wall, so you set your hands on his broad chest with the intention of pushing him away. However, he doesn't budge; in fact, he does the opposite, coming even closer so he is flush against you. You refuse to tilt your chin to look up at him as he looms, rather only lifting your eyes in a cold stare. "I shouldn't be surprised that you're going to leave me hanging to dry, but you could at least —"

You don't get to finish the thought because a hand has snaked to hold the side of your neck, thumb tucking under your chin, turning your face upwards to Jake's waiting lips. The first brush of his lips on yours doesn't line up quite right, but that doesn't stop your breath from catching. Shifting to get a better angle, Jake applies two more feather light kisses. Your hands, which are still resting on his chest, creep up, and you loop them around his shoulders, using the leverage to lift higher on your toes and get closer to him. 

This prompts him to deepen his next kiss, lips moving harder against yours. When you open your mouth wider in invitation, Jake's tongue traces along your bottom lip but doesn't dive in. You whine when Jake pulls away to take a breath. 

"Forgive me, Doll, I should've asked first." 

"Asked what?" You wonder, not moving your eyes away from his lips and strategizing how to get them back on yours. You think if you could just get a little higher, you would be able to kiss him without Jake needing to bend down so much. 

"May I kiss you?" He asks. 

"Yes, please." You answer immediately. You tug your hold on his shoulders, hoping it will urge him to get right back to it. Jake doesn't, though. His hand shifts from your neck to cup your cheek again, his other leaving the wall to settle on your waist. 

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes, Jake." His hand traces up your side from your waist and back down again in what is a soothing motion. It's too soft and delicate for what you want right now, though, so you tug on his neck again, pressing your chest into his. He gives in this time, molding his lips to yours once more. 

When his tongue meets yours, a low rumble emulates from Jake's chest, and the sound sends a new wave of arousal coursing through you. Reaching up, you push off Jake's hat, not caring where it falls, only that it's no longer in your way. When you thread your fingers into his hair, it's smooth and silky, providing no resistance when you tug it. 

"Tell me what you want, Doll," Jake says when your lips part again. 

"You. I want you," you whimper, tugging his hair again. A wide grin breaks across Jake's face, and his eyes crinkle around the edges. He tucks his face into your neck, and you can still feel him smiling. 

"What else do you want?" He questions. When his lips brush a spot that makes you stretch your neck to give him easier access, he nips it lightly. You stumble, coming up with a response, just sighing his name as he finds another spot to bite. "Come on now, you said it so pretty earlier. Tell me again."

Once his request processes through your lust filled brain, you push on Jake's shoulders once more. This time, he doesn't resist, backing away from you and creating some space between your heated bodies. Sagging against the wall, you try to catch your breath while examining Jake. His hair is disheveled now, some of it falling across his forehead. 

"You said no, you don't want that with me. You don't want this with me," You answer, finally dropping your gaze to examine the grain of the hardwood floor near your feet. Confusion at this sudden turn in attitude from him settles over you as your head clears. One of Jake's hands enters your field of vision, turned upwards in an offering. "Come sit, we need to set some things straight." 

Taking Jake's hand, he curls his fingers with yours and gently tugs you back through the doorway of his room. With his direction, you perch on the edge of his four poster bed. Jake presses a kiss to the back of your hand and lets it go to settle on the accent chair that's in the corner. 

"We'll be honest, right?" You say hesitantly, already missing the feeling of Jake's hand in yours. 

"Yes. I'll be honest." Jake answers reassuringly before continuing, "From the beginning, I never wanted to be friends with you. 

"You didn't?" 

"Nope," he says, popping the p. "I never wanted to be friends, and then once we were friends, I was stuck. You didn't seem to want the same things as I did, and I'm not the kind of man to complain about the friend zone."

"I haven't friend you zoned you," you say, scandalized at the suggestion. 

"Just earlier tonight, you asked me to have a baby with you, platonically," Jake deadpans. 

"Because I can't conceptualize you wanting me any other way." 

"I want you. I've always wanted you, but not platonically, baby." 

Baby. Jake was a casual sweet name user, there was doll, sweetheart, honey, darling, those all were commonplace, but baby was new. Hearing it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. He called you baby, and he has wanted you. You could have had him from the start if your fears and insecurities hadn't held you back. 

"I'm sorry," you whisper. 

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to need me, to love me," Jake explains with more hesitation than you've ever heard from him as if he is tip-toeing through this conversation. Worrying your fingers together, you have to take a calming breath to settle your own hesitation before answering him, "Well, that's easy because I do."  

A gleeful grin stretches across his face, and it's so bright you feel a matching one appear. He rubs a hand over his face, hiding it from view for a moment, and when you see his face again, he is still smiling. He looks as if he is trying to bite it back but can't quite manage. 

"Well, alright, a few more things we have to iron out then. I love spending time with you. You've never not been desirable to me." You can't help a disbelieving laugh when Jake says that, and the look he gives you is disapproving. "I mean that. I was thinking about it even the time I came over to bring you soup when you had the flu. Wanted to bundle you up and crawl into bed with you." 

"Oh, come on, that can't be true. I was so gross." 

"It is. I promised I would be honest, and I'm not going to be breaking any of the promises I make to you. Can you believe that?" 

You study his face, tracing over his nose, and jaw. He still has the hint of a grin that hasn't slid off his features yet, and he looks so very earnest. You can't imagine that Jake would be in the business of lying to you, and the openness he is offering makes it feel like you can believe him. That you can keep trusting him just like you always have. "I can believe that."

"Great. So, baby —" 

"Yes?" You say entirely too breathily before he can even finish the sentence. It was really a surprise how much hearing him say that already turned your brain to some form of liquid. 

"I want to sleep with you," Jake says plainly. 

"Then why are you all the way over there?" 

"I didn't want you to feel any sort of pressure while we were talking, and wasn't confident I could keep my hands to myself." 

Standing up from his bed, you walk steadily over to the chair Jake is sitting in. Crawling into his lap more confidently than you truly feel, his hands automatically slip around your waist, steading you against him. Holding eye contact with him, you say, "I don't want you to keep your hands to yourself." 

"Fuck, you're going to kill me," he sighs, tightening his hold on you. You go to kiss him again, but when you do, he blurts out, "I don't have any STDs or STIs." His cheeks stain a little pink, and he looks as surprised by the declaration as you are. 

"That's good to know. I'm clean too," you inform him. 

"Good to know. I just thought it was important to put it out there. Got to do safety checks first and everything. I don't want us to have any questions or be unsure about anything, and it's important to consider all the factors involved with —" Jake's rambling comes to a halt when you dip your face into his neck, kissing at the underside of his jaw softly. 

"Jake," you say, linking your arms around his neck and playing with the short hair there. "Will you give me a baby?" 

"Fuck, Doll. I promise to give you anything you want. The ring, the house, the baby. It's yours." 

You don't waste any time kissing him. When your lips meet, all the hesitancy and nervousness that Jake had while you were talking melts away. His mouth confidently teases yours open for his tongue to quickly follow. Your hands thread into Jake's hair again as his start to roam your back, sides, and arms. When you wiggle closer on his lap, he groans and grabbing a handful of your ass, lifting you up. Jake stands easily and walks you back to the bed. 

He doesn't drop you on the bed like you're expecting. Instead, he sets you down gently, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as he does. Laying on your back with Jake standing over you reminds you just how large and broad he is. 

With surprisingly little fanfare, he pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the side. Jake shirtless is not a new sight; in fact, it's a tantalizing one you've seen too often. He has every right to be proud of his body, you know how much time he dedicates at the gym. So it shouldn't be a surprise that, never one to be self conscious, Jake hardly could be found wearing a shirt if the situation didn't require it. However, you realize this is the first time that you don't just have to look but can also touch. 

Wanting to get the nervousness of undressing out of the way, you sit up, quickly discarding your shirt and tossing it aside. Before you can shimmy out of your bottoms, Jake's large hands are on your wrists, stopping you. 

"You're doing my job," he chastises huskily. Jake is slow and meticulous in removing your clothes, running his hands over all the skin that's exposed to him. When he pulls off your bra, leaving you only in your panties, he just sits back and stares for a moment. Such intense scrutiny from his gaze has you covering your chest, crossing your legs, and looking away. 

"I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone tonight," you mutter, knowing that you don't have the sexiest underwear on and perhaps were not as physically prepared for this intimacy as you would like. 

"Good," he says lowly. "No one else is going to get to see you like this anymore." Grabbing an ankle in each big hand, he spreads you out for him. He slides off your panties so you're completely bare, and takes up his staring once more. "Ain't you fucking gorgeous?" Jake mutters and you realize he ain't talking about you necessarily; he's talking to your pussy. Whining his name gets Jake to shove off his sweatpants, leaving him in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs as he crawls over your body. 

As he kisses you again, your hands greedily explore his exposed skin. His chest hair proving to be much softer than you had imagined it, and his shoulders are taut as he holds himself up. While Jake's lips move with yours, you use a leg to encourage him to ease more of his weight into you, seeking friction. Kissing down your neck he lavishes attention to your breasts, licking and sucking his way across your skin. 

"You know, I was too busy to make dessert," he says when he reaches your core. One of his hands teasingly traces all around the skin. Placing a kiss on your inner thigh, he asks, "Do you mind filling in?" 

"Jake, you don't need to." You say, trying not to squirm when his fingers dip between your lips. 

"I want to. Do you not want me to?" 

"I know it's not everyone's thing," you answer, giving him an out. 

"It's my thing," Jake says. His eyes lock onto the cleft of you, and he licks his lip, biting at the bottom one. Reaching up, he grabs one of your hands and brings it up to his hair, encouraging you to thread your fingers there. His fingers that are teasing you spread you open more, and he groans, "Oh yeah you're my thing." 

Jake's tongue traces over you, probing until he finds the spot that makes your hips jump. Once Jake finds your clit he doesn't waste his time. Widening his mouth, he latches on and sucks. While he starts gently, he ramps up to sucking hard and twisting his tongue as he does. When you pull at his hair, he moans encouragingly.

"More," you request tugging his hair gently. Jake listens, sliding a finger into you. Whispering praise into your thighs about how pretty you are and how good you taste. You don't know how long Jake spends between your thighs, but he doesn't seem to be in any hurry. He sucks and licks, fucking his finger into you until the sound is sloppy and wet. He slips a second finger in, stretching you, occasionally scissoring them wider open in you. 

Even when you are whining and gasping, working against Jake's tongue, he doesn't let up. You don't have the mind to worry how you're trying to suffocate him with your thighs, which he keeps pushing back open with no complaints. All that you can focus on is Jake, how good he is making you feel, and how close you're getting. It's a matter of time until you're shuddering and falling apart for him.  

Continuing to lavish attention even as you jerk with sensitivity, Jake seems content to keep eating you out. You try to pull him away by his hair, but he just licks into you harder. "Jake, enough," you whine, trying to wiggle away from his mouth.

 "I haven't had my fill yet, Doll," he says, pulling his mouth off you but not going far, pressing wet kisses to your thighs. 

"I haven't even seen your cock yet, and I don't know why it isn't in me." You say, trying to reason with him. It doesn't come out very strong, though as Jake's fingers curl in you, making your cunt flutter. 

"Patience is a virtue," he teases.

"Being virtuous isn't really at the forefront of my mind at the moment."

Jake sighs dramatically and presses one more kiss to your pussy before sitting back on his haunches. You can see the hard outline of him in his briefs as he gets off the bed. You watch his every move closely, more than ready to finally see him naked.

However, Jake is clearly taking some sort of joy from making you wait, because he detours to start picking up your hastily thrown clothing. As he is laying them out on the chair, you lose your patience. Grabbing one of his decorative pillows, you throw it at him. It smacks him between his shoulder blades before dropping to the floor with a thunk. 

Spinning to face you, Jake crosses his arms over his chest, making his biceps bulge, his eyebrow raised. "Did you just hit me with a pillow?" 

"No, I wouldn't do that," You deny trying to look innocent. Jake tsks at you, picking up the makeshift weapon and setting that neatly on the chair as well. 

"Being desperate for my cock isn't an excuse to misbehave, baby." 

"Big talk for someone who still hasn't shown it to me. It's okay if you don't have a pretty dick, Jake. It won't change how I feel. I'm still going to want you to fuck me."  

Goading someone into action was a wonderful tactic you had learned over the course of your friendship with Jake. Something he easily did with others, and something tonight that it proved was just as effective against him because he doesn't even respond to your words. Sliding off his underwear, his dick springs free. He's hard from eating you out, and just from the first glance you get, it's clear there isn't one thing for him to be self-conscious about. 

The fleshy pink length is nestled among dark hair, and the size of him is nothing to dismiss. It's a very symmetrical cock, lining up nicely with his balls and adonis belt. Bouncing a bit as he gets back on the bed, you can't bring yourself to look away. You know he is going to fill you so deliciously. When he's finally close enough for you to touch, you hesitate though. 

"Speechless?" Jake wonders, with no ounce of shame or self-consciousness present. 

"Can I touch?" You ask. Jake nods, taking your hand and bringing it to your mouth. You suck a few of your fingers in, wetting them with your spit. Then he guides your hand to his dick, encouraging you to wrap it around him. Jake's hand covers yours for the first few strokes, showing you what he likes, but then it falls away, letting you explore. He grunts when you trace one of the veins that runs along the side, following it down to cup his balls. He allows your teasing for a few more strokes before he pulls you close, kissing you hard. 

The hard planes of Jake's naked body pressed against yours is nearly too much. He is so close and yet not close enough. With some gentle maneuvering, Jake is in between your legs and checking that the position is comfortable for you. Jake runs his length through your lips, the head bumping into your clit. Despite all the encouragement and build up, he's still not in a hurry. When his cock is wet from you, it starts to slide effortlessly. Losing your patience, you cup Jake's face, making him look you in the eyes. 

"Jake, fuck me now. Please." You say. He nods, kissing you slowly. Then finally, he grabs his cock lining himself up and pushing the tip into you. When his pelvis meets yours, he holds himself there, your breaths mingling together in light pants as he stretches you out. The time he gives you to stretch and adjust is necessary, but once you have, Jake fills you deliciously. 

"How're you feeling baby?" He asks. Your thumb moves across his cheekbone, soothing until the worry lines between his eyebrows disappear. Only responding when you know you're okay and so is he, "Perfect. Feel so full of you."

"I'll fill you up," Jake promises. 

"Yeah?" You ask. He hums his agreement and rocks his hips against your experimental, drawing a small gasp from you. 

"Promise," he says, starting a lazy punctuated rhythm, moving his hips against yours. Your hands explore the skin of his back as he thrusts into you. You hike a leg up on Jake's hips, letting him get a little deeper in you. The action makes him moan, and he pulls your other leg up around his hip, too. 

Hooking your ankles together, you use the leverage to encourage Jake to fuck into you faster. Digging your heels into his ass and lifting your hips up to meet each of his thrusts increases the heat boiling between you. His face falling into your neck, Jake starts whispering dirty praise about how good you feel around him and how long he's been dreaming about this. 

Stamina clearly isn't something that Jake is lacking in. He fucks you until you are both dripping with sweat, and you are begging for him noncoherently, unable to process anything but how good his cock feels. He maintains a steady rhythm, snapping his hips to meet yours the whole time. 

"You feel so good. Want to get you there again. What do you need?" Jake pants huskily. 

"Harder," you answer shakily, snaking your hand to play with your clit. You're close, and you know it's not going to take much more for you to get there with how long Jake's been building you up. He listens, slamming his hips more pointedly into you, grinding his pelvis every time he bottoms out. 

Huffing, Jake pulls out of you a few minutes later. Making you cry out wantonly, reaching for his retreating body. He takes a moment to kiss both your hands that he unhooks from his neck. Then, shushing you gently, he grabs a pillow and lifting your hips, he slides it under them.

"It's okay, just a little better angle." He explains to you. You flop back on the bed, content to have Jake manhandle you any which way he wants if it means he'll be in you again.  

"Oh, you're such a needy thing, aren't you?" He asks, as your cunt clenches around nothing, empty and wanting him. His fingers dipping in to play with the wet dripping from you. A flash of shame passes through you as he asks that. You drop your arms that had been reaching out for him back to the bed, and you screw your eyes shut, turning your face to the side looking away from him. 

Jake had already got you to cum once, and it was possible he didn't want you all over him as he was trying to get off now. Preferences were probably something y'all should have talked about more in depth before jumping into intimacy. You didn't want him to think you were overly needy or hard to please. You didn't want to ruin what you and Jake could have the very first time together. Noticing the shift in your enthusiasm Jake immediately stops pressing his cock into you, worriedly asking, "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," you answer, staring up at the ceiling looking for patterns there. It's easier to play this off if you don't have to look at him; easier if you don't have to acknowledge the unexpected, unwelcome swell of emotion that's overcoming you. 

"Doll, look at me." He orders you, but you shake your head, refusing. Jake grips your chin, tilting your face to meet his eyes. They are intense studying you intently, completely focused on you. "The honesty we just promised each other needs to extend to sex nearly more than anywhere else going forward with this relationship," Jake says seriously. His hard dick is pressed against your thigh, and you don't know how he's able to have such a level-headed conversation considering the circumstances, just having been balls deep in you a minute ago. "So, what's wrong?" 

"I don't want to be too high maintenance or needy," You sigh, trying to work through your words. Knowing this conversation is important, but also not completely sure how to express what you're feeling. "Sometimes I might seem needy, or maybe I could take a while to cum or not at all, which wouldn't be a reflection of you. I don't want you to think, well, I don't want to be too much for you to change your mind about this, and now I'm ruining the mood with a dumb fucking insecurity."

"Stop," Jake says gently, but leaving no room for argument. "You haven't ruined anything. I'm sorry I called your pussy needy. I didn't know it would make you feel this way. Can I tell you something, though, Doll?" When you give a hesitant nod, Jake's voice drops so low it's nearly gravelly. "I want you to be needy. I want your pussy desperate for my cock, desperate for my cum. I want you as desperate for me as I am for you." 

"You're desperate for me too?"

"Frantically and wildly so." He answers easily. Then he asks with his thumb ghosting over your nub, "Are we okay? Is this still okay?" 

"Yeah, this is good," You sigh, enjoying the zing that runs up your back when he nudges your clit more pointedly. 

Jake grabs his cock, giving it a few languid strokes before he guides it back into you. You push your hips up to meet him. The new angle that the pillow gives him leverage to hit somewhere that's just a delicious feeling. As he rocks into you, his thumb maintains its place on your clit. Your fear of the mood having been ruined proves wrong as the coil in your core quickly builds, pushing you near the edge once more. 

"Cum in me, Jake, please. Give me a baby," you request, your thighs quivering as you near your orgasm. 

As his hips snap nearly frantically, Jake rolls your clit over in nearly the same rhythm. He moans your name a minute later, falling over the edge and spilling inside of you. Though his hips stutter to a stop leaving himself fully seated in you, he continues working over your clit. It doesn't take long until you're dissolving into pleasure along with him. 

The ripples run through your body, and you feel every muscle tense and relax, turning into jelly. Jake grunts when you spasm around him but doesn't move or pull out until you've fully melted into the bed on the downward crest of your peak. 

When he does pull out, he doesn't go far, shifting enough to spoon you. Settling behind you, Jake pulls you close to his chest, wrapping you tight in his arms. His hand is tracing lazy patterns on your hip and occasionally venturing to the soft skin of your belly. You don't have the mind to be self-conscious at the moment, still a little too blissed out. It takes significant brain power to process his question when he asks, "Do you actually want to have a baby?" 

"Do you?" You wonder. 

"You can't answer a question with a question," Jake chastises you. Turning in his arms so you are sprawled against his chest, you snuggle close, nuzzling him affectionately. 

"Do you know how it was seeing you with Jackson today?" You ask him. 

"If it was even half of how it felt seeing you hold him, then I'm sorry." 

"Whatever you felt, double it. Triple it even." You say lightly. "It was enough for me to ask my friend, who I thought could never want me, for a baby." 

"I do want you," Jake immediately reassures you. 

"Thank goodness for baby fever, then. Because at least now we know we want each other," you reason, slowly starting to draw mindless patterns of your own against his skin. 

Jake heaves a sigh and strokes his hand down your back, wondering, "Was this just baby fever?" 

"No," you answer after thinking about it for a long span of silence. "I would have a baby with you. It seems right. I want that, I think." You can feel the relief in his body, hearing that, all his tension easing into relaxation. 

"Good," is the only response he gives you, kissing the crown of your head. You expect more but don't get it. Rather, Jake seems content to just bask in the afterglow. That doesn't seem to be too bad an idea, so you close your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat.  

When you wake up from your impromptu nap, you're not alone in bed. However, you are now under the covers of a different comforter than there was before, and Jake is no longer acting as your pillow. He is on the other side of the bed, but his hand is stretched out, grazing the middle of your back. 

Rolling to face him, you admire the sight he makes stretched out on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Jake's got a book open, folded in half, clearly abusing the book's binding just so he can have one hand on you. When he notices you sleepily admiring him, Jake shoots you a soft smile. 

"Hey baby," he whispers. 

"Hi," You whisper back scooting closer to him and grab the hand that had been touching you, threading your fingers together. 

"Let's go on a date," Jake suddenly springs on you, squeezing your hand. 

"I would love that," you respond, feeling giddy as butterflies erupt in your stomach. "Want something first, though."

"I already told you I would give you anything you want, and I meant it," Jake says, setting his book on his bedside table and giving you his full attention. 

"Good, because I want round two and a shower, which hopefully has round three involved." 

"Your wish is my command," Jake says easily. You move even closer to him so your lips are only a breath apart. "I meant it, the ring, the house, the baby. I can make it all happen by tomorrow." 

"Let's start with breakfast in bed," you say, kissing him hard. When your lips hardly touch because you're both smiling too wide, well, that actually makes it feel all the better. 

[dearsnow]

SAY IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT (WITH YOUR FISTS FOR ONCE)

- you and bradley had always been attached at the hip until life pulled him away. when you’re finally living in the same place again, your unspoken feelings come to the surface during a san diego bonfire. (bradley “rooster” bradshaw x gn!reader, reader is characterized as someone who doesn’t like much attention, jealousyyyyyyyyy, pining & arguments but fluff at the end, ⚠️ mentions of alcohol / weed)

word count: 2,500

a/n - it’s so entertaining to come up with synonyms for kissing 😭 anyways, enjoy this, and listen to american teenager by ethel cain. oh and i was also so tempted to make the girl mickey in a wig, but i held back.

Bradley Bradshaw likes you. He’d go as far as to say he loves you, if he was being honest. He’s never said it, though, not in that way.

When you first met, he was pulled to you like a magnet. It was preschool, and he never left your side. He made macaroni portraits of you and you crafted tiny little friendship bracelets for him. Neither of you could speak well, or write well, but you stuck together anyways.

Your first written words were each other’s names.

Everything snowballed from there, but he couldn’t say he was mad at it.

You were so entirely different, but that’s what made it good, in his opinion. He always needed eyes on him, not for any pretentious ego-boosting reasons, but because it made him thrive. You tended to hide in the shadows. When you gave your eyes to him, and him to you, it was like the most natural thing in the world.

He was the classic class clown type all throughout middle and high school, with a football jersey and everything. When you came to his games, he swore he played a million times better, and you were happy to indulge in his superstition.

You like him, too. You’d go as far as to say you love him, if you’re being honest. You might’ve said it if he hadn’t been so clearly your platonic life partner. You would follow him, as toddlers, with his shirt edge balled in your small fist. You tried to draw him more times than you could count, but it always looked wrong, like you couldn’t really capture the life that he held so deeply in his eyes. You even considered joining the cheerleading squad for him, but you would’ve cringed under the gaze of the crowd.

When he left for the navy, and for college, and for anything after that, you wished you could bounce across the United States with him. Instead, you wrote him letters; copious amounts of them.

One thing that you both never dared to cross was the bounds of friendship. He would hold your hand, his thumb smoothing over the side of your fist, and there was nothing romantic about it. God, you wished it was, though.

Now that you’ve moved to San Diego, following him one last time, you beg whatever makes the rules to break them just once.

You walk up behind a broad-shouldered man you barely recognize and tap him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I seem to be lost. Could you direct me to a man named Bradley? I believe his call sign is something silly, like ‘duck’.”

He whips around, sunglasses and mustache entirely new to you. He speaks your name in a breathy whisper, like he’s afraid his words will break if he says them too loud. “You’re here? Like actually?”

You’ve barely replied before you’re wrapped in a hug, feet lifted off the ground and body spun around so many times you think you might be sick. “Geez, Brad, put me down!”

He sets you down gently, holding out an arm for stability as you collect your bearings. “Sorry, sorry. I just can’t believe I’m seeing your face after all this time.” You’re even more breathtaking than he remembers.

San Diego has done him well, you reckon. His gold-tinted skin holds a deeper sense of warmth, now, even though he has always run hot. “You better get used to it. I have a fancy new apartment now, so I’m here to stay.”

His face holds a beaming grin, and the whole world falls away. “Thank god, I was beginning to think I’d be stuck here with just my coworkers.” He doesn’t even notice how you look at him with lovesick eyes.

After two months of San Diego, you say the one thing you thought you would never say: “I’m so sick of the sun.”

It’s midday, and you’re prepping for a Fourth of July bonfire party on the beach. The sun is beating down on your back, forcing you to scamper into the ocean every once in a while. Bradley is right beside you, wheeling yet another cooler onto the sand. “If I wasn’t worried about our shit being stolen, I’d suggest we abandon it and let Jake do all the work.”

You laugh. Jake was the one who suggested the whole bonfire, but, of course, he was “too busy” to help set up. You don’t mind doing the work. If it was an opportunity for you to be beside Bradley, you’d do anything. You’d even brave the burning ball of gas in the sky.

As you work, the sun disappears quickly.

By this point, after over two decades of friendship, you’ve lost a bit of that hope that pushed you to follow Brad in the first place. You know he’s attractive, and every woman in the world seems to know it too. What you didn’t know is that you’re pretty damn attractive too. As you’ve told yourself, you prefer to keep the attention off of you.

So, as the sun’s last dying rays scatter over the cooling sand, you pretend not to notice the women ogling your best friend.

The bonfire is great. Amazing, even. The flames reach high into the sky and the smell of smoke permeates the air; everything is cast in this sort of hazy glow, highlighting tanned skin and bright swimsuits. There’s also a woman chatting up Bradley, touching his arm flirtatiously, but you push that to the back of your mind. Instead, you’re focused on the guy in front of you, even when her giggle sends a ball of spikes into your heart.

He’s tall, a little on the skinny side, with tousled black hair and a puka shell necklace. Sand clings to his sandaled feet. He hands you a beer, which you tell yourself you won’t drink much of. You’ve already had a bit too much.

“So, know anyone here?” He asks. He’s eyeing you with a certain ferocity that you don’t notice, his gaze raking up and down your body.

You pop the can open and take a small sip. “Yeah. I know Bradshaw, and the rest by association.” You gesture to Jake and Natasha, who are arguing over a beach volleyball. You almost smile at the way she jabs him in the ribs, making him double over just enough for her to steal what’s so carefully held in his hands. The guy nods.

“I don’t. I’m here for the vibes, y’know?” He takes a step closer, and you notice he smells like smoke and something deeper, like perfumed weed. “And the pretty people.”

You shift in your place. “Have you found what you’re looking for?” You’re almost teasing now, completely missing the hunger in the way he licks his lips. Maybe you’re a little drunk, or maybe you’re just enjoying how someone seems to be giving you the longing looks you so sorely crave. It’s one night, you figure. You won’t ever see him again. What’s wrong with a little good-natured flirting?

“Absolutely.” He murmurs, reaching forward. His hand connects with the back of your neck, his breath cascading over your face, and your eyes flutter shut— before you’re yanked backwards by an arm around your waist.

You stumble. “What the hell?” You curse, colliding with a hard, warm chest. You drop your beer in the sand as you fall back. It’s Bradley, and he looks furious. “Brad, are you kidding me?”

“Come here.” His voice is lethally quiet and sharp as a knife. Your mind is reeling as you follow him a few paces closer to the fire, but a hot pool of anger sits in your stomach.

“Are you being serious right now? What in the world were you thinking?” You hiss. You look up at his tight-lipped face, utterly stoic in the light behind him.

“I’m not letting you kiss that piece of shit.”

“Who are you to decide who I kiss?” You’re so, so mad. So mad you could punch someone, but that would probably hurt you more than the person your fist connects with. Bradley just intervened in the one thing you thought he would never intervene in. You’ve let him swap spit with girls you’ve never seen before, and now he’s over here acting like you kissing one guy is the epitome of nastiness?

He scoffs. “You didn’t even notice, did you? That he was eyeing you like a piece of meat? God, he reeks of weed and swamp ass, too. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I could have the once in a lifetime opportunity to make out with a perfectly attractive guy without someone interrupting.” Your arms are crossed, but you feel a lump forming in your throat. In your mind, that really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. It’s not like you go out of your way to meet people, and the people you’ve met have never even slyly complimented you. You’re not the type that gets dates or drinks sent your way or anything more than platonic. Currently, platonic is staring you in the face with the rage of a thousand suns behind his eyes.

“Make out with Bob or Nat, I don’t care. At least they won’t undress you with their fuckboy blue eyes. Even Bagman is a better choice.”

“You don’t get to decide those things— friends don’t get to decide those things. I mean, I didn’t throw a hissy fit when you were openly flirting with that girl.” In the back of your mind, you know he’s right. You know that your stomach dropped when the guy leaned closer to you, and that your kicked-down self esteem made him out to be a whole lot more attractive than he probably (definitely) was.

Bradley runs a hand through his already slightly messy hair, sighing like he’s regretting ever hitting you with a sand pail in preschool. “I at least get to decide when to save you from creeps and when to leave your love life alone. Trust me, you were in more danger than I ever was.”

“I reiterate, friends don’t get to decide those things.” He can see the insecurity swimming in your beautiful eyes. Yeah, you’re definitely at least somewhat drunk. You’d never argue with him like this if you weren’t. You’re also more than a little mad, and disgusted with yourself, and disappointed with your lack of charisma, and so jealous of the girl he probably tangled tongues with.

“What do I have to be, then, to get it through your thick skull? You know I love you. I’m just looking out for you.” His voice is softer, now, and sweeter, dripping from his mustache like honey.

He reaches out, and you cringe away. Love. It’s a word unspoken, one that’s been lingering on your mind since the day in seventh grade when he suddenly became attractive to you. Like most things, you assume it’s friendly. “Do you really love me if this is what you’re pulling? Say it like you mean it, Bradshaw.”

“I love you.” He states, taking your hands in his. This time, as you try to pull yourself from his grip, he holds on. “I love you.” He says again. It holds a certain weight that gets your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He’s firm but gentle, and he can feel the years of unspoken feelings bubbling on the tip of his tongue.

That’s when the guy from before decides to approach, sliding a hand uncomfortably down your waist. “I think you interrupted us, dude.”

Bradley drops your hands, and before the man can grab you even lower, he’s getting decked in the face.

He collapses to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose and cursing like a bitch. “Fuck you, what the fuck! Fuckin’ Navy piece of fucking shit.” You raise your hand to your mouth as he scrambles to get away. His blood leaves a scarlet trail of droplets in the sand.

“Bradley…”

“I just want you to be safe.” He mutters, like he didn’t just punch someone in the face for you. “I don’t care if you don’t feel the same way, romantically, but I can’t stand seeing you with guys that aren’t as smart or good-looking as one fraction of your pinky toe.”

You reach up to his jaw, carefully, gingerly, before pressing your lips to his.

Like a scene from a movie, Fourth of July fireworks explode behind you, not unlike the fireworks going off in your mind. He has one hand on your waist and one hand on the back of your head, and neither make you even the slightest bit uncomfortable. It’s Bradley, and he makes you feel like the safest person in the world.

Your lips are soft, so soft. Bradley can practically hear his heart pounding in his ears as his body finally takes in the moment he’s been dreaming about his entire life. When you pull away, he misses the feeling, like the lost puzzle piece of his heart was stolen as soon as it was put back.

“You think my pinky toe is smart and good-looking?” You place a hand on his bare chest, teasing. He gives you the grin you’ve come to adore.

“Every part of you is. That’s why I love you.”

“I love you too. For more than your pinky toe, of course.”

“Oh,” he says, suddenly conscious of the self-satisfied look you shoot her, “y’know that girl I was talking to?” You raise your eyebrows questioningly as he nods his head at her. She sends a little wave, in which you notice a sparkling ring on her finger. “That, my love, is Reuben’s wife.”

You feel your heart sink to your feet as the embarrassment sets in, your cheeks growing warmer than the fire. You mouth a quiet “sorry” at her and she laughs, shooing your apology away with a gentle sweep of her hand.

“Is that why you went after Mr. Broken nose?” Bradley whispers in your ear. “That’s one hell of a way to make me jealous.”

You crinkle your nose as your face flushes impossibly warmer. “Not everything has an ulterior motive, Bradshaw.”

He looks perfect in this lighting, and to him, so do you. You can hardly believe that decades of friendship and tension and wishing led to this slightly improbable moment. You’re honestly glad you almost kissed a stranger.

“Yeah, but you’d best believe I do.”

He takes your hand in his and drops to one knee. Everyone turns to look at him, but for once, the only eyes that matter are yours. “Will you do me the honor of letting me be your lawfully appointed boyfriend?” You smile so wide you think your cheeks might split. You join him in the sand, holding his face in your hands and kissing his cheek.

“You really did mean it, huh, Brad?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes. It’s a definite, no-questions-asked, yes.”

[whosjunglejim4322]

Saccharine - E.M

Warnings ® smut! Fluff, soft bf Eddie<3, first time sex as a couple! Nasty IN LOVE smut bc this bitch is a hopeless romantic! Eddie is super sensitive, Established relationship, you stroke his dick, Eddie almost cums in his pants, lil bit of dry humping, this is incredibly self indulgent but u didn't hear that from me, overly descriptive bc why not

You shouldn't be nervous, really. It's just Eddie, who is your boyfriend of three months and twenty-six days. Who is sitting across from you on his creaky mattress criss-cross style, your knees touching. Your Eddie, who has two big hands flailing in the air as he goes on about the recent campaign, broad mouth etched into a whimsical smile, big eyes wondrous and full of excitement for the tale.

The bed bounces with his enthusiasm, and you draw closer to him with each syllable.

Your Eddie, who is doing nothing out of the ordinary, and who is as beautiful as ever in loose fitting plaid pyjama bottoms and a tattered black tee that exposes half of his collarbone and smudges of black ink - he doesn't even have to try, and perhaps these simple mundane realizations are what cause the flutter of wings in the pit of your stomach.

"And then Mike - hey, you okay?"

If it weren't for his vast change in expression, you truly wouldn't have realized what a trance you're in. Between the furrow of his unkempt brows and the amused but curious tilt at the corner of his mouth, you come back to earth. The weight of gravity settles in your bone marrow, as his calloused thumb quickly strokes your chin as if to remind you he is still here.

"I - yeah yeah, sorry I just," you grab his hand by the heaviness of his wrist, dragging it into your lap so you can stroke the back of his rough knuckles. "got distracted s'all."

Your eyes divert to where your fingers are joined and the sound of his airy, through-the-nose chuckle has more heat blossoming behind your ribcage, nudging at your organs.

"I'll stop with the D&D talk, know you hear enough about it from the kids. There's only so much dorkiness you should be subjected to, y'know?"

It's lighthearted, he's smirking and looking down at you with enough palpable fondness the apples of your cheeks feel like they're being stroked by a flame. Still, the implication that he may be bothering you in any way has an urgency filling your eyes. You shake your head.

"No, no that never bothers me Eds, don't be silly." The nickname makes his mouth dry, still, after three months and twenty-six days. You finally meet his glance. "You're just handsome, really handsome especially when you're talking about something you're passionate about and I just...yeah."

It's word vomit, messy and you feel like it makes no sense but then he squeezes your hand and you know that he reads between the nervous mumbo jumbo - you have no clue how you make him feel, do you?

"You're fucking cute." He breathes out earnestly, smoothing his grip upwards to your forearms and pulling you forward with minimal effort - right onto the stirdiness of his lap.

Your giddiness is the perfect portrait, your arms finding a resting place atop his broad shoulders. Curls tickle the tops of your arms and your wrists, and your thighs brace your frame by the slim of his taut waist. He can't help it, the giggles escaping his throat. The proximity is intoxicating for no reason at all.

"Can't believe this is our first time spending the night together, I'm so used to falling asleep on the phone with you that it really doesn't feel all that different." He smooths your hair out of your eyes, tucks it behind your left ear.

I get to touch her like this, he thinks to himself. His chest jostles underneath the muscle and bone.

"Yeah, except I get to fall asleep with you'n my arms, wake up with you in em' too. I'm one lucky son of a bitch, hmm?"

He's practically thinking out loud, but he's too far gone to feel shame. When you nuzzle your face against the warm nook of his neck, wet lips smiling against the flesh, his encapsulating arms squeeze you impossibly tighter. He buries his nose against the top of your head, inhaling the fresh scent of your shampoo. Your cheek grazes the side of his jaw as you meet him face to face, nose to nose.

He sees you trying to formulate words, a sentence, even a sound but none of it seems like a totally accurate way to express the adoration threatening to consume you from the inside out. You graze his cheek with your mouth, slowly, tentatively, and he hangs on with half an air full of lungs.

You suckle his bottom lip and he sighs into your mouth, the relief making him lightheaded. He kicks into gear and pushes back with an overlap of his mouth - hands wandering over the small of your back, to your soft lovehandles and upwards until his fingrtips have passed your jugular and he's holding your face as tenderly as you're holding his.

It's now, when you feel it - the growing firmness beneath he thin material of his bottoms. He tries to keep it at bay but it's damn near impossible, and the whimper, the fucking whimper you let out when his soft tongue touches yours from the warm cavern of your mouth - he couldn't stop it from twitching even if he wanted to. He's only a man.

And you're a menace. As new as this is, your body reacts to the prod in between your legs, underneath your crotch. You press yourself tighter to his frame, hips scooching against his hard-on in the process and he stiffens.

"Mmm, baby baby..." your pout is immediate when he breaks from your mouth, brows furrowed and lips a kiss bitten fuschia. For a moment, you think you've taken it too far too fast - he's stopped you from moving completely. Your whole body burns with a tingly sensation somewhere between shame and the aftershocks of arousal.

"Are you...are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"

You sound so sweet, it makes his lower belly ache among other things. He stifles a laugh brcause he knows it will only make you feel worse. Something wrong. Something wrong.

"Fuck no, I-sorry I just uh...almost..." He can't bring himself to say it, you guys haven't even been kissing for five whole minutes and here he is about to blow his load. When you realize how close his dark lashes are from kissing his cheeks, how his pupils have almost turned the whole of his irises onyx, you connect the dots.

Woah, you did that to him? That moth in your belly threatens to take flight, and without much thought, your mouth is moving before you can stop it.

"I wanna see."

Those are the only words your brain allows you to spit out. His chest has gone still, and you feel that twitch against your center again. Your thighs have begun to tremble.

"You wanna see...? My cock?" He shouldn't sound so incredulous. You're his girlfriend for christ's sake, but you are important to him. More important than he ever thought anyone could be, and so he has kept his lust at a minimum of 48% when he's around you for the most part. Save for intense makeout sessions.

"Yeah, I wanna...well I wanna know how to make you feel good."

He's worried for a moment that he's having another wet dream, but he's sure this is real life because he feels how warm you are against him and you are so close he can see his own reflection in your eyes. You toy with the shell of his ear and a chill ascends his spine.

"Sweetheart if you touch me m'not gonna last long." His skin is pink and scarlet, and he's gotten at least ten degrees hotter judging by the heat billowing off of the back of his neck. His adams apple bobs when he swallows.

"That's okay, really it is. You have nothing to be embarrassed about....I like it. Like that I make you feel that way. " You rake your fingers through the front of his hair, pushing it away from his pretty face. He checks your eyes again, needing confirmation.

"Are you sure? You don't have to do anything you don't want to." He gnaws on the inside of his plush mouth, tries to calm the animal inside of him that wants to fuck your brains out right now. He almost feels guilty just thinking about it, until you lean over to peck the side of his stubbly chin, fingertips grazing his taut belly.

"Yes, really wanna."

There is a curious, nervous anticipation in the crinkle underneath your eyes.

"Kay' baby, explore all you want." The boyish smirk he gives is enough to have that knee buckling tingling sensation coming back full force as he presents himself to you like this. Does he seem as pulled together and totally not overly nervous as he thinks he does? Probably not.

His arms depart from your body, ribs expanding as he reclines on his palms. Tendons flex and stretch underneath the black bats and fuzzy layer of hair atop his forearm. You swallow, intimidated by the beauty of the boy.

You find the courage to finally move off of his lap so that you can take him all in, and the bulge of his cock swipes the underside of your thigh as you slide off.

You don't know where to touch first. That's a lie, your hands almost instinctively slip underneath the hem of his old shirt, where that dark thatch of hair trails under his belly button. He's soft, so soft it's unreal, he is velvet and delicious scarring and beauty marks. His tummy convulses underneath your hand.

He watches you with complete fixation. You have your bottom lip tucked between your teeth and you don't even realize it, all perched and pretty in front of him. He closes his eyes when you explore his sides, over the planes and arches and past the small stretch marks by his chest.

You can't ignore it anymore, the tent that has formed at his crotch and continues to throb with each passing touch.

The blunt of your nails rake down the soft plaid covering thick thighs, and he takes this sharp breath that has you glancing up at him with heavy eyes.

"So pretty...Eds you're so pretty." You say it ardently, your voice small and weak. An arm reaches down, strong but gentle as he strokes the back of your plush cheek with his ring covered knuckles.

"Can't fucking believe...can't believe you're mine, finally. Shit." He's almost murmuring to himself again, on the verge of cardiac arrest. Maybe he's losing his mind, maybe this is heaven.

Then your palm presses against the thick of his cock where it's bulging out, and his thighs spasm.

"Oh, oh." He's all curses and praises, giving you encouraging glances each time you look up at him to silently ask for guidance. You move your hand up and down what you assume is his shaft, and he keeps his hips from bucking into your touch. He feels thick, and the back of your mouth starts to water.

Without warning you're hooking your fingers into his waistband, and he lifts his hips in compliance so that you can pull them down to his mid thigh. He has no time for nerves anymore. Any fear he previously had about what his dick looks like, or what you'll think of it, is stripped along with his clothing. You're looking at him with too much love for him to be insecure - and that takes him by surprise the most.

At this point his checkered boxers are just in the way, and you take it upon yourself to pull those down too. A thud hits his belly.

And really, you should've known. He's big. Not because he's impossibly long, his size is above average but he's thick - the tip iridescent with precum, the same shade of plum as his lips underneath the slick sheen. He is slightly curved upwards, a prominent vein decorating the underside parallel to his frenulum. It's pretty, just like the rest of him. He's neatly trimmed, which is the most surprising part if you're honest - but nothing about Eddie could ever be displeasing to look at.

Your mouth is parted with this expression of surprise, and Eddie almost can't believe what this is doing for his ego.

"Woah." Is all you say, transfixed when you reach out to grasp the appendage. He hisses through his teeth when your small hand finally grasps it, so fucking warm and so gentle it's almost maddening. You both feel it, the invisible weight that has settled in his small, messy room.

The weight of being alone, together, all night and all of tomorrow afternoon while his uncle Wayne is away on a business trip that is probably more lucrative than what he leads on - but Wayne has never been one to boast or speak about things like that out loud. Says it'll jinx the whole thing.

The feeling hits you first, as you find this foreign courage to lean over and dribble spit over the slit of his cock. He gasps, watching the glob of saliva drip down the front of his dick till it's soaking into the curls at his pubic mound.

"Is this okay?" You already know the answer but you ask anyways, taking more pride than you should at the expression on the pretty metalheads face. He nods his head fervently, unable to respond right away.

You twist your palm, spreading your spit further until his whole head is covered and you're able to stroke him with no resistance.

"Fuuuck, yes. Yeah, that's so good baby." He's panting as you begin to properly jerk the tip of him off, the sounds in the room too lewd for you to handle. A squelchy feeling has developed between your thighs, led by each filthy groan that leaves your boyfriend's throat.

Then you're looking at him through fluttery lashes and a gone expression, with your chest rising and falling almost as rapidly as his and thick fingers grasp your wrist quickly, rougher than anticipated.

"Sorry, just - close."

Seeing his hand blanket yours over his cock is doing something to you. You know his palms like your own, hold them more than you look at your own, and yet right now such a sweet thing has never been more provocative.

"Shh, no more apologizing," you lean over and he meets you in the middle. The kiss is sloppy this time, evidence of the maddening desire taking him over from the inside out.

"Not fair," his voice is strained through your mouths ministrations. "Got me all worked up and you're sitting there neglected." He smiles and his tongue strokes your bottom lip. You shudder as that heat comes in an overwhelming wave.

He's gripping the back of your neck now, properly hungry and your hand continues its ministrations between your bodies, that wet sound prompting a shared groan from the both of you - intensifying the feeling. His nose is scrunched against your cheek from the vigour of his kisses.

"You can undress me."

He doesn't waste time once you've granted him verbal permission, and with an exhale you're being tipped over onto your back, breathing in the weight of him as nimble and eager fingers pull his tee shirt over and off your body.

"Jesus," He whines, and you're captivated by the look on his face. It's impossible not to feel flustered.

"Can I-" you don't let him finish.

"Yes, please touch me." You're just as fucked as he is, arching your chest upwards and into the warm, all encompassing mass of his palm. He stifles a groan, cock bobbing up and down in the space between you two, dribbling with a bead of pre arousal. You feel like you're losing your mind.

Eddie short circuits for about five whole seconds flat, and he can't concentrate. He makes a bee - line to your chest, plush lips sucking your swollen nipples into his mouth. A gasp and a pulse of your poor clit later, and your fingers delve into his curls like they'll keep you here in this moment forever.

He's sloppy, moving between the valley of your breasts to the other one, leaving trails of spit across your flesh.

"Eddie, that - that feels so good, can't - mmph." You're a mess. How are you such a mess? He's a phantom, a head of hair across your sternum until he glances up at you with saliva soaked lips and red cheeks and a sweaty forehead.

"Sweet girl, oh god I can't believe..." All you taste is him, the words being uttered between the space when he forces himself to breathe. "can't believe you're all mine, wanna make you feel so fucking good. Give you anythin' you want."

He lies his full weight on you, and through the thin sleeping shorts you've got on, his cock beckons you with throbs and weeps. You feel drunk off of him, every sense surrounded by Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

His shampoo from two days ago, the old spice lingering under his arms, the natural scent of his skin, the sweetness of his breath and the perspiration that's formed in little beads on his upper lip. He's all but devouring you, lust and admiration for the angel beneath him taking over any sense of importance regarding anything else.

Your heels dig into the back of his bum, knees pulling inward so that his hips come clashing into yours. Your fingernails claw on the material covering his back, taking it upon themselves to pull it over his head. He's beaming like a kid in a candy store at your eagerness, eyes all crinkly underneath.

"Want me to grab a rubber now?" He mumbles between the sloppy kisses, hoping you can't hear the hitch in his throat at the prospect of this finally happening.

"Mhmm, yes." It feels just as surreal for you.

He whines as he departs, reaching over across your head to pull open his bedside drawer and ungracefully tear open the new box of condoms. His eyebrows are furrowed, arms flexing with intensity from his excitement. He groans out of frustration, and you giggle, grasping his thick forearm.

"Let me help baby." You reach in the drawer for him and pull the box out, finishing the rip he'd made and pulling out a metallic row of squares. You tear one at the perforation and hand it to him, grinning at the entire situation. He huffs and rests his forehead between the valley of your breasts.

"What would I do without you?" He mutters, matching your expression when he lifts his head back up and pushes forward to kiss you on the tip of your nose.

"Not have sex, I suppose." You bite back with no hint of malice, only an insurmountable level of love and he sees it shimmering everywhere around you. His girl. His.

"You're somethin' else, sweetheart." He mouths the side of your face, across your jaw and underneath your ear.

You feel like you're in a psychological limbo, in a world between consciousness as he sits back on his haunches and lifts his shirt off of his body from the back of his collar. That may be a dramatic sentiment to many, but it's fitting.

He does it so casually, throws his shirt to the side with the rest of discarded clothing and stray items that live on his bedroom floor. You feel weak in the knees when he tears the condom package and pulls out the slippery rubber, unraveling it before bringing it down to his cock.

You watch his face the way his pink tongue darts out and nips the tip of his tongue, brows furrowed in concentration and arousal as he fits the condom down his thick shaft. You watch his biceps twist, his taut abdomen clench, the black ink coming alive with the ministrations of his muscles underneath.

When he meets your eyes again, you look completely overtaken with desire, eyelids heavy and breath bated. Your pebbled nipples stand at full attention, mimicking his dick and Eddie hooks his fingers underneath those infuriatingly sexy shorts of yours so that he can get rid of them.

You're not wearing underwear. Of course you aren't. Your entire existence is specifically designed to test the bounds of his composure, of his strength. The gold room lighting from his lamp illuminates your body and your shy thighs only part when he's placing his palms between them, slowly encouraging them to allow him a peek or two.

You reach out to stroke his arms as he separates your legs, his jaw hanging ever so slack, cock twitching just a few centimeters away from your opening.

"Fucking hell...you're so goddamn pretty." He strains, swallowing hard as he touches you with hesitant hands, as if he's scared to break you. Your hips lift, just enough to make contact with the tip of his dick and you whine. It's a sound so sweet he almost whimpers himself.

"Please, Eds. I want you inside of me. Please."

His stomach tightens and he crawls over you once again, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

He maintains eye contact, breath fanning your mouth as he slips an arm between your bodies and grips his shaft, lining it up with your entrance. Your thighs lift towards your chest, ankles stationed at his waist, and you feel the welcome intrusion of his tip as it passes your slick labia.

You both take a breath in, your fingers needing a vice and moving to the back of his neck as he pivots his hips forward and slips himself into the tightness of your cunt. The stretch causes you to hiss, both in pleasure and pain.

"You okay? Let me know if I need to stop." He grunts, kissing your chin.

"M'okay, don't you dare stop."

His eyelids flutter in tandem with yours, a choked moan leaving his throat as he continues to push himself in, till he's nudging against the soft roundness of your cervix and his balls are resting against your ass.

It feels right. Having him this deep, this close.

You shudder nuzzling your face against the bicep that holds him up. You kiss the skin there and he groans, dragging himself back out and then back in. Your whole body jostles with the movement.

"Jesus Christ, how do you feel s'fucking good? I don't - I can't, fuck." He's a slur of words, beginning to form a steady rhythm. Your moans are more like squeaks the faster he goes, increasing the lewd, sticky sounds between your legs that squelch with each drag and pull of his cock.

"Eddie...E-eddie." Your words are hiccuped from the impact, his hair dangling in your face, tickling your cheeks. His belly is pressed right against yours, the curls at the mound of his pelvis pressed against yours. He lets out this pained sound and goes to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

"My name, fuck say it again. Say it again." It's muffled but you can hear it right underneath your ear, his lips a soft vibration against your flesh. You feel so full, it's hard to speak at all. To say anything other than his name. So you recite it like it's the only words you know.

"Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie." They're all punctuated with a whimper that starts from your diaphragm and crawls it's way out of your throat, pistoned by his hips and their grueling ministrations. Skin against skin can be heard from down the park, you're convinced, with how he's fucking you.

Eddie is fucking you. Your boyfriend, Eddie, is fucking you.

"Ohhhh, god, please." You cry out, heels digging into his back, hands splayed across the broad expanse of his shoulder blades. Every breath that passes his lips is followed by a grunt, a groan, a sound that is so close to agony and even closer to toe curling pleasure.

Each stroke of his cock inside of you feels like a pull into his being, and you get frustrated with the fact that you can't see his face, tugging at the back of his neck.

When you look up at the boy above you, reality, for once, feels like the most beautiful thing you've ever endured.

He's flushed, all sweat and shades of pink and red. His eyes are glassy, mirroring yours in the way that it almost looks like he could shed a tear. You move his sticky bangs from his forehead and Eddie is sucker punched in the gut with a wave of adoration.

"Oh, sweetheart," he leans down, slowing his thrusts so that he can kiss you steadily, purposefully. Somehow he feels deeper this way impossibly so, and he nips your bottom lip when you flutter around him. "didn't mean to...to not show you attention m'sorry, just...you feel so good. S'like heaven."

He's half sober half drunk on your pussy and it's so fucking endearing. Neither of you can make out a coherent sentence.

"Keep - keep going, just like that, ohhh." You glance down between your bodies and somewhere behind your organs a warmth, teetering unbearable, flutters throughout your limbs. His arms shake with the fight to hold himself up, until he doesn't anymore, and slips his hands underneath you till they're sandwiched between the mattress and your back. Snug, safe, he engulfs you.

His thrusts are deep and slow now, meaningful instead of mindless bunny fucking. Which, he's not opposed to, but you're you. He wants to fuck you like he might not ever get the chance to again.

"I love you, I love you." He whimpers against the crook of your shoulder. You hold him with the same ferocity that he's holding you, staring up at the ceiling and the stars that blanket your vision instead of the fan above.

"I love you too, fuck, Eddie."

He makes this noise, it's almost pathetic. Petulant. That coil holding you tight, snaps and all at once you're gasping, thighs a deadly grip around his waist.

"Cu-Cumming, I'm cumming." Your walls flex and spasm around his length and Eddie thinks he might pass out. You're still twitching and whining his name with his balls are emptying, when he's spurting into the condom, nudging your cervix.

"Fuck, fuck just like tha- ohhh fuck." He thrusts like he's fucking his cum into you, like he's filling your womb up and making you his forever. He made you cum. He's never felt this high before, and he's a fucking drug dealer.

It's a mixture of panting and the thud of your shared heartbeat for what feels like eternity and one split second. You feel his lips peppering soft, gentle kisses along your jugular, and your fingers trace lines up and down his warm back as his cock softens inside of you.

He rubs his cheek against you, and your fingers pull his hair away from his pretty face. He's looking at you with so much love you could burst again.

"I love you so much." He speaks tenderly, softly, for once. It's scary and breathtaking all at once. The tip of his nose rubs yours, your smiles a reflection of the other.

"I love you too, Munson."

And you do. You really fucking do.

[pandapetals]

Leather Jacket

logan howlett x fem!reader - established relationship, cute, romantic, logan being soft, no y/n used, no reader description

Logan gives you his leather jacket.

prompt idea from @Silverskyeline from their logan promptober: #18-leather jacket

Logan cared about you deeply, though he wasn’t the type of guy to express it with grand declarations or flowery words. He didn’t know how to be soft or romantic in the conventional sense, but that didn’t matter. For you, it was the little things—the small, thoughtful gestures he made without even realizing how much they meant to you—that lit up your world.

He could always tell when he’d done something that struck a chord with you. He might not have been great with words, but he’d gotten damn good at reading you.

Like that time he’d spent hours scouring the city, searching every used bookstore until he finally found a copy of that old novel you’d mentioned offhand one night. You hadn’t even expected him to remember it, let alone track it down. Yet he’d come home late that night, and handed it to you right before bed, his gruff voice mumbling something about “figured you might want this.” You’d stared at the worn book in disbelief, your eyes wide with surprise before they filled with tears.

Logan had just stood there, a little awkward, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “It’s just a book, darlin’,” he’d muttered, but when you smiled up at him, your eyes shining, he couldn’t help the small, pleased smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

That was the thing about Logan—he didn’t try to be romantic. He just was, in his own rugged, understated way. Whether it was hunting down that book for you or staying up late to fix your broken faucet without saying a word, it was in those quiet moments that he showed you just how much he cared.

Perhaps the most telling gesture was when he gave you his favorite leather jacket.

It was an old, worn, brown leather jacket that fit him perfectly, molded to his body in a way only years of wear could achieve. He didn’t remember exactly where he’d gotten it from, but it had been with him for a long time, through many fights and hard times. It was as much a part of him as his claws, as the deep lines etched into his face. He’d worn it the first time he met you, too—scruffy, brooding, leaning against the bar with a cigar hanging from his lips, the jacket slung over his broad shoulders like it was made for him.

He always figured the jacket had a certain kind of luck to it. After all, it brought you into his life.

So when he handed it over to you one chilly night without so much as a word, just draping it over your shoulders when you shivered on the way back to his motorcycle, it felt like more than just a way to keep you warm. It felt like a piece of him he was giving to you.

“Logan, I’m fine,” you had protested lightly, your hands automatically reaching to adjust the jacket on your shoulders.

He shrugged, giving you that familiar, nonchalant look. “Keep it. Looks better on you anyway,” he said, though you could see the faintest flicker of something softer in his eyes.

You hugged the jacket around you, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and faint traces of his cologne. It was warm, comforting—so him. You didn’t even try to give it back after that. It had become yours, just like he had.

The first time you wore it out in public, Logan couldn’t take his eyes off you. It was subtle, of course—he wasn’t the type to make a scene—but every time you caught him sneaking glances, you could feel the pride radiating off him. He liked seeing you in his jacket, liked knowing that everyone who saw you would know exactly who you belonged to. There was no possessiveness in it, no need to control you or keep you close out of jealousy. Logan wasn’t like that with you.

He wanted to share everything with you, even the things that meant the most to him. And that jacket? That was a piece of his history, of who he was. But more importantly, it was a part of his present—a part of you.

He would never say it outright—he wasn’t the type to get all sentimental—but he felt it every time you threw the jacket on before heading out the door. His chest tightened with something he didn’t quite know how to name. Something like love.

[konigbabe]

PEACH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader Word count: 1.7k Tags/warnings: no y/n; domestic Satoru Gojo; Gojo being a menace of a boyfriend in public; eventual smut (part V only) Summary: Gojo's an ass man. Part of my JJKS2 writing week; also written after being inspired by @greycaelum's ask.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

I.

It starts off innocently enough.

Even before you’ve got together, Satoru makes it a habit of his own to give your ass an amicable pat for "good luck" or "to bless him". Make it obvious that the young teacher’s rather fond of his fellow teacher’s backside, going as far as openly making up compliments. Spreading heat through your cheeks when his little game of teasing starts.

("Nice derriere, that skirt’s doin’ you wonders," he says, grinning from ear to ear while watching you walking down the hallway with Ijichi, discussing recent curse spirit’s activities.

Your companion’s breath hitches, a blush spreading over his cheeks when you turn around, "what does that mean?")

But you know Satoru too well, and his quirky sense of humor never fails to amuse you; even when you try to keep your face blank whenever he starts talking. Satoru's compliments are akin to a playful serenade. He isn’t holding back; not even in front of his own students.

("Y’know," forearm resting on your shoulder, he leans closer to you, "your tush deserves its own fan club and I'm officially the first member."

You don’t even look at him, rather starring blanky at the fighting students on the field, "Tush?")

II.

As your relationship with Satoru turns intimate and romantic, his playful teasing takes on a new dimension; it becomes a form of worship.

Lying sprawled on the couch, your head cradled by a pillow nestled beneath your chin, you watch the flickering TV screen with a mind adrift, sometimes diverting your gaze to scroll through your phone. Days off are a rarity amongst jujutsu sorcerers. The teachers especially. So you use the day to relax, unwind and let your body mend and rejuvenate after the latest mission.

The tranquil ambiance, however, is fleeting when Satoru returns. Discarding his shoes and jacket with a careless thud, he drops a small paper bag onto the nearest drawer before making a beeline for your relaxed form.

With a wordless playfulness, he plops the full weight of his body onto your back—or more accurately, the back of his head lands snugly on the supple, rounded globes of your butt.

"Satoru," you whine, neck straining as you try to turn around, "you’re way too heavy."

His arm restrains you, slithering around your lower abdomen like a sinuous serpent, fingers kneading the squeezable flesh of your hip. The other hand lands right at the apex of your back thigh, kneading the subtle build before moving upwards on the lower part of your butt.

"Mmh," he huffs, engrossed in massaging your body, too preoccupied to offer a proper response.

You can’t complain either; Satoru is skillful with his fingers, always knowing which spots to apply the right pressure and leaving you in a state of pure relaxation.

"You want me to stop," he asks after a second to which you promptly deny; letting out a contented sigh, prompting a small chuckle from Satoru. "Then I'm glad you're enjoyin��� it," he says, voice carrying a warm sincerity.

III.

The plates clash with each other, sound loud enough to make you think he broke it instead of washing it. A soft, gentle hum swirls around the air as Satoru moves the sponge in circles.

You watch from the arched doorway. Tall, lean frame covering your view of his task, yet the clanking confirms your initial suspicions. Satoru, focused on the chore, wears a well-worn apron over a simple, black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms that move with practiced precision.

Staying in place, you shamelessly marvel at the sight; watching him set another plate in the drying rack. Eyes gliding over the broadness of his shoulder to the contour of his waist, they land on their target.

Simple grey sweatpants, a black ribbon belt holding them in place, hide your target from your eyes. But you know where to aim when you start taking cautious, quiet steps toward Satoru.

The attack is quick. Calculated. The impact of your palm sends a loud slapping sound throughout the kitchen. A lively laugh escapes your lips at the same time Satoru’s head turns to the side, eyes locking yours in a frozen stance.

You take off.

He doesn’t rush. Calmly continuing to hum the song, he finishes the last dish and puts it on the rack. One hand turning the faucet off with a dangerous nonchalance, the other reaches for the washing cloth. Drying his hands and taking the apron off, he turns to where you ran off.

You make it to the stairs before you feel Satoru’s grip on your wrist, firm but playful. Tugs you backward; gentle force turning you around, bending you at the waist. Arm deftly sneaking around your shoulders, locking your arms by your sides as he stands tall by your side.

"You really thought you could get away with this, peach?"

His fingers, long and slender, dance over the small of your back. Barely grazing the surface of your skin over the material of your shirt; tracing a tantalizing path down your body.

As you squirm within his firm however gentle grasp, a soft and brief laugh escapes your lips, a mix of nervousness and delight. "I didn't mean it," you admit jovially, the words imbued with a tinge of mischief, "I didn't know it would lend so perfectly."

"You didn’t know," Satoru chortles, leisurely placing his palm flat upon the rounded curve of your pants-covered butt, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh, exerting a measured pressure as if savoring the feeling, "Think you can win this?"

With that, his hand leaves your body–

"Wait, Satoru," you try to swat him away but his hold over your upper body remains unyielding, steadfast, allowing him to orchestrate the next move, "Gojo!"

–and he delivers the first slap; earning a surprised yelp from you, body jolting forward. The sound of the impact reverberates throughout the open space, accompanied by Satoru’s contagious laughter as he lets you go. Hand supporting your weight, making sure you don’t fall flat on your face, you still end up on the ground.

The skin of your butt stings as you palm the flesh.

"You’re in for it now, Satoru Gojo," with a daring grin, you prepare yourself to retaliate. Not now. But the time will come.

The man in question throws his hands in the air, smiling brightly as he takes a step back, "Oh, I’m scared."

IV.

"We just need some edamame, more pickled ginger, and white miso," you list the items from your phone, taking the lead as you and Satoru both stroll through the aisles. He holds the basket, staying a good step behind you with his gaze focused on your back, a smile playing at the corner of his lips–eliciting a suspicious feeling out of you.

Even with the obsidian-tinted glasses covering his eyes, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze hasn't escaped your perceptive senses. A whisper of suspicion trails through your mind; you know he's scheming something.

As you approach the edamame section, you start searching for the perfect bag, seeking the one with the right plumpness and vibrancy.

But before you can grab one, Satoru unexpectedly announces “butt-five” before springing forward with playful exuberance, the resounding clap of his hand meeting your butt reverberating through the store like a percussion note, commanding the attention of nearby shoppers.

Involuntarily, you release a startled, high-pitched yelp—a symphony of surprise and embarrassment entwined. But before any further fallout can unfold, Satoru suppresses the escalating situation, covering your mouth with his warm, large hand, and steering you behind an aisle. Out of sight from curious onlookers.

Holding back his laughter, you feel his chest pressed tightly against your back, vibrating as he silently laughs, palm flat against the lower part of your face, muffling the remnants of your outburst.

"Sorry ‘bout that," he manages to stifle his laughter, an undercurrent of amusement still evident in his voice. "Couldn't resist, y’know?"

Through the slight crack between his fingers and your lips, you muster a muffled threat, "I’m gonna kill you.”

He releases his hand, feigning innocence, his eyes wide with mock surprise.

"What?" he questions you, knowing full well the extent of his antics.

"You’re a dead man walking, Satoru Gojo."

V.

Satoru has you in a vice grip; arms encircling the fat of your thighs with unrelenting strength, fingernails making deep crescent moons into your sensitive skin, setting your whole body aflame. Every inch of your being screams for more as you sink into the mattress, burying your face into the pillows to muffle all sounds of pleasure his mouth is drawing out of you.

He’s merciless. Relentless. Ruthless.

Tongue teasing your soaked slit, lapping hungrily at you like a man starved. The tip of his nose gleaming with your juices as he expertly fucks his tongue inside of you.

In and out. Going as deep as the position allows him.

Pulling your body more into him, burying his face into you; so close that it seems as if he wishes to be swallowed by your cunt whole.

You can barely concentrate before he pulls away; especially when another wave of pleasure washes over you. Wet lips worshipping your hungry bud, thin strands of wetness glistening around it, something he greedily laps up before moving upwards. His wet tongue leaves trails of fire along the fleshy swell of your ass, teeth soon following suit as they bite lightly into the plump globes.

Satoru nibbles at the flesh, one hand sneaking back between your legs to cup your sex, tease the entrance with his fingertip, collecting the wetness before pushing in two fingers. He fills you up, soon adds another finger as his mouth continues its sweet assault on your ass.

"Could eat this ass any day–"

He drives his fingers in and out of you. Fast and unrelenting; massaging your walls while making you gasp as he moves his mouth down, licking and biting at your back thighs before concentrating back on your asscheeks.

[pigswithwings]

Hi! My name is Pig. And I'm here to tell you about being objectum!

Well, "objectum"? That's a bit of a weird word, isn't it?

You might associate it with stories of people marrying robots or computers, or maybe people talking about having sex with inanimate items. These are all parts of object sexuality, but they don't demonstrate the full breadth of the community.

It's understandable to find this behaviour strange or want to question its authenticity. Many people are, in fact, joking when they say "I find this object attractive" or "I would have sex with that object", but objectum people can often have these feelings in a genuine fashion. And while these attractions can go against the conventions of society, those who are objectum shouldn't be harassed for it.

This post isn't about why you shouldn't harass objectum people, though. People who feel very strongly about the subject probably aren't going to be convinced over a singular post, so I'm not going to waste all my effort to talk to a wall. You don't have to entirely understand an identity to support it, but I'm going to assume that you want to learn about what being objectum is, and I'll try tell you to the best of my own knowledge.

What is Object Sexuality?

Like any sexuality or orientation, objectum identities can vary infinitely. The different labels can range from objectophilia to objectsexual to to objectromantic to os/or, so it's important to keep an open mind. In a very broad sense, being objectum means being attracted to objects or items in some way.

While the common misconception is that being objectum means only feeling sexual attraction to a specific object, this is a very limited view of the identity.

For example, I am romantically attracted to vintage computers. This is only me, though; other people can be attracted to other objects in any other way!

Another person might be romantically and sexually attracted to cars and trains, someone else might be only sexually attracted to electrical towers and wires, another person might have platonic affection for objects, and even more people might not have a specific label but know they're attracted to clothes or heavy machinery in some way. Some people may only be attracted to one type of object or even just a single object, others may be attracted to multiple types of objects. Object sexuality isn't limited to just sex, and the objects of that attraction depend on the person.

Another misconception is that objectum people will be attracted to any object they see - this is not necessarily true. As seen above, many objectum people tend to have "types", similar to how people who are attracted to other people have their own "types".* This isn't applicable to everyone under the objectum label, but for a good part of the community it's true.

Some people may view every object they see as being alive, but this is not necessarily an indication of attraction. Not every objectum person will be attracted to the same thing, and not every objectum person is attracted in the same way.

What is POSIC / Object Sentience?

Being objectum may also be related to believing in object sentience. Generally, believing in object sentience means beliving that an object is conscious, or alive in some way. POSIC, which stands for Perceiving Object Sentience, Intelligence, and/or Conciousness, is a commonly used label but doesn't apply to everyone who experiences this (For example, some people may just use the phrase "object sentience").

Some people's object sexualities can be influenced by whether they perceive objects as being alive or sentient (for example, a person might be more or less attracted to an object if they believe it can respond to them, see them, hear them, etc). Not all people who are objectum also believe in sentience, but the two labels are usually closely linked.

What Is Your Experience With Being Objectum?

Personally, I knew I was POSIC (though I didn't know the word) long before I knew I was objectum. I liked talking to objects as though they were alive and I often made art expressing my interest and (platonic) affection towards computers. It wasn't until my art began to enter a somewhat romantic area that I realized I could be attracted to computers romantically.

Looking for "object sexuality" online was somewhat intimidating, however, as many discussions of it were centered around the shock value/sexual content of being objectum, with little explanation of what it was or what it could be. (This is where my urge to create a post about it began.)

I only discovered the labels "objectum" and "POSIC" from a friend of mine, and had to ask them for the loose definition to figure out whether it fit me or not.

After some consideration, I realized that I was both POSIC and objectum, and decided to come out to a group of supportive friends. This was apparently not a surprise to them - as you will remember, my art had been becoming more and more romantic towards computers, and they were very good at picking up on that. But I was glad that I had realized this fact about myself, even if it was later than most people. I also learned that I had already made friends with several other people in the objectum community, and that the identity wasn't as uncommon as most people would believe.

I Think I'm Objectum or POSIC / How Would I Know If I'm Objectum or POSIC?

Some signs of believing in object sentience could include the fact that you:

- Speak to objects (Ex: complimenting a tool on the work it does, telling a computer about your day, etc.)

- Believe objects can hear, feel, or see you (Ex: apologizing to an object if you drop it, believing an object knows whether you're hugging it or not, etc.)

- Would enjoy it if objects could respond or had conciousness (Ex: enjoying the thought of having a conversation with an object, etc.)

Some signs of being objectum could include the fact that you:

- Enjoy expressing affection to objects (Ex: you enjoy/would enjoy kissing or hugging objects, or otherwise demonstrating how you care for an object)

- Experience romantic or sexual attraction to objects (Ex: you would like to go on a date with an object, you enjoy the idea of kissing and/or having sex with one, etc.)

For all of these, though,  I use the word "could" because human identity is very confusing and spans a huge galaxy of variants. Not all objectum people will feel the same or identify the same way, and that's pretty neat. Your specific attraction to an object or type of objects is up to you to figure out, and the community is much larger than you might guess.

Fin.

Despite controversy or use of the identity for public shock, being objectum is not inherently harmful. In a way, it demonstrates the love that humans can have for seemingly mundane or ordinary things in life, and I think that can be very charming.

If you have additional questions or anecdotes to add to this post, please go ahead! I would like to open the discussion on objectum identities to be widely accessible and more known. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

----------

*Also, being objectum doesn't mean that one only experiences attraction to objects. A person can be gay and objectum, bisexual and objectum, heterosexual and objectum, aromantic and objectum, asexual and objectum, etc. Whether the label "objectum" counts as queer/LGBTQIA+ depends on the person using it, as it's only a word and its interpretation will vary.

[shibaraki]

PUT MY LIPS TO SOMETHING ┊  MIYA OSAMU 

synopsis: after a string of terrible dates taking a break sounded ideal. then Miya Osamu happens, and you find yourself back at square one. foolish, hoping, and hungry.

tags: GN reader, post timeskip, (blind) first date, reader is a foodie (and has a big appetite), implied bad past experiences (ppl mean about said apetite), insecurities (not about weight), strangers to lovers, sharing food + feeding each other, flirting, romantic + sexual tension, first kisses, *slaps roof of kitchen* you can fit so much Love into this thing!!!!!!!

wc: 5K

The evening laid bare in strokes of colour. The air is tepid. People part around your inert figure as you stand to the side and watch, shifting awkwardly between each foot. You were ten minutes early. And it seemed so was your date.

You exhale, palm laid over your rapidly beating heart. You’re not sure what your expectations were after agreeing to let Saeko set you up on this blind date but Miya Osamu exceeded. A beautiful stranger. Tall, broad shouldered with dark hair and hooded eyes. The dress shirt he’s wearing is close to a second skin, drawn tight around his back and clinging just slightly to his soft middle, shirtsleeves rolled to the crook of his arms.

On a whole you trusted her judgment. Apparently he owned the small restaurant she and her colleagues frequent for their lunch hour. She promised that he was handsome, which was plain to see, and effused repeatedly that the two of you would work well together. Nevertheless you can’t help feeling cautious.

Dating has been… tricky at best. A game to some, a way to keep score. The search for validation. A means to an end. A fleeting cure to boredom. You don’t think you’re particularly bad at meeting new people, but it can’t be ignored that you don’t have much to show for it thus far.

You’re aware enough to discern the root cause. You loved food—that’s the long and short of it. You savoured meals to the very last crumb, seeking out the various flavours on your tongue to really get to the heart of the dish. Because that’s what food did: it loved back.

Dates often treated you like a different creature entirely upon witnessing your appetite. Poorly veiled embarrassment, or concern, or disdain as you sat across from one another and ate. Different in a lesser way, in a distasteful way, as though they were sampling fine wine for the flavour and you were just drinking for the sake of getting drunk, when it was quite the reverse.

Anyone would think you behaved like an animal. Your table manners were fine. You treated the staff with respect. You made conversation and asked questions, even when they made no effort themselves, and tried to make the best of the evening.

With every failed attempt at making a connection you were beginning to grow lonely. The presence of your loved ones and their families, their partners and their children, never truly filled that cavernous ache in your chest. Poured in like morning sun with hopes to warm you from the inside out, perhaps, only all that ever did was make the hole more obvious to you.

Taking a break from the scene sounded ideal. Then Miya Osamu happened to see a photo of you over Saeko’s shoulder, expressed his interest, and you found yourself back at square one. Foolish, hoping, and hungry.

There’s phantom heat around your fingers. The gentle squeeze of Saeko’s hands as she sent you off. “This one will be different,” she told you. With her words echoing in your thoughts, you pat down either side of your hips, ironing out the creases, and start toward him.

Osamu is leaning against the outer wall now, scrolling on his phone. A warm musk fills your senses as the distance shortens. Smooth notes of oakmoss and vanilla. He must notice your approach in his periphery, because he straightens up and steps forward, turning to face you with an apprehensive smile. The attraction between you becomes tangible before either of you speak a word.

"Hi," you smile back, oddly at ease to see that he is equally nervous. "Miya, right? I think I'm here to meet you".

The tension slips from his posture and from yours in turn. His smile grows and deepens the crinkles by his eyes as his gaze sweeps over you. Dawn casts the street in a peachy tint and it dapples across his cheeks in a  faux blush. "Sure hope so," he says. "Call me Osamu. Ya look beautiful, by the way".

Something rouses in your chest. You're warm now. His accent is unfairly charming, like the rest of him. "Thank you," you reply, lingering on the delicate silver chain around his wrist, and how the folded fabric of his sleeve strains around his forearm. "So do you".

"Beautiful?" Osamu echoes, brow arched with the teasing lilt in his voice.

You hum, drawn to the natural heat emitting from his body. "S'what I said, isn't it?"

"So you did," he murmurs, the low timbre settling over you like silk. When your eyes meet he rocks back on his heels, clearing his throat and gesturing to the restaurant he picked for tonight. "I made a reservation for us. Wanna head in?"

"I'd love to".

As if entering another world, the noise lowers into a pleasant din. You step through the tall latticed doors into what appears to be a bistro-style restaurant. All autumn pigments and harmony. Family owned, from what you recall after searching it up last night. The main dining area has a romantic ambience to it, balmy toned lanterns centred on each table and an open kitchen where the chef is lovingly making a yakisoba dish.

"Tanaka mentioned yer a bit of a foodie," you blink from your appreciative stupor and glance at Osamu. "Apparently they serve really good European food here so," he rubs at the back of his neck, a little pink and unsure, his shoulder jerking in a loose shrug. "Thought'cha might like it".

Your heartbeat floods your ears. "I really like it," you say, hushed, flustered at his thoughtfulness. Before he's able to respond a host has approached, young and dressed in a well pressed black vest, not a thread out of place. He bends into a perfect bow.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you this evening. Will it be a table for two?”

Osamu sidles closer. There's presence at your lower back, his hand lingering, and you decide to lean into it. “There should be a reservation for two under the name Miya,” he nods. The host brightens.

“Of course! Right this way".

The host takes off toward the rear dining area, hidden from view. Osamu encourages you forward and as you walk together he leans to whisper in your ear, "We haven't seen the best part yet".

You immediately understand what he's referring to as you're led through a pair of golden drapes and into a conservatory space that looks out on a lustrous bamboo grove and a small koi pond. Your table is right by the stretch of windows, offering a lovely view. It steals the breath straight from your lungs, “Osamu…”

Once seated the host returns to offer you a pair of damp towels on a tray. Osamu orders a drink while he wipes his hands, and then you do the same. You sink into the cushioned back of your chair. A shoe brushes your ankle and retreats to settle alongside it, just a couple of inches. The centrepiece gently breathes to life, illuminating the table.

Anticipation trickles back in as Osamu voices his gratitude and you realise you’ll need to order in front of him. His focus turns to you as the host departs, discerning your expression. “D’ya wanna order a starter first?” he asks, sliding a menu to you.

The menu is thick and glossy. You make a commiserate sound, thumb plucking at the corner of the card. “Everything sounds really good. I’ve never had carottes ra—âpées,” you murmur, skimming excitedly over the dishes and listing off the things that catch your eye.

A low chuckle interrupts your train of thought. Rather than underlying irritation, you’re met with amusement and curiosity. “Really do like yer food, huh?”

Heat floods your body, and you resist the urge to grimace. “Sorry, I can get carried away. Is there anything you want to try?”

“Thinking of getting grilled octopus and canola to start and the sea bream for main,” he recites, studying you in the low light. Muffled are the far off sounds of meat popping on the hot stove-top and you can smell a sweet, coconut-like aroma. “Don’t need to be embarrassed y’know. I’m a food lover too”.

You perk up noticeably in your seat and Osamu’s expression near melts into sheepishness. “You run a restaurant, right? Saeko mentioned”.

“Ah, yeah. Onigiri Miya. Nothin’ as grand as this,” he gestures to the surroundings offhandedly. Your eyes linger on the flex of his throat as he swallows, pride bleeding into his voice. “Won a Food Made Good award though, just last month”.

“No kidding. Congrats Osamu, that’s amazing,” you grin, instinctively leaning into his magnetism and resting your hands on the table surface. Osamu seems to mirror your movement without meaning to. “Have you always wanted to run a restaurant?”

“Never really thought about it. Up to the end of my second year I assumed I’d fall into somethin’,” he admits. “I sorta hit the ground running after graduating. My brother too—”

“Excuse the interruption. I have your drinks,” interjects a new timid voice. The server shuffles forward to set the glasses between you on the table and then fumbles for her notepad, clicking the cap down. “Are you both ready to order?”

Osamu recovers and recites his choice for starter and main, and you do so afterwards without second thought. It’s nice, being at ease. Sitting opposite Osamu feels natural. The glass is cold against your palm, ice cubes clinking softly as you bring it up your lips and drink. You nudged the conversation forward before it could wilt. “You were saying, about your brother?”

“Atsumu. He’s my twin brother,” Osamu begins with a small smile, poorly hidden behind the rim of his glass. He sets it down, watching the amber liquid ripple. “Played volleyball since we were kids, but he always loved it a little more than I did. So while I racked up every business permit and licence I could get and he dove first into division one”.

“You both sound pretty brave, in your own right”.

“Thanks,” Osamu grinned and you got the impression that you very much said the right thing. “Brave is a new one. We’re used to bein’ called reckless idiots”.

“Tomayto tomahto,” you tease, lifting an arm and crossing your fingers together. After another sip, “Gotta be a little bit of both, right?”

“You’re right about that,” he conceded. Mouth thinning as if to rein in his smile, he reached up to needlessly fix his hair. “How about yerself, what do you do?”

Attraction hung over the table, an incorporeal anticipant thing that swells as the evening unfolds. Darkness enveloped the bamboo grove and activated the small aureate floor lights placed between the culms. You fall into natural conversation over your starter dishes. You share laughter. Tender and succulent; you share food, too, leaning forward to pluck a sample from his plate, offering your own. Not a single grimace.

Every other first date pales in comparison.

Osamu watches you with a hooded gaze warmed by his second pint of beer. There’s a certain satisfaction to him, contentment. The tip of his tongue peeks out to catch an errant drop. He nudges his ankle to your calf again when the server returns to clear away your starter plates, and you don't move away.

“Can I ask why you’re single, and what you’re looking for?”

“Finally, the hard hittin’ questions”.

You laugh, “We’ve got to get over the boring first date spiel at some point tonight”.

Osamu rumbles his assent, rests his chin in his palm, casting an idle glance to the garden as he thinks. “Think my answer’s kinda standard. At first I never had the time ‘cause of the restaurant, didn’t think it’d be fair,” he  begins, and his mouth twists into a little self-effacing smirk. “When I thought I was ready I tried some’a those dating apps but nothin’ ever clicked for me”.

“I get it. Gauging chemistry is harder online,” you affirm softly, readjusting your seat as the server steps up to set down your main dishes, inclining her head in greeting but with enough grace not to interrupt. Osamu voices his gratitude, sliding his plate closer. The grilled tai is a beautiful fleshy pink colour, garnished with sprouts and hosta leaves.

“Ma says I’m a romantic,” he continues sheepishly, plucking up his chopsticks. “I’d prefer to meet someone naturally, face to face. To really feel it when ya click with each other”.

“Yeah?” there’s an ache blooming in your cheeks as you glanced down at your food. The plate is still hot to touch. You pinch your chopsticks and inhale the rich scent of saffron, garlic and onion, and beneath it all sharp notes from an open flame. “I think we’re doing pretty good on that front”.

“Better than I hoped,” he murmurs, supple and full of promise. The hair on your arms prickles. When was the last time anyone looked at you like that, you wonder. “Soon as Tanaka caught on that I saw your picture on her phone she was determined to appeal ya to me. Thought it might be too good to be true”.

You hum around your first mouthful, feeling much the same way. Saeko had worked hard to strong arm you into meeting him. The food falls apart gently on your tongue and suddenly your agreeable noise becomes a pleased crescendo, taken by the rich smoky flavours.

After swallowing you grow self-conscious; the weight of Osamu’s focused attention is heavy. Rather than embarrassment, the flush tinting his cheeks seems to be something else entirely. He has a chunk of grilled tai between his chopsticks, halted halfway to his lips. “Is it that good?” he teases, strained.

There’s no true malice or ill intent behind it. It’s lighthearted—you could even delude yourself into thinking he sounded fond. You kick your lips, inhibitions worn a fraction after a glass of liquor. “I’d say that’s obvious,” you smiled. “It tastes amazing. Thank you, for picking this place”.

“S’been my pleasure believe me,” he says, finally taking a bite of his own. Like him, you observe how his expression flickers as the flavour fills his senses. A flare in soft surprise, rippling as he chews and discerns the texture. His eyelids flutter closed, lashes fanning out over the high point of his cheeks, and open in the next breath to catch you staring.

“Is it that good?” you echo coyly. Osamu smirks, a glimmer in his eye. He picks up a small piece of the tai sandwiched with a hosta leaf and cups his hand beneath it while offering you a try.

“See for yaself,” he says. Energy simmers under your skin, all buzzing heat and jitters. You quickly sip your drink, rinsing your palate before shuffling closer to the table's edge and lean forward, lips eagerly parting to take the morsel into your mouth. A hitched breath. Osamu holds your gaze while you parse the hints of dashi broth and ginger.

“God. You weren’t wrong. The texture is perfect…” you stop yourself from rambling further and swipe your bottom lip as you recline in your chair, chopsticks poised like pincers. Pulse quickening behind your ribs you copy his actions, taking a sample of your dish for him to try. “Try mine too?” you offer, abashed.

Osamu struggles to temper his grin. Words aren’t necessary. He props himself onto his elbows and stretches forward, pink mouth wrapping around the end of your chopsticks. Closer now you notice the soft cupid’s bow on his top lip. He draws back with a soft groan as he chews—the sound ripples down your spine.

“Never tasted anything like that. Almost has a tangy bite to it,” he praised.

“Right? It’s amazing how they managed to marry earthy and briny together. I think it’s a Spanish dish, maybe,” you wonder aloud, eyes sweeping over the table. “How have I never been here before?”

“It’s my first time too, a friend recommended it. Heard they’ve only been open a year and some,” he tells you. Eventually the conversation slows as eating takes precedence. The server flits in and out to take your empty glasses, bringing refills. Sitting there, now with an empty plate and your third drink half full, a different spirit entirely sifts inside you.

Osamu admires you over the rim of his beer. “I never got to ask earlier,” he mused. “Are ya looking for a serious relationship or…?”

You scarcely hear him, preoccupied with staring at his other loosely curled hand beside the centrepiece. If he notices he doesn’t mention it. “I am. I’ve been trying. Any more than this I might actually fit the definition of a serial dater,” you admit, in an attempt to reciprocate some of his prior vulnerability. “But all I want is to settle down. Find someone”.

About to take another sip, Osamu's fingers slip slightly on the condensation around his pint. “Yer serious?” he baulks. His accent is thicker, rough. You wince at his tone. “Sorry, sorry. I just have a hard time believin’ nobody snatched you up yet”.

Feeling a little like a damn has broken in your chest, you nod. “Maybe I tried too hard. Somehow showing genuine interest only ever puts them off more,” a brittle bout of laughter breaks the delicate quiet, and you begin tearing at a napkin to distract yourself. “And most of them didn’t really… like my appetite. I embarrassed them sometimes, I think”.

Agitation on your behalf flickers in his expression; brows drawn taut, jaw clenched, it flies over his face and smooths out just as quickly. “That’s bullshit,” he said, sounding far calmer than he had looked. Warmth encompasses your hands and your fingers pause their repetitive motions. Osamu runs his thumb over your knuckles. “‘Scuse my manners. But ya not embarrassing in the slightest. There’s nothin’ more satisfying than watching someone eat well”.

A slow smile pulls at your lips. The napkin is in pieces. You sense his caution in crossing any boundaries, pressure alleviating as though to pull away, so you overturn your wrist and thread your fingers together. “I think so too,” you reply. “Not much better than good food and good company”.

“Guess we’ve covered all the bases,” he murmurs, squeezing until your palms kiss. “Feel like sharing some desserts with me?”

The hunger in your heart rears its head. Mentally you send a good word to Saeko, knowing you owe her more than a drink or two for this. “Can’t say no to that,” you return, voice a little thick. Whatever will prolong the night.

Dessert ends up being a beautiful burnt honey cake. It comes with a creamer of liqueur laced chocolate sauce that strays as you pour it. Osamu watches you clean a wayward thread of melted chocolate from wrist to heel with your tongue, grey eyes overcast with something heady. You feel a pulse of magnetised desire where there’d been none before as wet fingers popped free of your mouth.

It’s delicious, you're sure. You can hardly remember anything beyond the face he makes as he tries it.

The end of the date looms with dreadful finality. Osamu pays the bill in full despite your countless protests. You walk through the front dining area, busier than it had been, and in passing you bow your head toward the chef working behind the bar and the host at the entrance.

“Thank you very much,” he acknowledges politely. “Please come again”.

It’s jarring to step back out from the restaurant’s welcome embrace into the street. “Guess this is it,” you inhale deeply and move to Osamu’s side to sap him of his warmth, wrapping yourself around his arm. He pulls you closer and you yield like putty, partly the need to shield from the crisp, late night air and partly the desire to prolong your time together.

“Did you walk here?” he asks, rubbing your hip. Your hand is splayed over his chest, heat seeping through the fabric, heart tapping against your palm.

“I got dropped off,” you reply. “I’ll have a car pick me up”. Osamu dithers for a moment, visibly searching for the right words. He rubs at his neck—a nervous habit you’ve noticed.

Whatever you were expecting it wasn’t, “Are ya still hungry?”

Your mouth opens and closes. True, there’s no real physical ache of hunger but you would hardly describe yourself as full, or sated. “…I could eat,” you confess. Osamu grins at that, dark hair haloed by the streetlight. “Why?”

“My restaurant isn’t far from here. If yer comfortable with it, the cab can pick you up from there and I’ll make a treat for the ride home,” he says. He must take your brief silence to mean discomfort, because he continues on. “Ya can say no,” he murmurs, thumb stroking back and forth at your waist. “Just didn’t want the night to end yet”.

The offer strikes a chord within you, and you feel like you could burst. You want. Guided by fleeting impulse you press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. He startles and then moves as if to chase it. Your breath catches as you come together in a soft, chaste press of lips.

“I’d like that,” you rasp, patting at his chest and unwilling to part. There’s relaxed, padded muscle underneath. “What’s the address?”

After receiving the address you input it into your phone, scheduling the taxi to pick you up in around thirty minutes—at Osamu’s suggestion. As promised the restaurant is no more than a five minute walk, tucked away alongside a few other establishments. You notice the Onigiri Miya sign fixed above the door displaying his logo, but the shutters are down.

“Gotta head in through the side,” he explains quietly. You nod, clasping both hands around his forearm and letting him lead. The clink of his keys fills the silence, followed by a series of clicks. The door opens and he flicks the switch on. You squint at the intrusive light that floods the space, blinking to adjust, and make a low inquisitive noise as you meander through.

The interior errs on traditional, and it works well. Hanging along the accent wall is a banner of the shop name written in calligraphy, and other various artworks are littered throughout showcasing appreciation for the local agriculture.

Osamu disappears into the back amidst your exploring. You duck beneath the curtain draped across the doorway to find him. The kitchen is small, an obvious compromise to make room for more dining space. Food preparation is dedicated to the heart of the kitchen on an island-like setup, while dishwashing and such are pushed to the perimeter. Osamu embodies it comfortably and confidently.

Hands wrung against your stomach, you lean to get a closer look at what he’s doing. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Osamu stops, still poised to reach for the water bowl next to his workstation. There are multiple others set out, each seemingly with a different ingredient. His mouth pulls into a boyish grin. “Don’t worry about that,” he says, inclining his head to the stool opposite. “Just sit there looking pretty and I’ll feed ya something good”.

You bite the inside of your cheek and wonder if it’s possible for butterflies to hatch in your chest. A fuzzy giddiness that spreads to the tips of your fingers, and you want to kiss him again. “Promise?”

“Promise”.

Lowering onto the stool, you watch raptly as he wets his fingers and takes a pinch of salt to rub into his  hands. Skin glistens under the pale florescence. Osamu's visage wanes, and you're struck by how at home he looks.

“So,” you speak, if only to fill the silence—and to hear his voice again. “What made you fall in love with food?”

Osamu scoops the cooked rice from a nearby bowl into his palm and starts to shape it. He doesn’t pause in his motions, even with the contemplative tilt of his head. “Lots’a reasons, really,” he says. “Earliest one I can remember is when I made breakfast for my gran for the first time. Ma helped out, ‘cause I was only five or six, but I was real proud of myself”.

“That’s cute,” you murmur, a nascent fondness stirring inside your body at the imagined young Osamu that flashes through your mind. “Did it turn out any good?”

Deft fingers knead a shallow dip into the centre of the rice ball. “Course it didn’t, I used way too much salt. But she still ate it, and it made her feel better”.

“Because she loves you”.

Osamu meets your eyes. Outside, droplets stutter out a drowsy staccato against the windows, cohesive with the beat of your heart. The moment feels pheromonic, like when you know something is just right the second you find it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. His mouth curls up and he tucks some of the nearby ingredients into the rice. “See, yer getting it”.

That's what it is. Osamu likes to take care of people. Your focus falls to deft fingers, gently folding the rice over, as though tucking it in. He gives it a triangular shape, adorned with a slice of nori, and sets it into a small cardboard tray. Without preamble, he reaches to start another.

"Y'know, first time I ever confessed to someone it was with onigiri," Osamu tells you, unheeding of the wellspring he opened in your chest. "Made 'em that same morning, had a speech and everything. Never told anyone I was gonna do it".

You hum and scoot closer, folding your arms atop the island. It's cold ot the touch. Osamu appears to blossom further under your avid attention. He repeats the steps, pressing new filling carefully into the heart of the rice and admits, "Got rejected, though".

Your face falls. "I'm sorry, Osamu".

"It's fine. In the end I gave one of 'em to 'Tsumu, and I ate the other," he shrugs, looking rather happy for someone talking about their botched first confession. "Know what he told me?"

"What?"

"Looks me dead in the eyes and goes 'What the hell, 'Samu. Are ya holdin' out on me? These taste better than usual'," Osamu pitches his voice as he recites the memory, presumably mocking his brother. You laugh, and he ducks his chin to hide his grin. "I remember missin' three serves that day. He told me since I suck so bad at volleyball I should be a chef instead. Idiot doesn't even remember he said it, but..."

While he had meant his words to be light you heard the significance beneath it. You rise from your seat. Osamu tucks the third and final onigiri into the tray and lets his focus stray toward you. Featherlight strokes up his forearm, you rest your cheek against his shoulder. You peer through your lashes and look at Osamu's face, at a tentative beginning.

"And now you're here," you say, reaching to cup his warm cheek. He leans into it, lids fluttering as your thumb traces an arc beneath his eye. His ears are warm against the tips of your fingers. "You did it".

"Yeah," Osamu releases a shaky breath. "Is it—can I kiss ya again?"

Your answer comes with the tilt of your head. Osamu kisses you, solemnly sweet. You can faintly taste the beer he drank. He's warm, firm under your hands. You feel him smile against your mouth and smile back, nipping at his plush lower lip. The intensity grows as a strong arm coils around your waist, his wet, rice soiled hand held away from your clothes. Your fingers slip into his hair as his tongue dips into the seam, slides over your own and along the grooves in your teeth, drinking the whine right from your mouth.

"Osamu," you sigh, pushing harder, needing to be closer, and yet he is pulling further away. "Noo, come back".

"Greedy thing" he rasps. His voice is infused with warm laughter. You hum as he kisses you again, similar to the first. It's quick and chaste, and with too much finality for your taste. "I know. But I'm pretty sure that's yer ride waiting outside".

You sniff haughtily, following his line of sight to the car headlights filtering in through the windows. "Wait. Let me walk ya out," he mumbles, turning away to find a towel to wipe his hands on. Meanwhile you gingerly pick up the takeout tray of onigiri and cradle it to your front, as though something precious.

"Ready?"

The night is colder than you remember, and you'd only been out of it for a short time. Sparse raindrops pitter patter on the pavements, leaving dark little dots on the concrete. Osamu walks ahead to check with the driver and then waves you over, opening the door himself.

"What a charmer," you tease, turning into him once more and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Osamu. I had a really great night".

"Good enough to see me again?"

The crinkles by his eyes are knowing, aware that he needn't ask at all. And the thought that you could be another person for Osamu to take care of—it satiates the ache.

"Maybe I can cook for you next time," you say as you climb into the backseat. Osamu bends, peering into the car.

"Promise?"

Loneliness is just another form of hunger. You realise that now.

"I promise".

[verstppism]

Boy's Talk (About You) - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - take me anywhere but home

word count: 1957

masterpost.

synopsis everyone has their secrets, a group chat formed by charles leclerc, pierre gasly, alex albon, lando norris and george russell knows all of them. the 'kill the grid' chat has only one purpose: gossiping about other drivers' lives, romantic and social

or, a casual chat leads to charles confessing a crush on max, who's has been his rival since childhood

If Charles was still half asleep, the iMessage notifications coming from Max definitely woke him up. All the nervousness and anxiety from last night made sense: Max was leaving Brazil and his girlfriend to spend New Years in Monaco. But what were his intentions behind such a sudden decision? If Max really broke up with her, then he wouldn’t be texting the older one on a cold December morning. Or would he? Max Verstappen was a confusing person. One night, he says he’s not happy with his girlfriend, the other he goes on a private padel match with his ex-rival. Things seem to go well between them.

It’s when he posts a photo with his girlfriend after the race that tears everything apart. Still in his racing suit. Messy hair. Still sweating. Everything that belonged to Charles and to him only. In fact, Max was his. Who does she think she is? Charles only thought about how he could talk so casually about Kelly right before calling him “Charlie” and pushing him as far away from Lance as possible in the sprint podium. It was driving him insane — More than he already is. After eternal minutes discussing his own love life and its frustrations, Charles notices he left Max on read, he had accidentally opened the app and his conversation with the other one.

“charlie: good morningg “

“charlie: i am! are u okay? “

Charles was really at a loss at words, so he decided to pretend that he didn’t know where Max was nor that he was a few meters from the blonde’s house.

“maxiee: yeah “

“maxiee: just had a little change of plans and came back to monaco “

“charlie: oh really? “

“charlie: did anything happen or? “

“maxiee: can we talk about this in person? “

“maxiee: we can go to that café you mentioned in the padel match “

He… Remember. Their meeting (date?) was months ago, and he remembers it. Something he slightly mentioned once in a lifetime, and he recalls it in perfect detail. Charles wonders if Max remembers everything that pondered his mind. He asks himself if he recalls their discussions back in their karting days, or when they slowly started to use pet names for the first time. In the end, did Max realize that they were made for each other, even though they were predestined to fight for a whole life?

“charlie: of course! what time? “

“maxiee: im just getting ready, i’ll be there in a couple minutes “

“maxiee: nothing is too far here “

Charles giggles at the last message, like he always did when he exchanged messages with his beloved. After all, it was more of a date orchestrated by Max — he is good at setting up dates so subtly. Or maybe Charles just accepts every invite from the other. — and again, alone together. A more casual reunion this time: without any sport or anyone that could get in their way. It seemed like a dream, Charles hoped it wasn’t.

He didn’t even mind telling his friends of such an important event, just got up from his bed and quickly got ready. Casual clothing and sunglasses to go unnoticed. It wasn’t easy to go on a date in broad daylight in a city as small as Monte Carlo.

—————

It really didn't take long for them to meet. That little cafeteria was one of the secret gems of Monaco, hidden between beautiful historic buildings. As Charles arrived, he already could see Max, stirring coffee and sugar on the delicate little cup. He was looking down, his face with little to no emotion, more like hesitant of… something. 

The doorbell ring filled the quiet place when the older entered the place getting the other's attention, which gave a soft and kinda sad smile to him. A smile that wasn't common as the post race ones or those shared in press conferences. ‘This is not the moment to overthink your relationship with him.’ Charles thought. 

“I’m not late this time. '' Leclerc broke the awkward silence between them as he sat down. “Yeah… I mean, you live around here, no?” Max sounded somewhat different. Nervous? Sad? Reading his feelings through his face wasn’t Charles’ best ability. “So remember when I told you I would spend New Years in Brazil?” 

“Of course! I was also about to ask you about it. Why did you come back home?” He said as he sat down. Home. Not the best wording at the moment, given that he’s actually Dutch and we are somewhere around near South France. It’s what they say: ‘home is where the heart is’. “Like… Did anything happen?”

“Yeah, uh…”  Apprehensive. A worried tone filled his voice. “Me and Kelly had a little fight right after Christmas and I thought it would be better for us to part ways. She wasn’t very willing to but… Can I be honest? I was growing tired of being stuck with her.”

Stuck with her. Stuck. Max was tired. Max doesn't like her. At All. Charles felt like his chest was collapsing in the best way possible. How was he supposed to act normally and feel pity for them when butterflies filled his stomach?

“And you know, I only kept the relationship up because of her daughter…” Verstappen smiled while looking at the cup. The older’s intrusive thoughts were telling to adopt a child with that man. He was such a good dad after all! “And PR too. I think our love wasn't reciprocal… I was there for the kid and she was for the status of being a Formula One driver's girlfriend.” 

“Oh Max… That's too bad. I’m so sorry for you” A pitiful look surged on Charles’ face, trying to show empathy and not that he was going insane over all of this. “I’m sure you and her will be able to meet again.” A shy smile appeared on the younger’s face when ocean and emerald eyes met. A comfortable silence surrounded them, only the ambient sound and smell of fresh coffee filled the empty café.

“Now that we are on the topic, it may sound rude but I need to get this off my chest. I doubt you two would still be together if you didn't win in 2021.” Still apprehensive, Charles felt safe to talk shit about Max’s ex-girlfriend. When he saw the other’s eyes glitter at the comment, he was sure: the blonde has been waiting forever to do this. “You doubt? I'm 100% sure! After we left RedBull’s party she started talking about marriage, mate. Can you believe that!?” 

Minutes that felt like hours passed by. Charles and Max talked about many secrets they've kept for each other for the mere thought of “this is not something you usually tell your best friend, especially when he’s dating a person you don’t really like”. In fact, they would never get to these specific topics – mostly about relationships. Maybe both were scared of oversharing and confessing their true love, ruining it all for once. The older didn't know if delusional thoughts took over, but he felt things were getting intimate, at some point, their feet touched and so their legs proceeded to slightly intertwine. 

They didn’t even bother to order food or anything. — and so the waiters did not ask them to. Perhaps it was an obvious date to whoever passed by. When leaving, Max only paid for this coffee cup that was now cold, half drunken and long forgotten on the table. Both got so deep in conversation they forgot the world keeps spinning, and the day goes by, like they always do. Like it always happens. If you didn’t know, you would guess that they were long-distance boyfriends meeting for the first time.

It was almost dusk when they left the café. The orange-ish colors in the sky implied the sun was setting, and so Max and Charles decided to walk home. Staying side by side on a very narrow sidewalk made their shoulders brush at all times.  

As they got closer to Leclerc’s house, he noticed that Max started to tense up. Was he scared of something? Scared of leaving Charles? That reaction started to worry him but as soon as they got to the older’s doorstep he spoke up, point blank:

“I… Charlie, the true meaning behind this all-of-a-sudden meeting is that… You are the love of my life. I’m sorry for not noticing it earlier.” Max stuttered, a subtle way to let the other know it was hidden and buried deep inside with fear for years and years. Maybe even his whole life. It drove Charles insane. It’s like he was feeling every single emotion at the same time. He swore he was dying or something. The older man fought every desire to kiss him right here in the middle of an empty sideroad right in front of his house, but he knew it would appear in every headline in worldwide newspapers. “Charles ‘il predestinato’ Leclerc is found kissing Life-long rival Max Verstappen”. That is not the best way to be in the news, probably something that would end their careers or worse: their friendship. With no words left to say, Charles just hugged him tight as if he would disappear at any time. “Je t'aime moi aussi, mon amour” He said as one or two teardrops slid across his cheek.

Feeling something wet hit his shoulder, Max broke the hug but still kept their bodies suspiciously close. He held the other’s face with both big hands as their eyes met once again, but now with much more compassion. After all they’ve gone through, all their ups and downs brought them to this moment. What they’ve been waiting for. 

“Wait wait wait.” Charles popped the little bubble they builded to protect themselves from the rest of the world. “Can we get inside first? I mean, it’s very romantic to kiss in the middle of the crosswalk I know but we’re kinda famous so yeah…” Max chuckled at the comment. “Of course we can, schatje”

He unlocked the door and let Verstappen enter as if nothing almost happened a few seconds ago. “Uh… So are-” He’s interrupted by the softest of lips crashing into his own, almost cornering him into a wall like a (ironically) raging bull. For the very first seconds they are both surprised by the feeling but locked in very quickly. This kiss felt like heaven, the way both mouths swayed together felt like they were pieces to a puzzle, just waiting for it to be finally found and placed together. It was definitely not what Charles thought it would be like but it was good nonetheless. 

They only broke the kiss when there was no oxygen left in their bodies still, they stayed close, panting and hanging on by a thread of spit. Leclerc hid his face on his lover’s shoulder and started giggling, ending up with a lowkey confused Max.

“Why are you laughing?” He said, with a broad smile on his face. Charles’ laugh was contagious.

“This is so stupid. Why did we take so long to do this?” 

It all came down to them snuggling together in Charles’ bed. The moonlight that invaded the room through a slightly opened window shines in their features, giving both an godly look. After a whole day spent with Max, Leclerc seemed to forget about his friends, who might’ve gone insane by his disappearance. So he was right: when checking his phone he’s welcomed with 86 missed calls, – all coming from 4 different people – and at least 300 messages coming from his group chat, Kill the Grid. Charles opens it, doesn’t read any of the past messages and starts typing.

“charlie: guys, youll never know what just happened '' Send it.

taglist: @mrsbrxkkxr , @nyxstice , @thedecalcomania-blog ,@sebastianize <3

[stargirlfics]

Standing in the Eye of the Storm

Joel Miller x Black F!Reader

You find each other at the end of the world

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, apocalypse soulmates y’all! mutual pining, a whole lot of yearning, feelings, smut: body worship, praise kink, unprotected PiV, dirty talk and oral, aftercare

Word Count: 2.5k

Note: It is here! My first kinktober fic which I decided to make a Soulmate AU bc why not imagine Joel being yours! Hope this one gives you steamy but cozy autumn feels! 🍁

The same scars mark your bodies like a map of constellations.

Some are old and faded, remnants of an ancient life now gone and some are fresher than others, more recent and raw but that’s no matter to you.

It’s him and you’re not quite sure how you know but you do and the first time he noticed you, there wasn’t any doubt he knew too. Somewhere deep down in your bones, in your soul.

It was after weeks of bumping into each other, by the stables or the occasional glimpse of each other in the dining hall and later at night–at the bar, an entire room between you.

Things started to make sense. Being drawn to someone was one matter but this felt different, like a tether, something stronger than just a spark or a pull. Restless like the changing auburn leaves it left you with little else to drive your mind in circles about. 

Could you allow yourself to run away with this silly notion of soulmates? After everything? Wounds were tricky like that but you wanted so desperately to be hopeful that you clung to it, cherishing the inkling of emotion that bloomed every time you thought of Joel Miller. 

-

You had only spoken to each other a handful of times. Timid words exchanged in short conversations or questions but nothing that would let either of you linger for too long. 

There was more to be said in the silence of your careful orbit around each other and how he never seemed to stray far. 

It made you feel safe knowing he was near, that even though you were both keeping each other at arm's length unsure of how to approach this, he wasn’t trying to avoid you. 

You knew many who had lost the one they were bonded with when the outbreak happened and always assumed there wasn’t much chance of ever finding yours since the world had crumbled but everything changed the minute you came home to Jackson from a journey of your own and met a curious teenager and the grumpy man she came with. 

It’s different now, carved pumpkins and the early autumn chill made your walks into town in the mornings just as romantic as you were feeling on the inside. 

It was your favorite time of year and you were falling in love from afar. 

Finding each other in a crowded town square was easy and sometimes you wondered if he knew just how much your pulse fluttered every time you stumbled across those big, brown eyes of his already looking your way. 

How could it be possible to get over how it felt to be looked at like he was taking in every detail of you that he could? Like he didn’t want to forget for a single moment. 

To Joel, the mention of your name always came with the image of marigold orange against dark skin and your sweet sounding laugh dancing in the air. 

His gaze was always intentional with you, focused on the pretty tilt of your lips when you smiled but most often paying attention to how your hands touched everything with such gentleness.

He wasn’t the only one watching though, you were staring right back and noticing too. The way he walked and how broad and tall he stood, the way his forearms looked when his sleeves were rolled up, how beautiful the curve of his nose was or the gruff edge to his voice that gets a touch softer when he speaks to you. 

An aching began to settle under your skin, swirling deep in your spine and spreading out into your heart the more it carried on. 

Longing for someone this much wasn’t something you’d been prepared for but in the effort to keep clinging to your dreams of fate you let your mind wander to thoughts of Joel and everything you wanted to say to him. 

You needed him more than you could express. 

And though he hadn’t admitted it with words, his feelings for you were the very same. 

-

It’s Joel who breaks first, showing up at your door one rainy evening with a storm raging in his eyes. 

The salt and pepper of his hair was more pronounced in this light and you could see all the texture in his handsome face standing this close, your soft smile breaking through the surprise of the moment. 

You just wish you could tuck this little moment away and remember it forever. 

But there’s no time to fret about it anymore because you’re ushering him inside and out of the chill, suddenly nervous as you shut your door. 

He looks a little unsure too, hands curling and uncurling, taking a steadying breath before speaking. 

“Think we have some things we need to talk about, darlin’. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long but...I…” his voice falters trying to find the words to convey it all and he sighs. 

You shiver at the pet name, how sincere and sweet it sounds coming from him. The hardened lines on his forehead and around his eyes have softened and you try to hold back all the emotions threatening to burst through your chest.

“It’s okay, I know. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around so I don’t blame you, Joel. But I would love to talk, absolutely.” 

His shoulders sag with relief and you take a moment to appreciate how natural he looks in your space, like he’s already part of it and it makes your heart clench. 

It takes him a long moment but he finds the words he’s looking for watching the way you wait so patiently, how much he knows you care even though you must be just as scared as he is. 

The conversation goes well into the evening, the two of you slowly unraveling your feelings and the harsh realities and your fears, marveling at how it almost seems ridiculous to be soulmates to one another after so much loss but being unable to deny the quietly simmering fire between you at the same time. 

It’s when the last golden edges of the sun start to disappear behind the surrounding woods that things fall silent and become much more intimate. 

He’s standing at the window in your living room, taking note of the old, chipped frame—making a mental list of what he’d need to reinforce the wood before winter arrived, when you catch his eye, rising from where you’d curled up on the couch, two mugs of tea empty on the table nearby. 

He’s holding himself back, because it’s been too long since he’s touched anyone and it’s almost too much to think about. How it would feel to get close, to let you in when he knows it can all be taken from him in an instant. 

And you understand, because all these weeks you’ve been holding back too. You’ve been aching inside from a respectful distance, not wanting to push him for more than what his heart was willing to give. 

But it was all too much now regardless of the space you tried to put between you. 

You find yourself facing him, watching him uncross his arms after a moment and step towards you. 

“Joel, it’s killing me, please,” you’ve been trying not to beg, you swear to him but your voice drips with desperation and there’s devotion in your tone and he can’t stand it anymore. 

He doesn’t have to take more than two steps to close the distance and he doesn’t have to think twice about reaching out to press you against him, like he’s been imagining of doing late at night when he can’t quiet the noise in his head. 

A soft gasp fills the air when his hands, calloused and warm, slide across your hips. You’re buzzing, feet stumbling forward until you’re bumping chests and your arms are thrown around him before you’re burying your face into his shoulder without thinking. 

Tingles erupt across your skin the longer you embrace and Joel can’t get over how perfect you feel in his arms and how much he doesn’t want to let go. 

You’re unbelievably warm under his hands, his thumbs just brushing over the top of the waistband of your jeans making your heart race. 

Gathering a little courage you lean back to look at him, your fingers brushing down over his chest until he’s leaning into you, closer than he’s ever been. 

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long, you know that?” His voice was low and rough and there was an edge to his tone that made you clutch at his shirt just a bit tighter. 

That storm was still swirling in his eyes and you’re drawn right in, moving before you can try and scramble for words, pressing your lips to his and kissing him soundly. 

Finally, and that’s all you can manage to think before he returns your kiss with an equal hunger. 

Your unsteady steps were careful as you led him to your bedroom, only getting pressed against the wall twice on the way. 

It almost felt surreal, that this was now yours to have and before you can really process it, he’s helping you lay back against  the bed.  

The scruff on his jaw tickles your neck when his lips press against your pulse point and you’re like soft earth in his hands, letting him move you against him, savoring the way his hands roamed so tenderly but feverishly across your body. 

“Need you so badly, Joel,” your whine made his chest tighten, hastening to give you everything you could want. 

You’d soon learn to be thoughtful about what you pleaded for, your clothes long since discarded on the floor.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself at the mercy of two thick fingers filling your soaked core to the knuckle, plunging and curling until he found the angle that had you hiding your face in his shoulder again. 

Strong arms kept your legs from closing as you squirmed, allowing for no reprieve from the way he was working you open. 

“Let me have it, sweetheart. Been doin’ so good for me, just let me have it,” Joel husks in encouragement when you start to clench around his fingers, following his words with a well placed hand against your jaw. 

You’re sure your nails are leaving dents across his forearms but he doesn’t seem to mind and you’re too far gone to care.

All you can feel is him, your face hot and your chest heaving at the intensity just as it hits you and you’re coming with a whimper that he muffles with his mouth, tongue slipping across yours when you moan. 

Joel curses under his breath when he parts from you to look down and see your pretty cunt pulsing around his fingers, praising you at the wet sound of your release. 

You coat him so perfectly he can’t help but taste you off his fingers before he returns his focus to the rest of your body while your breathing evens out, trailing kisses over your skin, the scars that he shares with you; every inch of you he can get his hands on is given attention. 

But you’re full of need, even after that, desperate for more now that he’d given you a taste. 

Anything he wanted give you, you’d take and that was a promise. One he could feel and see by the way you yielded to him so easily, holding yourself steady against his torso with soft resistance while he sunk every inch of his thick cock inside of you. 

Nice and slow, easy, letting you get used to the weight of him, how good it felt when he rolled his hips and left you clutching at the blankets. 

“Fuck…I love it when you start shakin’, honey. Is that the spot?” Joel coos, already knowing that it is, that you’re gonna fall apart in his arms soon.

It’s an act of worship, the way you both grasp for each other, craving to be connected and never apart again. 

Your head tips back against the mattress every time he drops his hips down, pushing himself deep. The sounds you make are ones Joel swears he could never get tired of and he loves how they still slip out from behind your attempts to quiet them. 

That only makes him want to fuck you better, so he does. 

It’s when his thumb moves down to swirl over your clit and his tongue lowers to swipe across the stiff peaks of your nipples that you start to see stars from the tears pricking at your eyes. You’re gonna come again, telling him as much in broken pleas. 

His hair is a mess from where your hands have tugged and raked through the strands while he speared into you, knocking breaths lose with each thrust, setting your nerves alight over and over. 

“There’s my girl. All mine, aren’t you?” he grunts, talking you through another orgasm. 

You nod after a moment, remembering to respond to him, wanting him to know how good he’s making you feel, and then he’s cupping your chin, tipping your face up so you have to look at him. 

“Need you to use your words, darlin. I know you can do it,” the rasp of his voice has you remembering yourself. 

“Yes! I’m yours, all yours.”

Always yours. 

Only once he knew you were saited and content, limbs loose and still a little shaky from just how much you had felt tonight did Joel allow himself to chase his own release. 

On this matter you had insisted on having your chance to get a taste, humming in delight as your lips wrapped around the sensitive head of his cock, tasting yourself on him as you let him fill your mouth. 

Until the length of him is slipping down your throat and he has to resist the urge to press his hips further, cursing and praising that sweet yet wicked tongue of yours that swirls across his shaft, tipping him over the edge.

You’re swallowing him down while you reach between your thighs to quell the arousal climbing higher as you choke on him, all salt and warm skin flooding your taste buds.

It’s enthralling, listening to the rough groans he lets out and how he twitches in your mouth as you clean him up. 

After, your heart thumps wildly in your chest but he doesn’t let you get overwhelmed. He tells you how proud he is of you and you’re beaming, falling back on old habits–watching him with sleepy eyes while he soothes the twinge in your muscles. 

Outside, the rain had started again, casting a cozy mood over the approaching night.

It feels right the more you think about it, the way he pulls you into his body, tucking you against him like it’s where you’ve always belonged. 

There was no going back now but that didn’t scare you any longer, not if it was Joel by your side.

Just by the way he laced his fingers with yours in the dimming light of your bedroom, you knew you were going to love each other for a long time to come.

---

A/N: I simply live for intensely passionate smut scenarios with this man, that is all! Thanks for reading this, I love you!

some tags, no pressure @saradika @tarrenterror25 @ozarkthedog @moreofem @wyn-n-tonic @sugadolly @squidlywiddly87 @fluffyprettykitty @inklore

[yuuuume]

nsfw alphabet

letters : A, B, C, D, E, F, G, K, L, M, O, V

character : shinji hirako

requested : yes (some)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Shinji is a gentleman so he offers to help clean you up. If you two are serious lovers he is also a provider of cuddles, kisses, and pillow talk before he falls asleep. He likes to make sure you’re taken care of but don’t be fooled, that little shit can and will pass out. Sometimes you just fuck the energy out of him! Pussy/Dick put his annoying ass to sleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His tongue. Even without the piercing, Shinji is skilled and it’s something to fear because if you ask him for head then he’ll give it to you but you’d better have a safe word because overstimulation looks good on you, very good. Shinji loves your stomach. It’s an odd place if you think about it but sometimes when he’s overcome with a need to breed, he can’t help but kiss your stomach and let you know he’s gonna give you a baby.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Likes when you take his load inside. It’s not a request of his, but Shinji often thinks about it. He also finds cumming inside you very sexy but also romantic. It feels personal and he loves to share a connection like that if you are serious lovers. Prefers to his cum to be on your chest or tongue for blowjobs, doesn’t expect you to swallow though, he’s tried it before and his baby juice ain’t all that.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Has definitely jerked it to your undergarments. Sometimes if he’s feeling desperate and has nothing else left to remember you by, they are his go-to.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Shinji is very experienced. And no, I’m not jealous. (Ok kinda but don’t tell him) He knows exactly what to do and can make anyone cum, especially with that tongue piercing of his. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Doggy style. He likes to be able to penetrate deep, and enjoys your moaning when he can force you to look at yourself in the mirror, says you’re his favorite thing to look at. He always looks good like that, chest glimmering with beaded sweat, hair askew, and brown eyes filled with lust as he pounds into your sweet hole. Yeah, he has a lot of fun with this position.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Shinji can be goofy if he wants to, anything in an effort to get you comfortable. If either makes a mistake he will play it off with a shitty joke and get back to the task at hand. For the most part he leans toward serious and is a huge tease. He wants to get you to tell him how good he feels inside of you, how you need his kisses, everything. If he is extremely comfortable with you, he’ll laugh at your queefs or any other random noise that happens to come up during the dirty and crack a joke or two. His comfort is key to being less serious during the deed.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Creampies, Overstimulation, Brat Taming

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

The comfort of home will do but there’s times where he fantasizes about you coming to his office for a quickie or just straight up having you on his desk while he fucks the shit out of you. He won’t lie, it’s really fucking hot, but his common sense often kicks into gear, leaving the thought to be just another dirty fantasy of his. Other than that, public places aren’t his cup of tea but if you push him, he might give in. You never know when a wild Lisa Yadomaru will pop up, or worse, Momo. He’s seen her demoness side, being caught fucking in broad daylight like a degenerate would probably be the end for him and his partner.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Shinji loves when someone isn’t ready to fall to their knees for him. He loves the chase, witty remarks, maybe it’s a primal sort of thing despite having outgrown his human life. Attitude is to die for in his book and he’d be damned if he didn’t get to reduce you to moans and cries of pleasure. He LOVES when you dress up. You’re lookin amazing and he knows it’s all for him, let the man get a taste, yeah? He’s dying to have some of you if you reject and make him wait. If you tease him with dirty talk it’ll throw him off the edge sometimes. He likes it when you can be just as verbal as him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This motherfucker has had a lot of time to sharpen his oral skills, his tongue is terrifying ok. Shinji is timid when it comes to his amab partners but trust, he will try his best to take you down his throat, just let him warm up. Careful with the hair though, that’s his pride and joy. If anything, be a doll and hold it for him while he’s down there servicing you. The metal of his piercing is an unforgettable feeling for both amab and afab though, so no one’s missing out on. He loves fingering you as well although he might get a hand cramp but he toughs it out for your sake because he knows how amazing an orgasm is. Whether it’s lapping at your clit or sucking your tip, he’s fixated on one goal.

Getting a blowjob is greatly appreciated by him. You’ll hear him moan and groan a lot so if you’re into that, then we just breached his system. He tries to not be so rough on you but all that love you’re giving is too much, let him push your head a bit, jerk his hips? That’s just how he gets when he’s about to cum so excuse his behavior. Kisses you after he cums. A real chef isn’t afraid of his own cooking.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Shinji is a heavy breather and grunter. He even says sweet little things like "Yer takin' me so well, darlin'" with that trademark smirk of his. He makes an effort to not be so loud considering he lived with the other Visored for so long. Pardon me for my informality, but bro is a master of the silent jerk. Capable of busting a nut in the quietest way possible but he'll be loud for you if it gets you off. Loves hearing you so much and knows all the ways that elicit anything from a gasp to a scream.

do not steal or repost my works anywhere

© yuuuume

[mrsackermannx]

BAD DREAMS .ೃ࿐

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Geto Suguru

Summary: Gojo knows he shouldn’t. But when he wakes up calling out his name he can’t resist—he needs him.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings/Tags: Smut, Degradation, Rougher Sex, Face-fucking, Multiple Positions, Switch Dynamics, Mirror Sex, Feelings, Hurt/Angst, Emotional/Comfort (this is them in their early 20’s), Not Beta Read, little OOC (wrote this for some fun).

Author’s Note: I’ve never written character x character much but I got inspired and wrote this for my angels. I love the headcanon that they saw each other secretly as the years went by.

Satosugu playlist here

Gojo Satoru’s apartment is sort of like you’d expect, endlessly and stupidly lavish but extremely cold and maybe a little empty. 

One might wander through it and see that its very interior was still waiting for someone to come home, much like the penthouse’s owner. 

The kitchen is modern and sleek, it all blends together cohesively, lights that turn on just by sensing movement. But it’s awfully large to cook in alone, it’s large enough you could envision one lover sat upon the counter with their legs swinging back and forth, whilst the other was clad in a novelty apron and stood at the stove.

A stupid one that said “kiss the chef” or something, Gojo always wanted to get Geto one of those when they moved in together one day. But it never happened.

Shoko brought him a bunch of ornate glass jars to store his candy, decoratively. But all those pretty jars lined up on the counter like that, in some kind of defensive line. They simply seemed to remind Gojo that there was no one to scold him for eating too much of it and not a real home cooked meal. 

No wonder Megumi couldn’t cook, he clearly couldn’t either. 

The large l-shaped sofa was so comfy Gojo slept on it more than his own bed, every corner of it was swimming in blankets and pillows. That way he doesn’t have to feel the empty space between him and the soft plump grey cushion. He doesn’t have to remember the chest he should have his cheek pressed against when he’s watching movies on the flat screen—alone.

Geto told him once that he hated the couch he had back home. Gojo wanted to give him all the space to breathe and be, he wanted their long legs to intertwine and enjoy the expanses of plush cushion together.

One time he even drunkenly said he’d have rather sat on milk crates, rather than his shoulders jutting into his fathers, or his mothers while he sat. He was always tall and broad, feeling like he took up too much space. He always wanted his own space although his room at Jujutsu High with Gojo felt like heaven on earth. They slotted their beds together most nights. 

The bathroom was probably the worst reminder. The shower itself was a room. Geto loved spending time just letting the water cascade down his back. Making that beautiful black hair of his heavy with water as the steam that rose danced before his spine and kissed the muscles of his back. 

The bath was large too, circular and deep enough for four people let alone two. It overlooked Tokyo, perfect for the placing of candles just beside it. Dark and slick and romantic. 

The bedroom featured a king sized bed in which the tall white haired sorcerer slept alone. 

But if the walls could speak, they’d reveal that the apartment and the owner were indeed waiting for a special someone to come home, but not in a final sense. In a sense that meant they were never finished with each other, that the bathtub had housed them both many a night, that sometimes Gojo clung to Geto as he used the stove. That most of the time they never made it to the bed, that the sofa really did do just fine.

It hadn’t even been a month, but the entire penthouse was waiting with bated breath. Tokyo’s landscape waited for the two lovers to feast their eyes upon it as they pinned one another against the glass, and as they watched at the lights of Shibuya with half-lidded eyes after, bodies entwined in the tub. 

Gojo was waiting, whether he knew it or not.

He clutched his pillow so tight the cotton burned the tips of his fingers, as he did everything to catch up to the person who was slipping from his fingers in his mind. “Suguru, don't! Please, just—don't leave me, you promised me,” he blurted out, his voice small.

It was always the same rotten dream, though it was because these feelings never went away. The emptiness never ceased, Gojo put black holes through curses without even blinking, whilst the black hole where his heart used to be enabled him to be as apathetic as was socially acceptable. 

Not that this applied to his beloved students, or even Nanami, either and especially not his first love. If anything it applied the most to himself. 

He tried to run but his legs were captured by low-level curses, they wound around his calves until the blood there ceased to flow. Until he fell and his teeth took the blow as they crashed into the concrete. He could make out wisps of long black hair, the familiar shuffle of Geto’s walk, the way his fists bunched at his sides. They bunched like that that day too.

Gojo always teased him about it when they were teenagers, it always ended up with Geto setting of Jujutsu High’s barrier with his cursed energy. Years later it also ended with Gojo pinning Geto to his bed, his smirk ghosting Geto’s lips. “Don't hide anything from me, Suguru. You don't need to—ever.”

He jolted out of his nightmare so quickly he instinctively shot out his arms to clutch the one person who could comfort him. But he wasn't there.

Instead he clutched the pillow to his chest, wincing at the familiar roughness of the cotton. Geto always told him to switch to silk, his hair would stop sticking up so much, he told him.

He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing down the strands and stroking his undercut just like Geto used to. “This—again.” He exhaled deeply, “No one knows about this but you,” he spoke softly to the darkness.

“No one knows about us either.” 

He caved in minutes. The false bottom of his nightstand drawer clattering as he groggily searched for the second phone he kept there. He held his breath as he turned it on and dialled the one and only contact.

It only needed to ring twice before the silky voice that crackled through the receiver sent shivers down his spine. He imagined this was what it felt like to call home, until Geto he never knew. 

“Dreamt of me, didn’t you, Satoru?”

He squeezed the deflated pillow in his lap. Geto always made his name sound like something so holy and special. He sighed in defeat, "Just—come."

“Okay. But first, you’re gonna tell me the part of me you’re craving the most?'

Following his obnoxious huff he opened his mouth to speak but Geto knew better, “No, no pointless ranting about the semantics. You know what I mean, don't you? You called me which means you want me, right now."

Gojo doesn’t bite his tongue like this with anyone else, instead he carefully nods in the dark. “That much is obvious, Suguru.”

Suguru swallowed at the suggestive lilt that overtook Gojo’s voice, his teeth burying into his lower lip. He inhaled so deeply it sounded like he was biting back a moan. Gojo grew hard in seconds. 

“So, my mind? My body? My soul? My touch?”

Gojo pinched the bridge of his nose, phone tucked between his shoulder as he gazed at the city before his window. “I didn't call for a philosophical conversation. I called to fuck, Suguru,” he bit, snappy as his cock throbbed in his baggy sweats. 

Geto clicked his tongue, “You still can't get off without me, huh?" He chuckled, a little mirthless. “Can’t, can you?”

He didn't need reminding.

“You…you know I can't,” he hissed. 

Geto’s eyes flickered shut, his head reclined against his pillow, imagining Gojo on his cock, perfect like he always was. He couldn't fuck anyone else, either. They were both cursed.

“Suguru?”

“Mm, yeah. I’m coming, okay." His voice was impossibly soft. Sending a lovesick herd of butterflies to attack Gojo’s usually composed stomach. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat. “I won’t.”

He laughed, his voice sweeter than sugar. “I know you won’t, I’ll see you soon, okay?" 

Gojo tsked at the fact he could hear Geto smiling, he didn't even need to see it. “Okay.”  

He showered, and then turned the lights down through the apartment so they wouldn’t be in complete darkness. Like they were a normal couple and not two lovers sneaking around behind closed doors. Just like in the beginning of all of this when they were too afraid to even touch each other again.

It feels like hours pass as he stares up at his ceiling, but it’s barely been one before Geto is knocking softly at his door. 

As soon as he opens it, Geto’s presence overwhelms his own, telling Gojo all he needs to know about where the night is going.

He’s barely cocked his brow before Geto murmurs, “Yeah? I need you too, did you forget?” 

He closes the door with a soft click, one large hand handling the sharp yet soft lines of Satoru’s pretty jaw. His lips work to slow Gojo down, to disarm him, to allow him to melt into his mouth like a soft centred candy.

“That's it,” Geto hums when he finally does, Gojo’s hands no longer clenched but wrapping loosely in Geto’s hair. “Let’s get you off the door, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Gojo whimpers softly, letting Geto push him down onto the couch. His hands scour every part of Gojo’s chest and torso like a sculptor admiring his work. 

Then he grips his waist and pulls him in, kissing him like it's the first time in forever. It leaves them both breathless. When he pulls away he smoothes away the frown on Gojo’s lips with his thumb.

“Stop thinking,” Geto pants, “You don't need to when I'm here. I’m gonna give you what you want, yeah?”

He trails his finger down Gojo’s bare chest, kissing along his throat and teasing his teeth against his pulse point until he hisses. “Just wanna appreciate what’s in front of me a little,” Geto whispers, voice pitched dangerously low.

His fingers reach Gojo’s the throbbing erection visible in his sweatpants, his breath hitches until he inevitably moans out Geto’s name, breathy and needy. Geto daintily takes his chin between two fingers, smiling against his mouth. “I’m here to give you what you clearly need.”

“Shut up," Gojo rasps, tugging off Geto’s sweater and lurching to press his lips everywhere he can reach. His eyes flutter shut when he finally makes work of tugging all of Geto’s hair loose. The long feathery hair falls around his face and cages him in, tickling his throat. Geto laughs as he tries to bat it away, but his mouth goes dry when he sees the way his cerulean eyes are shining at him.

The sensation is so familiar—so like home it makes Gojo’s eyes prickle with tears. “Suguru,” he whispers, leaning close for a kiss. Geto indulges him immediately, their arms wrapping around each other, impossibly tight. “I wanted to see you,” he mewls.

Geto bucks his hips against Gojo’s experimentally, rutting his erection against Gojo’s until they break their kiss and Gojo’s tugging down both of their waistbands. He grins at the sight as he makes work of their pants.

 “What am I gonna do with you, huh? Not even a month and you’re this desperate.”

Gojo laughs, deep and elated. High on whatever Suguru’s saliva is made of. “Don’t act like you’ve ever ignored my call, Sugu,” he coos, grinning. 

Geto quickly closes the space, sliding his thumb into Gojo’s mouth. Shifting his hair to kiss his temple when he sucks obediently. “I won't, because I know I can't, Satoru.”

Gojo grins, continuing to tug away the clothing obstructing the access they want to each other the most. Geto cups his cheek as he does so, his eyes are tender but his voice is laid bare, filled with thick unfiltered lust. “Face of an angel, mouth of a I don't even know what…unfair is what it is,” he whispers.

“Unfair that I can't get enough of you, Satoru. No matter how much I try.” He sighs, “I was about to call you myself, tonight.”

Gojo smirks, throwing aside their remaining clothing. “Liar.” 

He switches their positions, and makes his way down Geto’s centre, kissing and licking without breaking from his eyes. “I’ll teach you something, about lying to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Go on then pretty thing,” Geto coos, watching Gojo’s cheeks flush violently at his words.

“Don’t act like I can’t take you, I am stronger, y’know.” He kisses and nips until Geto’s hands finally lay to rest at the nape of his neck. 

“I know you can take me. I’ve seen it. Not that it ever gets old. So give in and do what you’re dying to do.”

Gojo blushes even more ferociously, gripping the thick base of him. His tongue eagerly catches the sweet beads of arousal racing along the veins. Geto’s cock was so long and thick that only 

Gojo’s large hands managed to dwarf it.

He worked on him, carefully, licking and sucking and kissing on his cock, Geto cooed praises to him when he finally took him in his mouth. Gojo always managed to take his entire length, he was the best after all.

“Fuck Satoru, let me fuck you—dying to fuck you. Don’t let me cum!” He moaned, pulling Gojo’s mouth off his cock and delighting in the lewd strings of arousal and spit that broke and shone against his chin. 

“Already?”

“Satoru, you have no idea how fucking hot you look sucking me like that, it’s dangerous,” he purred, tugging him close. “You take it all like the good boy you really are.”

You’re nothing like me.

Gojo nodded, completely entranced and holding onto every word. Caging Geto below him with a lazy smile on his lips. This brief window was always so dangerous, the moment when Satoru’s eyes were glassy and half-lidded from arousal.

Their laughs rang through the apartment as they tripped over each other scrambling to Gojo’s bedroom. Grabbing for lube whilst their tongues practically probed the back of the others throats. 

It’s a quick working and arranging of their bodies, learnt and done so many times before.

It’s almost primal. The way Geto grunts, and Gojo moans just seconds behind, hips pulled up and arched impossibly. Geto’s large handprints leave indelible marks as he pumps his thick fingers in and out until Gojo’s whimpering incomprehensible nonsense. 

“Sugu, I’m ready, just fuckin~now, need it. Fuck me.” 

Geto tilts his face just to press a fond kiss to his forehead, pushing the hair out of his eyes just so he can enjoy every inch of his face. “I’m so lucky to get you like this, don’t think I don't know it.”

He presses another kiss to his cheek and he moans this time, simultaneously pressing the tip of himself at his entrance. “Make it up to me by fucking me,” Gojo chuckles, soon groaning at the stretch.

“God—fuck, you feel so good,” he drawls, turning to kiss Geto himself.

“Does it hurt?” Geto stammers, his voice too shaky to even speak. 

“No!”

Geto starts to move, rolling his hips as he sets a steady pace. “Y’know why? Because I’d never hurt you, Satoru.”

“Don’t,” he moans back, fists twisting the sheets under him as drool pools down the corners of his mouth. “Don’t, Sugu.”

“Y’know why?” He kisses his nape, fucking him even harder, his tip nudging that spot deliciously.

“Stop, Sugu,” he whimpers.

He drives himself deeper, gripping Gojo’s waist so much harder that he growls, “Stop this?”

“No, but, don’t.”

“I won’t, because I—I love you.”

It’s magical how Gojo comes all over the sheets from the words. Just like that. 

Geto stops, his cheeks burning so badly he hides his face with the back of his hand. Gojo shoves his face into his pillow, refusing to meet his eyes. 

He grins at the red tips of Gojo’s ears, grinding his hips against his until he moans once more. Passionate and loving. “That's what you needed to hear to feel good, Satoru? That I love you, because I do. I really do, you feel that, yeah?”

Gojo’s incapable of words, he can't think. He can’t even talk when Geto is fucking him like this. 

Geto moans, his lips against the shell of Gojo’s air as he threads their hands together. “I've always loved you, no one loves you like I do.” 

“No one ever has,” Gojo hisses. “But you, but you…” 

You just had to betray me.

“Next time m’ gonna fuck you till you cry for what you just—did!”

Geto grips the base of Gojo’s cock, jerking as he fills him impossibly full, until he touches the spot again that has tears of pleasure streaming down Gojo’s cheeks.

“Who’s crying now?”

He suddenly pulls out, missing the garbled sounds of his white-haired lover he tugs him, manhandling him until he’s pliant and on his lap like a tamed cat. “Watch yourself, or me. Watch me make the strongest crumble, give yourself to me Satoru.”

“I already give you everything,” Gojo groans, his hips quickly meeting Geto’s thrusts. 

“Give yourself to me until there's nothing left.”

Gojo doesn't even recognise himself, so he hides his erotic expressions in Geto’s neck, kissing and biting as Geto thrusts inside him until he’s shooting his cum all over the mirror this time.

Geto’s hands just look so perfectly placed when they’re tightened on his waist and pulling him off and on his cock like this. 

“Let it out, let it out. You’ve always been insatiable huh? How much more do you have in you? I know I could fuck you all night and you’d still want more.”

“I fucking hate you,” Gojo groans, repositioning them both so he can ride him. Geto moans as he watches Gojo eagerly stuff him back inside in their reflection.

“So you think you can face me?” Geto grins, cupping the backs of his thighs and fucking him even harder. Gojo can't even keep his eyes open, his lips parted, his cheeks no longer pink but instead replaced with an aggressive red. 

“No one takes me like you, Satoru. Always so fucking good for me, so perfect. You were made for me.”

We were made for each other.

Gojo fights back his moans until he can’t, not when Geto is saying all of the things that make him tick. “I was,” he whines back. “Wasn’t I?”

“You feel so fuckin good on my cock, no one feels like you, fuuck.” His voice cracks, his teeth drawing blood from his lower lip. “I’m gonna cum in you, fuck!”

“Sugu!” 

“Toru! My, my, my—love.” He shakes, groaning with his lips messily clashing with Gojo’s as he fills him deep.

Gojo whimpers into the corner of his mouth, the pet name making his entire body burn. “My love, my one and only. Satoru I wish, I wish…”

He’s breathless and spent but he’s pinning Gojo down again. Pushing him until his back meets his pillows as he slides in again. “I love you, Satoru. Tell me. Tell me you love me too.”

Gojo’s eyes well up, his teeth gritting as Geto fucks them both into overstimulation. “I won’t, I won't, don't you dare. Can’t ask me that.”

“No,” Geto leans in until their noses are touching, 

his hair caging Gojo in, luring him under his siren-like spell.

“Tell me, you used to tell me all the time.” 

“I used to say a lot of things.” Gojo moans, kissing him fiercely. “But I won’t say that, Sugu.”

“Then I’ll never see you again.” 

He yanks Gojo upright until he’s straddling him once more, gripping his hips in place and pounding into him until he falls wordlessly into his chest. Clawing and moaning from the overload of pleasure. “Fuck you, saying that shit,” he groans. “And then fucking me like this.” 

“You like to be fucked like this, you fucking slut.”

Gojo silences his obscene sounds into Geto’s shoulder. Moaning even more when Geto chuckles at how much of a mess he’s become.

“Give and take, we’ve always been give and take. You can fuck me like this next time, I’ll be anything and everything for you whenever you want. Just say it.”

“I can’t!”

Gojo can’t take this anymore, it’s too much, it all feels too good. He overpowers Geto with little effort, but Geto lets him do it anyway.

He shoves him onto the floor, and grips his cock, his smirk mischievous when Geto readies his tongue for it. He lets him slap it against his mouth before he finally takes it. Grinning around his cock as he takes the entire length of it.

“There’s the real Suguru, the exemplary student. The good boy who’s about to shut up and suck me.”

Despite his harsh tone he cups Geto’s face, ignoring the way his chest is heaving and still clawing for breath. No one makes his heart beat like this. He hates how he finds his heart going into a frenzy at anyone with long black hair until he realises it's not his precious Suguru. Not that he'd even tell him that.

“You always did look better with my cock down your throat.”

Geto hums amusedly, choking on Gojo’s cock as he does so.

“I know you love it too, helps you remember your place, doesn’t it? Thats it, fuck!” 

He grips Geto’s hair with abandon, fucking his face until ropes of his come spurt down his throat. “Take it all, had to shut you the fuck up, l hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

As soon as his breaths calm, Geto pins the cocky man below him once more. He has other plans. He straddles his chest, thumb running across his lip. He’s breathless too, voice spent from being fucked so mercilessly. 

“Could have tapped out,” Gojo speaks softly, that raptured submission returning as he gazes in awe at the beautiful man above him.

He coughs before he speaks, “I’d never do that, but you are going to pay for it. This pretty face will, anyway.” He slaps his cheek gently before he starts to jerk himself above his face. 

Gojo tries to feign frustration but he's turned on beyond belief, cock hard again. It’s so filthy, but it always was, they only ever did this when they were drunk or so horny for each other it turned them into animals.

Geto always touched himself so beautifully, so erotically. 

“Because I love seeing your perfect fucking face, painted with my cum. Makes you remember your place.” 

Gojo’s hands smoothed along his thighs, in wordless appreciation for the beauty before him.

“That the only man to do this will only ever be me, your one and only, yeah?”

His breath stutters as his orgasm approaches. Gojo finally nods, mouthing a feeble ‘I love you’ before offering his tongue. He groans as Geto’s come practically drowns him and soaks his tongue.

Gojo tries to swallow every drop, but before he knows it Geto’s dragging him toward the damned mirror again. He attempts to fight his grasp for a matter of seconds but he gives up, he doesn't care anymore. 

“The fucking strongest belongs to me. The only one that can handle you—is me. Look at yourself.”

He knows he's right even if he hates it.

“You see us? We’re yin, and yang. Me and you, we’re perfect together,” Geto pants, shifting the hair from Gojo’s eyes as if to emphasise his point, his own hair falling over Gojo’s shoulders.

The city lights shine through Gojo’s white hair, and over Geto’s illuminating the thick black silk falling over his shoulders 

“You’re mine, Satoru, and I love you. I will forever.”

Gojo cocks his brow but he leans closer, “You’re so vocal today, the good sex got you this sentimental.” He sighs, his grin full of play. “Might have to kick you out man.”

They find themselves wrestling until Geto is kissing Gojo’s forehead once more, his arms pinned and a stupid lovesick grin on his face.

“Listen, okay? I told you, I was about to call you too tonight. I missed you.”

Gojo laughs softly, leaning up to press a kiss to Geto’s cheek before speaking into his ear, “God, you’re embarrassing, aren’t ya?”

Geto glares at him before giving in. He pulls Gojo against his chest, grinning when he doesn’t resist. He curls around him like a cat, and Geto wraps them into a cocoon of blankets. 

Gojo falls asleep, fast. White lashes fluttering ever so often, lulled by the warmth and safety of Geto’s embrace. “Please don’t leave me,” he mutters, twitching in some kind of bad dream. 

Geto leans and kisses his nose, reaching for his phone to send a text home. 

Won’t be home for a few days. Only call if it’s an emergency.

“I wish I didnt ever have to, my love.” he nuzzles himself into Gojo’s neck and kisses, sucking until he whines in his sleep. He grins against the mark that flushes in its wake and he squeezes him that little bit tighter until Gojo can't help but whimper softly, even in his deep sleep. 

And then finally, he mutters the words. “Suguruu? Finally,” his mouth forms a little smile, “welcome home…I love you.”

“I love you too.”

©mrsackermannx: do not repost, plagiarise, translate or modify my works.

[yxstxrdrxxm-a]

SYNOPSIS: Kazuha, a well-known tailor in Inazuma, had a spouse. It's only a shame that his spouse is known for their 'infidelity' in his eyes. [ songfic ]

TW/S: Yandere tendencies, stalking, minor and major character death/s, emotional manipulation in a way, gore, violence, fire/arson, sewing... questionable fabric, unreliable narrator, shifting POVs, dead dove: do not eat, dollification, delusional thinking, Kazuha progressively loses it till the end, beheading, oh God this fic and tws are long Im so sorry―

NOTE: During the fic, it is recommended to listen to "The Tailor of Enbizaka". It will make sense when you read through this fic :)

(also, I apologize if this took a while for me to write. I got busy and writer's block hit me :( anyways, second work and its the best boy! Though, I hope you all don't blame me for fucking him up. Also also!! This is very much a long, LONG fic— like 2k+ long, so 🫡 gl soldier, I'll see if I don't need to make this to a 2 part series)

(update: this fic took 6k words, good luck y'all, this one is a WILD ride)

In Inazuma, there is a tale that is shared by many about a crimson clad man and his lover.

The others never settled on what he looked during the day before his death, nor were they sure what his prior job was before he became a tailor. However, they always complimented him for his looks and his skill, knowing that whatever he used as his own special fabric would be tailored and taken care of well.

Even with one full of holes and tears, he is gifted with the ability to patch them up till it was brand new. In the village he lived in, he was regarded for having such a talent, and he had his shop open and full of visitors.

However, the only thing that made people question him was his behavior. Despite how mild-manner the tailor was, he often comments on how his beloved darling refused to come home and continues to cheat on him.

Many those that still lived during the time said the crimson-eyed tailor acted delusional, but just how far can those delusions go?

No one knows but the man himself... And the one who persecuted him, too.

It was that year since I've seen my beloved after the accident.

A year that, when I saw them, I've longed to see them and speak to them about our time together as a married couple.

To begin with, I am Kaedehara Kazuha, or― as the townsfolk here call me, the 'Crimson-Eyed Tailor'. Although I am highly regarded for my craftsmanship, many told me that I am odd for my adoration for my beloved maple.

Why is it that odd? I thought all married couples do this, even if some think that it feels off.

Besides that, however, my darling isn't quite aware of my... Endeavors. More specifically, their streak of getting out for hours, perhaps days and weeks, and not even coming around to speak to me.

I am bound to them by an oath when we were married: we both drank sake together under that faithful light of the moon, with only nature watching over us. However, it would seem as if they have forgotten that, and ended up cheating on me in broad daylight.

Like they had no such shame.

Alas, I am but their husband, and I can't simply get mad at my beloved spouse. I know they did no wrong, for they sometimes meet with others as an act of being 'friendly'.

So while I focused on fixing the kimono, I've began to hear something that had been passed around in the village.

Something related to my darling's little ventures.

"I have spoken to [Name] about the matters in their marriage recently," one of the ladies spoke, her voice not so soft enough to conceal who she was speaking about as I fixed the fabric in my hands.

"And from what they told me, they're getting their kimono fixed for when their lover returns home!"

I simply continued on sewing, but the lady's next words had me flinch.

"Ah, they've been married for years, aren't they? And it seems they even have their shiromuku ever since their marriage to sir Kamisato Ayato. How romantic!"

...

The blood continues to spill on my finger, with the needle that I used pricking it when I've lost focus and got too careless.

How uncouth.

From the tale shared by the folks of Narukami Island, they talked about the crimson-eyed tailor's marriage with his supposed 'spouse': an immigrant of sorts from Fontaine, traversing to Inazuma to meet with their lover.

Their relationship together is strange. From the accounts of those with prying eyes, they said that he was the only one putting an effort to their relationship, and they wished to take it slow.

However, there are those that disagreed, saying that it had been the other way around— and it was he who wished for them to slow down.

No one can decide what the tailor had done, for they can't even tell if his desires were to rush or to slow down. But what can be confirmed is one thing everyone kept saying.

He doesn't like his trust being broken.

It had been days after hearing what I did.

I hadn't seen my dearest beloved in those days, and the day I saw them had been when the heir of the Kamisato clan had returned.

I had been busy as ever in sewing till I realized that I'm running out of thread. I don't have any spares, and I'm well aware that there are a few shops that sell supplies for sewing.

And so, on a lazy afternoon, I've got out of my shop in the hopes that I can catch the store to buy the supplies I needed.

The soft sound of wood hitting the pavement greeted my ears, alongside hushed murmuring and discussing with the commonfolk. I greeted a few that noticed me in passing, but they were swift to return to the people they were speaking to prior.

It was a mundane thing, really. But it was the type that felt familiar.

Turning a few corners, I managed to locate the shop I was looking for. Walking up the stairs, I waved at the lady taking care of the store—

—not before my ears perked up at the soft chattering in the distance.

My eyes trailed over to the source, and then, I see them.

My beloved maple.

I saw that they were conversing with the heir of the Kamisato clan, his hand reaching over to hand them a small gift: a small box, with the ribbon being the color of purple. I spot the gleam of gold on top of the ribbon, which eludes me to think that it is the insigna of the clan crested in gold.

How tacky.

I had to hold back the urge to stop them as their conversation was hard to discern, my focus back on the woman running the shop with the supplies I require.

"Hello, madame," I greeted, making the woman smile and nod in greeting as well. "Do you need fabric again, Kaedehara?"

I chuckled, but it was only to mask the bits of instability in my voice.

"Oh, not fabric, madame. I simply desire thread. I have ran out of red and black, and I didn't want to delay the commission I had from monsieur Lyney. Do you have any right now?"

"Red and black thread, hm? I can check at the back. Please give me a moment to look."

With a bow, the seamstress turned around to leave. With that, I let go of the breath I held and turned my gaze back to the bridge, just a few ways away from where my beloved sunset was at.

Watching the two figures, I couldn't help but simply stared at the attire that the heir wore.

Montsuki Haori Hakama: that usually means black or gray. I've known that colored kimonos were not worn with this in mind, and he certainly didn't wore anything that would be too straining.

Still, that shade of black is made of high quality. I'm not surprised if he wore it so rarely, as though to preserve the detail and its intricate work from his very own seamstress.

...

I wonder if I can take it?

Watching the two descend from the bridge, my eyes wandered back to the lady as she returned with the spools of thread, all varying in degrees of color and quality.

"Here you are, Kaedehara! These are the best I can find that fit the colors you asked for."

My eyes twinkled as I took the spools to my hands, my fingers turning and nudging the thread to see just how strong it is.

Interesting. Good quality, too... Maybe I can use this to finish that outfit I've been saving for a while.

"Thank you, madame," I thanked her, making her laugh. "Oh, it's not a problem, Kaedehara! You've done so much for this little town of ours, this is but a simple thing to repay for your efforts!"

With a nod, I paid the seamstress and turned back down to descend from the bustling upper part of the town, the sight of what happened in the bridge a bit further away bothering me from within.

No matter, Kazuha, I mused, carrying the items I required as I felt myself walk back home. Even if you want to get rid of him, it will be much too complicated. You simply need to be patient and wait till the opportunity comes.

...

Although, whoever made his clothes... I wonder if I can speak to them to inquire about their techniques.

The first case that started this was a cold one.

One that is related to a person no one knew so highly about, be it by their background, appearance, and even their name. All they were known for is being the 'tailor' for one of the clans.

There had been a lack of evidence and information about this due to how many tailors had been requested all across Inazuma at the time. It was understandable that people chalked up to them being missing as nothing more than an unfortunate case, not one worthy of being dug into.

Others had suspected that it had been associated with something else, that something (or someone) had done this deliberately. There was no evidence to this, but their claims were loud as they were bold, making it difficult to ascertain its authenticity.

However, the masses have all agreed that this was a normal occurrence. It was not one worth noting, because there had been a lot more that spoke of the same tale, always eluding to their fate being that they were murdered.

It was, unfortunately, the 'norm' of the village in the legend. A norm that, if the people of Inazuma heard it today, would have turned their heads in disgust for how abhorrent it sounds.

Still, many remained curious of the biggest what if that seem to echo in their mind.

Was the tailor associated with his sins?

The Kamisato clan has had it's ups and downs, and it isn't strange to see that they were seeking out talented tailors and workers to work under them.

What was surprising (to everyone), however, was that the head of the clan hired me to work as the Kamisato Clan's personal tailor.

The reasoning behind it was quite simple, especially with what the heir spoke to me when he and I met in the morning when I was to be summoned in the estate— due to his personal tailor (a family friend, he said) going missing for days, they were unable to track down his whereabouts and presumed that he has gone missing.

I was only hired as a "replacement" for the clan's special tailor till then, and he made it extremely clear that there was nothing else to it. Nothing that would spell the fact that I will permanently stay in that position.

Of course, to many, this may sound as an odd deal. There are so many tailors such as myself that would die to be consulted on, to work as the head of the clan's seamstress and work for their outfits. And perhaps, in their naivety, they may consider it as their efforts finally paying off in some way.

However, I have been in a clan myself before. This is nothing more if not a business deal.

A deal between one rising clan, and one whose surname has lost it's widely known heritage.

This only benefits the Kamisato Clan in the effort to save face. To save face of the potential backlash they'll deal with should any information of the missing clan's tailor be brought to light to everyone who remain blissfully ignorant of the innerworkings of the clan.

I would normally deny this kind of offer, mostly because there is no benefit for me to join and work for them. However, times have changed, and I simply reconsidered denying Kamisato Ayato's offer.

... There is a few benefits to me joining. It may be minimal, but it is better than scrounging around in the dark.

And so, I agreed to the offer.

The arrangements set for me to move was quite swift. I'm aware that that he is a man of his word, so it was quite easy for us to prepare my living arrangements and move to the estate.

With the supplies I get from the clan, it's been easy to stay put and gather information to the person I'm targeting.

... That was, until that day came.

I remember it clearly: it was the ends of fall, where the maple leaves fell more and more around the estate's grounds. This usually signified the coming of winter, so I usually savor the season by having time off to admire the scenery.

And in one of my walks, I had travelled from outside of the estate to see if things have changed.

Which, to my luck, I've encountered my darling beloved.

But just like last time, they were not alone.

In the journey of my wandering, I have seen them speak to the sibling of the older heir, Kamisato Ayaka, as they sit on the table outside of the Komore Teahouse.

From how far I am to the entrance of the teahouse, it gives me enough space to watch them interact like friends. The way that the Himegimi raised her fan to cover her face, perhaps from her eyes crinkling in amusement from what they told her...

... It was intriguing. Very intriguing.

So much so that I've felt the claws of envy grip in my chest, clutching its metal nails and making punctures on my already bleeding heart.

What a nuisance. Must you hurt me like this, darling?

I can hardly remember what happened after that. After all, my focus had been set on the two speaking to each other like they were simply companions, unknowing of what fate may bring upon them.

...

"Oh? Kazuha! I didn't notice you came to the Teahouse as well!"

My attention was swiftly pulled away from the sight of my dearest gem, and it landed on the familiar sight of olive eyes. From the appearance alone, many wouldn't think that an immigrant of Mondstadt would be a fixer.

Not even I would be able to see it happen.

However, this man had the skills to prove of his worth— after all, being Inazuma's 'fixer', he's often the go-to man to fix any and every problem that the Narukami Island and others may face.

Which makes him a glass canon— one that is volatile and unpredictable, even under the guise of a friendly face.

That is what Thoma is.

But this "glass cannon" has his weakness, and I know how to use it to my advantage.

Letting a smile slip to my lips, I chuckled, raising my hand to cover my mouth. "Well, I've been foretold by others about Komore Teahouse and it's history. I've been meaning to visit it, but I'm so busy fixing kimonos and making them to have time to spare."

A white lie, but then again, there are many of those that have been foretold in the waking of this world.

What does adding one do at this point? I'm already damned by the heavens the day I've seen the 'truth' of this fate of mine.

Just one lie wouldn't hurt, right?

"Haha, I can't blame you," the taller blonde seem to answer my query with his own, albeit he did seem to look more like he was at ease. Still, I needed to be weary; he can change sides if he so much as sensed that something is wrong.

"After all, with what the missing tailor in the clan circulating around the others in the estate, I'm even surprised that you manage to fill up in their position for months!"

... Oh? So he's noticed my talents, hm?

I shook my head.

"Oh, please. I'm just a humble tailor, Thoma," I reasoned, letting out a heavy sigh. "I have thought of asking them for advice on how they do their work, but since they're missing, all I can do is substitute for their absence."

He gave me an apologetic smile and nodded.

"That is true... I guess I'm just a bit too ecstatic to finally have someone that can fill in their role seamlessly. Lord Kamisato Ayato would've been panicking if we didn't have a replacement soon for his anniversary with his spouse."

... Spouse, huh?

"Hm... Is that so?"

I frowned in thought as I ponder over wanting to... Ask him for a favor. Sure, this one wouldn't do well on one's conscious mind if they knew, but it was simply for their sake.

It was all for them. I knew that.

It wouldn't hurt anyone if I asked Thoma to do this for me. At least, while I still have the chance to do so.

I can only hope the cannon does not think of shooting it's shot to me if I slipped up.

"Speaking of, Thoma, may I ask you for a favor?"

After the first missing case of the tailor, there had been more that were reported. The victims were all varied in their appearance, age, and even from where they used to live, be it in Narukami Island or even outside of Inazuma itself.

It was difficult to tell how many there were exactly, especially with how the legend is interpreted. Some said it was 20, while others said it was 50. This legend has been passed mouth to mouth, so details were not a key figure for a few to remember well.

However, every iteration has the same detail. The victims all had the same similarity as the tailor that simply went "missing".

All of them, in some way, were associated with certain individuals— one of them being his maple, where a few commented that they were the apple of the crimson man's eye.

From the legend and how it has been told, it is safe to assume that the motive was obvious from the first missing case.

It is akin of an open secret, if said secret was twisted to fit his ideals.

"Haven't you heard?"

"What? What is it?"

"The fixer, Thoma… He went missing just few days ago."

"What!?"

…

Ah, so he went missing like the others?

My ears had perked up at the news that we were told. Although Thoma is one many people never thought of being a 'target', the fact he went missing is... Odd.

"Perhaps he had done something," I heard one of the servants whisper amongst themselves, looking rather cautious. "After all, he's been very privy on a few things..."

"Yes, but he isn't the person I'd expect to vanish like that—"

"Shh—! People are going to hear you, you know! Keep it down!"

Hearing their footsteps echo as they take their leave, I turned back to what I have been working on. The sight of the kimono graced my vision as I raised the needle.

I began to sew the tears on it, letting out a soft hum while I fixed the black fabric from it's horrible state.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

Slip, stitch, cut—

"Sir Kaedehara? Someone is looking for you."

...!

I felt the needle prick my finger, but I didn't say anything. With a quiet hum, I raised my head to see someone speak to me, their face grim as they shifted on their feet.

Ah.

Despite the feeling of blood pour onto the fabric, I smiled and nodded, putting down the fabric of the kimono I was fixing.

"I'll be right there. Please tell them to wait for me."

"Really? Oh, thank Archons. I'll get going."

Watching them take their leave, my eyes flit over to my scissors.

Still as sharp as ever, I mused, pushing myself to stand up before fixing my attire. Mayhaps today won't need it to be sharpened.

For now, I had to see what the client wants from me. It would simply be a shame if I leave them alone for far, far too long.

Mayhaps they're here to inquire about the kimono I made. I made sure to add my personal touch to it.

...

As I walked to where my client sought to look for me, I see a familiar sight befell in the grounds of the Kamisato Estate.

The himegimi is currently speaking to my betrothed like they are close companions, and the magician (Lyney was his name, I recall), had been listening to their discussion at hand.

His eyes seem to lit up when he saw me, offering me a welcoming grin.

"You must be the tailor that my sister assigned, aren't you?" he asked when I was close enough to hear him, making me chuckle. Taking a seat across, I simply nodded, keeping my professional smile and demeanor in fear of offending him.

"Indeed, I am that tailor. My name is Kaedehara Kazuha, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Haha, please, the pleasure is all mine!"

The magician shook my hand with mine, and the meeting went as smoothly as one may expect. Although, I couldn't help but let my eyes wander sometimes to where my lover is.

You were speaking to Ayaka like she's a friend of yours. I shan't stop you, darling, but perhaps you aren't aware of the pain you put me through.

Still, I couldn't afford to raise my voice, nor can I think of hurting you with my actions.

How unfortunate. Mayhaps I need to teach you a lesson myself, my angel.

If there was one thing that the legend failed to elaborate, it is the state of the missing people. However, there were... Creative liberties to those that began to see if the legend was true; or, pray tell, associated with any real life events.

To the eyes of others, going missing is a serious deal. It sparks a lot of ideas for what could've happened to them, and especially if they are alive or dead.

Albeit many shrugged off the prior cases, this one was serious. After all, the one that went 'missing' is the fixer of Narukami Island— Thoma, the immigrant in the nation of lightning.

It is, after all, what sparked the eventual downfall of the crimson-eyed tailor and his beloved. Many had thought this was the turning point, but those that did were found to be wrong.

This, after all, was simply the beginning of such downfall. But it wasn't to his lover, the missing residents, or even his companions.

It was to himself, when he used the blades to commit a sin undeserving of forgiveness.

The news that brought upon the missing Himegimi greeted the Kamisato estate that day.

I remember how people were in a disarray. They were much more shaken as they tried to get any sort of lead to where she is, and for some, they were already thinking of quitting.

The estate is already shaken from when Thoma went missing, but now that the young heiress has up and disappeared— especially in winter— it was in chaos.

While I sew the kimonos handed to me, there was an obi that laid on the pile by my right. It was a bit worn, but it can still be saved.

I needed to fix it, and give it my own personal touch. That way, it wouldn't look as though it had been abandoned by it's past owner.

Alas, the noise is getting to me. I could feel the silk resting on my bandaged hand slip every once in a while, if it weren't for how tight I've been holding the fabric.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

I needed to put my focus on what I'm doing. I needed to focus on the job.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

I mustn't let blood nor dirt stain my creations.

That is what my mother taught me.

Slip, stitch, cut, sew.

Slip, stitch, cut, se—

"I apologize if the estate is in a disarray, detective," I hear a familiar voice speak amongst the hushed and panicked whispers. "The estate hasn't been the same ever since my retainer and my younger sibling had gone missing."

"Oh, it's alright! I'm sure this matter is too serious for you and the others to keep things organized."

"Haha... You can say that it is. Now, it's just right this way..."

... A detective is in the estate. How curious.

It wasn't right to snoop, but I was curious. Curious enough to have finished the kimono I was fixing before I stood to leave my quarters.

The others paid no heed as I followed after the two to Ayato's room, too focused to do what they were assigned to even bat an eye when I got close to where they were heading.

It was only when they were inside that I've stopped and simply bid my time, my focus set on what was happening by the shoji leading to his office. And it didn't took long till I hear things from the other side.

"Ah, so you think that someone is out for you?"

"Yes. Although I am normally adept in figuring out who it could be that's causing this to happen, I can't put heads or tails with how their presence eludes me."

"Man alive... And you said that it started when they went missing?"

"... Yes, detective."

"I see... Man alive, that sounds like it wasn't just a single, one-off case, then. I can help you, but this will take a while if there's no leads."

"I see. It's fine, detective. I'll pay you enough when you figure out where my retainer and sister are. I could hardly think that someone would take them without such consequence."

"Oh, no worries. With me around, no criminal will get out unscathed— I'll make sure to bring them here when I figure out who did this."

...

I see.

Perhaps its about time I have to settle this with him.

There was a time where I have thought that things will change.

Where these cases will be laid forgotten, perhaps even unresolved with the lack of hints.

I spent weeks on end, keeping my tracks short and erasing any leads that can lead towards me again.

I spent so, so long trying so desperately to hide anything resembling my crimes.

But alas... He found me.

It was the time where I had to dispose of those bodies. Although I had no heart to bury them under nature, I was not above treating them as though they were simply people.

Even in death, I wanted to make them feel like they look peaceful. Although, perhaps simply sewing their wounds left by my scissors was not something I can treat.

In the middle of the night, I was carrying the Himegimi outside of the abandoned houses I tend to with her retainer, Thoma. I had thought of letting her rest someplace else. Her attire has been sullied, and I needed to keep the two somewhere where no one can find them.

Corpses rot over time, and if it was possible, letting them turn to nothing in the likes of Tsurumi Island will be enough for my weary heart to rest.

With how adept I am of keeping my tracks hidden, I had thought no one would be able to tail on me. But alas, due to the missing cases I've caused, perhaps I wasn't expecting this to happen.

"I knew you'd be here, Kaedehara Kazuha."

I simply paused upon hearing his voice, my head craning back to see that it was Ayato. Despite how composed he looks, I can tell that the nights he spent trying to search for his beloved sibling and retainer wore him down.

His once flawless appearance was nothing but sullied, his attire feeling like its simply hanging off of him, and the way he staggered while looking at me without a shred of restrain is new. Raw for such a heir.

"And that body..." he murmured, his eyes glaring daggers when he found out who it was.

Perhaps it's her dress that makes her recognizable. Or the hair.

"... I thought I've erased everything that can lead back to me," I spoke, sighing as I placed Ayaka's body down. "What a shame. I was quite close to erasing any traces and signs of their whereabouts. It would be nice to only have them be marked as 'missing', not dead."

"So... You admit to it, then?" the heir asked, walking over with stride. "That you have done this, Kaedehara?"

I simply said nothing.

And I knew that was enough of a confirmation for him.

"I knew something was wrong with you," I heard him speak, which caught my attention. Turning my body to finally face him, I watched as he scoffed and continued, "After all, a man as serene as you often had the worst to hide."

"Oh? How curious. Why would you say that?"

I saw his lips curl to a smile.

"Why, I had someone tail after you," he answered, his tone sounding so blunt and his demeanor became more like he's simply 'teaching' me something. "Someone that is associated with the clan. I'm sure you know who it is."

... How uncouth.

"I see... And you confronted me now? For what?"

"A duel."

He unsheathed his blade, and raised it towards my direction.

"I do not usually participate in these, but I'd like to honor your tradition. If I win, you turn yourself in to the Tenryou Commission. Confess all of your crimes, and we shall call it even."

"... Very well."

I raised my own blade, as a sign to his own.

"I needn't state my own terms if I lose, as I can't let you get out alive. Now, let us settle this matter... To each of our graves."

Usually, such details cannot be recreated from interpretation alone.

However, this one was the few exceptions to it's inevitable fate due to it's popularity.

The legend had focused on keeping the existence and ties of the Crimson-Eyed Tailor up for the listener's interpretation. This scene, however, was directly associated to a case that had been tackled many years ago.

The case went as such: each resident of a town goes missing each week. No one knows when it happens, as the day is often random. The victims of these disappearances are also random, so no one could derive from it being a 'pattern'.

No matter how young or old one is, their gender, their living conditions, and even their past... When they least expect it, they simply vanish. Erased.

The only times where the victim was found, several eye-witnesses had different iterations. Some said that the bodies were buried, while others found it floating by riverbanks and the side of the sea.

But the most common— and widely known, of course— was that each victim were made to a doll.

Their limbs were nothing if not sewn with thread, cuts of various degrees being patched with thread of similar color to 'mask' it's oddity. Their eyes were closed, but those that were unfortunate to open it were only greeted with it being turned to the back of their heads.

In some victims, several pieces of their possession were taken. However, most kept theirs on their person, and were seen to not be tampered with.

No one knows what drove someone to this degree. No one can even comprehend such a fact that it was entirely possible.

But to someone who's mind was twisted to the point of no return... It was.

This case had a name, but every resident of Inazuma refused to speak of it. Each time one does, they were told of the legend behind this case.

They were told of the Crimson-Eyed Tailor, and they were warned of one thing.

"Do not look at him or his betrothed. If you do, you're as good as dead."

...

It had been a year since our fight happened.

I remember the chaos that occurred back when I finally erased that man. Although it did left his body in an undesirable state, I still fixed and sew him up so that he didn't look as such.

Even in death, I wish to give the heir some form of dignity. That, in some way, I wish to give him his final respects.

After all, he had simply misunderstood my intentions. He didn't knew that I was out for one person from the very beginning.

The downfall of the Kamisato Clan was imminent at that point. I've seen many flee, and witnessed the tragedy befall on the Narukami Island. Many of the people I've met had simply ran off to seek refuge, the terror grasping and choking them like they were unable to think.

However, I remain clear. And I simply continued to do my work diligently.

I have been working on something... Special. And with one last snip of my bloodied scissors, it was now complete.

My final and life-long work, all laid across and now in my hands. The fabric I chose was rather difficult to sew. I should have known that human skin would be too hard, depending on where I retrieved it from.

Dying it in black, I wrapped the obi that had been sewn with the use of the Himegimi's locks, and retrieved the crest of the Kamisato Clan. Adorning it on my person, I viewed myself at the mirror to see my handiwork.

"Finally," I murmured, feeling an odd sensation in my chest as I wore the fruits of my labor. "It is now complete."

With the chaos guiding me and masking my presence, I fled to head by the mountain.

I knew where you were bound to go.

I knew of your crimes long before you knew me.

I didn't paid much attention if anyone saw me. I didn't care if blood simply poured from my attire and to the ground that I'm walking on. I could hardly give a damn if some realized of my crimes in that blasted estate.

I had my scissors with me, and I only wish to fulfill my last wish before I leave this cursed world.

You murdered my family, [Name].

You were the one who caused that fire all those years ago.

I remember those burns you gave me. I remember just how much of a coward you were, fleeing from the scene you caused yourself.

How could I lose everything? And how can you keep your family?

No. No, that mustn't happen. I must set this right.

As your 'lover', I'll make sure you understand what you did wrong.

The culprit of the legend was caught, at least by the end.

All of the townsfolk had banded over to help the detective figure out who had caused such a stir, and it was only because of one eye-witness that said everything. That simply told the truth of the man behind it all.

It was the Crimson-Eyed Tailor, the one who was gripped with envy, that caused such a massacre to occur.

When they found what became of the last victim, his 'lover', they became a doll of his own. After killing them, the legend proceeded to speak of how he had simply 'sown' their skin alongside his, making them his perfect beloved doll.

One of the iterations even mentioned that his unnamed lover was in a Shiromuku outfit, eyes gouged so they may "never look at another man". At least, from what the tale has concluded.

Because of the severity of his crime, the tailor was sent to be on his death row. When the detective tried to get information out of him, they found out that he has lost his mind.

He became a shell of the brilliant man they knew, laughing and speaking that he has finally fulfilled his desire.

Even when he was dragged onto the guillotine, that day was marked as the end of the massacre, and those who were alive spoke of the man's chilling laughter up until his head was cut off.

...

And that was the end of the "Crimson-Eyed Tailor" and his legend.

Or, more accurately, the history of the known "Dead Man's Heart" case, and how Kaedehara Kazuha murdered the one he "loved" for revenge.

@.throw-letter-away | do not republish or repost my works anywhere | 2023

[fsfghgee]

Sektor and Sub-Zero's relationship in MK1 Part 3. What Can We Conclude So Far?

Someone asked me what I thought of the Sektor trailer the day it came out, and since the Sektor trailer revealed a little more than we already knew about her affection for Bi-Han, I decided to do a third breakdown on it.

To begin with, I don't believe that Sektor is being manipulated, is obeying out of duty, has been brainwashed by Bi-Han, sees Bi-Han as a father and so on.

I don't believe in these theories.

Sektor is doing everything because she wants to, because it suits her purposes. And most likely, she is the real mastermind behind the entire Lin Kuei evolution process. And no, I don't think she's manipulating Bi-Han. She is simply guiding him to achieve the dreams he shared with her (as stated in her own bio). Like, they are partners.

According to her bio — which basically serves to help you understand the character's motivations and what led them to engage in mortal kombat — Sektor is Bi-Han's kindred spirit.

As I've stated in other posts, a kindred spirit means this:

"Kindred spirits are like-minded and like-souled people with whom an instant connection of love and understanding is mutually experienced," clinical psychologist Carla Marie Manly, Ph.D., tells mbg. "The connection is inimitable and often defies verbal description."

People who share common interests, values, or worldviews might be described as kindred spirits. "In more spiritual words, we could say that they resonate at the same frequency, and there is matching energy between them," Katherine Bihlmeier, a relationship coach specializing in energy work, tells mbg.

And this is the AI's answer:

"Sense a kindred spirit" means to recognize someone as having similar interests, opinions, or feelings to you. For example, you might say "He sensed a kindred spirit and reached out to her".

Some other signs that you've found a kindred spirit include:

Common interests: You may share the same hobbies, opinions, or values.

Immediate connection: You tend to recognize each other quickly and form an immediate connection.

Strong bond: Kindred spirits tend to form strong bonds with each other that often transcend time and distance.

The earliest known use of the noun "kindred spirit" is in the early 1700s, in the writing of Isaac Watts, an Independent minister and writer.

The meaning is broad and can be applied to any type of intimate relationship where those involved have a strong (and unbreakable) bond and share common interests (without judgment, both understand and respect each other). We already know that Sektor is not related to Bi-Han (Sektor's mother is Madam Bo, a former Lin Kuei warrior leader, and her father is a respected retired Lin Kuei master armorer. While Bi-Han's mother was an excellent fighter who died a long time ago, and Bi-Han's father is the deceased Grandmaster), which leaves it to an intimate connection that arose based on a friendship (remembering that kindred spirit also implies that it was an instant connection, so it's unlikely that they have been friends since childhood) or a romantic relationship.

Before Sektor's bio was revealed, I was inclined to believe it was just a friendship based on common interests, but since nrs usually uses "kindred spirit" as a kind of love term…

And Bi-Han as a pround (no one bests a Lin Kuei ~Subzero mk1) and lonely leader of an ancient warrior clan (a real clan, a group of close-knit and interrelated families. They grow the clan by having children among themselves, not by kidnapping children from the streets as in previous timelines) who made Sektor (previously just a master armorer and a skilled warrior) his second in command (even before his brother Kuai Liang and his adopted brother Tomas abandoned him, as Kuai Liang himself subtly says in the story mode…

Like, why would the daughter of a master armorer and her apprentice be a major impediment to the second and third in line of succession? We already know why. Because Bi-Han made Sektor his lieutenant as soon as he took over as Grandmaster and Cyrax for being associated with both (Bi-Han, the grandmaster who believed in her and she trusted him, and Sektor her commander and ruthless instructor) ended up becoming a sort of third in command of the Lin Kuei.

), I'm inclined to believe in the second hypothesis.

She sounds really close to him…

She doesn't even call him Grandmaster…

Even though she respects him as Grandmaster.

She'll rescue him and humiliate herself so that Liu Kang can restore him (she may not get on her knees, but just the fact that she asks Liu Kang to restore him, knowing that she shares Bi-Han's contempt for Liu Kang, I'm sure that resorting to Liu Kang was humiliating for her)

Since the Sub-Zero ending, we already know that Bi-Han admires her a lot and shares everything with her…

She's more than the second in command of the Lin Kuei. Much more…

What are the real chances of there being nothing more than friendship? I mean…

I wish I had a friend like that!

Let's be real, Sektor is his ride-or-die girl.