#slipping and putting their loved ones in danger

[fic-girlie]

Top shelf trouble

Pairing: Frankie Morales x wife!reader Summary: A playful argument over top-shelf items leads to teasing, heated passion, and tender aftercare between you and your husband, Frankie—reminding you both just how deeply you're loved. Warnings: fluff, soft banter, short reader, explicit smut (18+), unprotected sex, p in v sex, soft Frankie, aftercare

The late afternoon sunlight spills across the kitchen tiles like warm honey, catching on the edges of the countertops and bouncing off the chrome fixtures with a gentle glow. The window is cracked open just enough to let the soft spring breeze slip in, carrying with it the faint scent of freshly cut grass and the distant buzz of a neighbour’s lawnmower. Inside the kitchen, all is calm—except for the quiet, increasingly exasperated muttering coming from you as you stand in front of the pantry.

You're barefoot, standing on your tiptoes in a worn, oversized sweatshirt that reaches your thighs, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly. One hand braces against the edge of the cabinet, the other reaching high—too high—for a jar perched well out of reach.

"Come on, come on..." you whisper, stretching until your arm trembles slightly. Your fingertips brush the bottom of the jar, nudging it forward just a hair before it wobbles dangerously, forcing you to retreat before it can come crashing down.

A long, dramatic sigh escapes your lips.

This is the third time this week.

You drop back onto your heels with a quiet thud, rubbing your shoulder and squinting up at the top shelf like it has personally offended you. Because honestly? It kind of has. When you married Frankie Morales, you hadn’t realized you were signing up for a lifetime of aerial food storage. The man, God bless him, has a habit of tucking things away in the highest possible places. His excuse? "It makes the kitchen look cleaner."

You mutter something unflattering under your breath, turn toward the hallway, and raise your voice. "Frankie!"

No answer.

You try again, louder this time. "Frankie!"

From somewhere down the hall comes the familiar shuffle of booted feet against hardwood, followed by the creak of a door and a low, "Yeah?"

"Kitchen!"

A pause. Then the rhythmic sound of his steps, getting closer. Frankie appears in the doorway, his curls still damp from a shower, a soft grey NASA t-shirt clinging to his chest, cargo pants riding low on his hips. He looks relaxed, freshly scrubbed, and entirely too pleased with himself. A towel is slung over his shoulder, and his arms are still slightly damp.

He looks at you. Then at the pantry. Then back at you.

"What's going on?"

You point at the top shelf without a word.

He follows your finger. "What?"

"Peanut butter. Cookies. Sesame oil. All on the top shelf. Again."

His brows lift slightly in recognition. "Oh... yeah. I was organizing earlier. Put the oils and spreads up high. Keeps the counter clearer."

You turn to him slowly, arms crossed. "You didn't think—at all—about the fact that I can't reach half the stuff you use daily?"

Frankie raises both hands, palms out. "I was just trying to help!"

"You reorganized our kitchen, Frankie. Without asking. Again."

He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn’t mean to—"

"And you put the peanut butter above the pasta boxes. The cookies are behind a jar of lentils. I nearly dislocated a shoulder trying to get it."

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "Okay, yeah, that might've been overkill."

You arch a brow. "Might've?"

And then he says it. With a little shrug, soft and almost under his breath—but you hear it crystal clear.

"Not my fault you're vertically challenged."

Silence falls between you. Your jaw drops.

"What did you just say?"

Frankie backs up a half step, hands still raised. But the grin is spreading, dimples flashing as he tries—and fails—to hold back a laugh. "I mean... statistically speaking... you're on the shorter side."

"I'm five-four. That's average!"

"Average for... hobbits, maybe."

You grab the nearest kitchen towel and snap it toward his thigh. He dodges with a bark of laughter, already stepping behind the island.

"You're really gonna insult me in my kitchen after messing with my cookie stash?"

"I'm just stating facts!" he says, laughing harder now. "And offering solutions. You could always ask your very tall, very helpful husband to get things down for you."

You narrow your eyes, slowly moving toward him, towel in hand. "Or... you could stop putting everything where only you can reach it."

"But then I wouldn’t get to do this," he says, suddenly moving close again, catching your wrist gently and tugging you into his arms.

Your back meets his chest as his arms wrap around you from behind, the towel dropping to the floor. He leans down, murmuring low in your ear. "I like being useful, baby. I like when you need me."

"You are so full of it."

"Mmm. Full of love for my tiny, fierce wife," he whispers, grinning as he kisses the spot just below your ear.

You groan, but lean into him anyway. "If you ever call me tiny again, I’m hiding your flight manuals."

"Now that's just cruel."

You twist in his arms to face him, your hands resting on his chest. "Just promise me you'll stop rearranging things without asking. And no more top shelf traps."

He nods solemnly. "Deal. But only if you let me install one of those little fold-out step stools."

You roll your eyes. "Fine. But only if it comes with a written apology. In cursive."

Frankie laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips—slow, sweet, lingering. "Deal."

And that night, when you open the pantry after dinner, you find the peanut butter, the cookies, and the sesame oil on the middle shelf. A tiny sticky note is taped to the jar:

I solemnly swear to respect your reach. Love, Your Tall-ish Husband.

You grin so hard your cheeks ache.

Frankie is lounging at the table, sipping the last of his beer when you walk over and drop into his lap.

"You’re forgiven," you whisper against his mouth.

He smiles. "Good. 'Cause tomorrow, I was planning to reorganize the fridge."

Your groan echoes through the house.

But you don’t move from his lap.

——

Later that night, the kitchen is spotless, dinner dishes drying on the rack, and the lights in the rest of the house are dimmed low. Frankie sinks into the couch with a groan, stretching his arms along the back as you emerge from the bedroom in one of his old flight school shirts and nothing else.

The shirt is worn soft, hanging loose around your thighs, sleeves pushed up, his name patch faded on the chest. You catch the way his eyes drag over you, slow and heated, and you bite back a grin. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to.

You move to stand between his legs, your hands resting on his shoulders as he tilts his head up to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, already dark with that familiar hunger, but there’s a softness there too. That quiet, reverent way he looks at you when he’s not just turned on, but totally fucking gone for you.

You tilt your head. “So,” you murmur. “Still think I’m vertically challenged?”

He smiles—lazy, cocky. “I mean… you are kinda tiny.”

Your brow lifts. “Frankie.”

He shrugs, palms sliding up the back of your thighs. “Just sayin’. It's not my fault I have the longer reach.”

You straddle him before he can finish that smug little sentence, settling in his lap with a slow roll of your hips. His hands flex on your thighs, and his breath hitches when the heat between your legs presses against the front of his joggers. You lean in until your lips are just barely brushing his.

“You’re digging your grave, Morales.”

He laughs softly, tilting his head up to catch your mouth in a kiss. It's unhurried—sweet, at first. Just lips pressing and parting, his tongue brushing yours, hands sliding under the hem of the shirt to grip your ass with a quiet groan.

Then you move.

You grind your hips against him, slowly, deliberately, dragging your clothed core over the hard line of his cock beneath the fabric. His fingers dig in, and the kiss breaks when he exhales sharp through his nose, resting his forehead to yours.

“You tryin’ to kill me, baby?”

You smile, warm and wicked. “Just proving a point.”

“Uh-huh.” His hands slide higher under the shirt, palms skimming your back, thumbs brushing your ribs. “And what point is that?”

You lean forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That I’m dangerous. Especially when you hide things on the top shelf.”

He laughs, deep and low, and you feel it vibrate through his chest as you kiss your way down his neck—slow, biting softly, leaving a trail of warmth in your wake. He leans back into the cushions, letting you take the lead, his hands gentle but possessive on your hips.

The room feels like it contracts around the two of you. Just breath, heat, skin. The kind of intimacy that feels so familiar you ache with it.

You push his T-shirt up, exposing the warm skin of his stomach. He helps you tug it over his head, tossing it aside, and you drink in the sight of him—solid muscle softened by the years, a little older, a little broader, a little more yours.

You trail your fingers down his chest, nails lightly scratching, until he twitches beneath you. You can feel him, thick and hard under the denim, straining for friction.

“Take these off,” you murmur, tugging at the waistband.

He does, not breaking eye contact as he lifts his hips and shoves them down, cock springing free, flushed and already wet at the tip. You hum softly and slide back just enough to wrap your fingers around him—slow, teasing strokes as you watch his eyes flutter, mouth parting with a ragged breath.

“You always get this worked up just from a little teasing?” you whisper, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along his throat.

“Only when it’s you,” he murmurs, voice rough. “And that fuckin�� look in your eye.”

You smirk and rise up, guiding him to your now exposed entrance. You’re already soaked, thighs trembling with need as you hover, the head of his cock brushing your folds. His hands come to your hips, steadying you, but he doesn't push—he waits.

You sink down slowly, inch by inch, gasping as he fills you, stretching you so perfectly it almost hurts. Frankie groans low in his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he grips you tighter.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus, baby…”

When you bottom out, you stay there for a moment, breathing heavy against his mouth. The stretch, the fullness, the ache—it all melts into heat.

You roll your hips once, then again, and his hands flex to guide your rhythm. Slow at first—grinding, rocking, every move drawing a new sound from his lips. He’s so deep it makes you dizzy, and every shift of your hips sends sparks rippling up your spine.

Your forehead presses to his, sweat slicking your skin. The couch creaks beneath you both, his name whispered into the heat between kisses.

“You’re not allowed to say shit about my height ever again,” you murmur breathlessly, riding him harder now, letting the wet sound of your bodies meeting fill the space between groans.

He grins—barely. He’s unravelling, falling apart under you, but still has the audacity to whisper, “Can’t help it… you’re just so tiny.”

You clench around him suddenly, making him gasp. “Say it again. I dare you.”

Frankie chokes on a moan, eyes rolling back. “Okay—okay, you win.”

“Damn right I do.”

You move faster now, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the living room. He thrusts up to meet you, his pace matching yours, deep and desperate. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit just the way you like, and your moan turns sharp, broken.

You’re close. He knows it—feels it in the way you tremble, in the tight pull of your muscles around him.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”

You crash over the edge with a cry, your body going tense before it melts into pleasure—warm and sharp, waves crashing through you. Frankie groans your name like a prayer and fucks up into you one more time before he stills, thick pulses of warmth spilling deep inside you.

You stay like that, panting, chests heaving, his hands stroking up and down your back. You kiss him, softer now, lazily. His fingers find your hair, brushing it back, and he murmurs something that makes your heart twist in your chest.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Even when you’re terrifying.”

You laugh weakly and press your nose into his shoulder. “I love you too, you smug asshole.”

——

Your chest rises and falls in time with his, your body draped over his like you never want to leave. The scent of him—sweat, skin, that soft earthy trace of his cologne clinging faintly to his neck—lingers in the air between you. You feel it in every breath, warm and real and grounding. His hand rests on the small of your back, splayed protectively, thumb stroking lazy circles into your skin like he's still coaxing your heart to settle.

Frankie doesn’t speak right away. Neither of you does. There’s only the hum of the old fridge down the hall, the muffled ticking of the wall clock, and the soft sound of his thumb brushing over your damp skin. You're still trying to catch your breath, lips parted, cheek against the curve of his shoulder, your thigh hooked loosely over his hips.

He kisses your forehead, slow and soft. Then again. And again. “You okay?” he finally whispers, voice thick with emotion and a rasp from the weight of what just passed between you.

You nod into his neck, barely lifting your head. “Yeah. I’m good. Better than good.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath, and you feel his arms tighten around you.

Still, he stays still for a moment longer, letting your breathing return to normal, letting the heat fade from your skin where your bodies were joined. But then he shifts, his palms skimming up your back, anchoring you gently as he murmurs, “C’mon, cariño. Let me clean you up.”

You groan softly in protest, clinging to him a second longer. “Don’t wanna move.”

“I know,” he says, voice laced with a smile you can feel against your cheek. “I’ll be quick. Then we’ll crawl under the covers and I’ll hold you all night. Promise.”

He kisses your cheek and then lifts you with an ease that still manages to leave you breathless, one strong arm under your thighs, the other cradling your back. Your skin’s sticky with sweat and the evidence of what just happened, but you don’t care—you're wrapped in his warmth, his smell, his presence. The hallway is dim as he carries you to the bedroom, your face buried in his neck, catching the occasional soft scrape of his beard as he moves.

When he lowers you onto the edge of the bed, he doesn’t let go completely. His fingers linger at your sides, like he’s checking to make sure you're okay. “Stay here,” he says gently. “Don’t move.”

You nod, watching him disappear into the bathroom, the light clicking on with a low hum. You hear the water run, the faint sound of the cabinet door creaking open, the rustle of cloth. And then he’s back—barefoot, in all his glory, still flushed from before, but his eyes focused only on you.

He kneels in front of you like he’s done it a hundred times, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. The soft cotton of the washcloth is warm in his hand as he looks up at you, his eyes impossibly tender. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, okay?”

You nod, blinking at him, heart swelling at how carefully he says it—like you’re made of something precious, something worth handling with reverence.

Frankie begins at your thighs, gentle as he presses the warm cloth to your skin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t flinch. He keeps one hand on your leg while the other moves slowly, methodically. He’s quiet, focused, checking your face every few seconds to make sure you’re comfortable.

You shiver slightly when he brushes over sensitive skin, and his thumb strokes your knee. “I got you,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

You manage a quiet, “Thank you,” your voice small with emotion, with the kind of intimacy that words never fully capture.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your thigh, then another just above your hip. “You don’t thank me for this,” he says against your skin. “It’s what we do. I take care of you. Always.”

When he’s done, he swaps the cloth for a soft towel and pats you dry with the same attentiveness, the same quiet love. He slips one of his old T-shirts over your head—his favourite one, soft from years of washes—and you smile faintly at the way it smells like him, familiar and safe.

Frankie stands and slips into a clean pair of boxers, then pulls back the covers and helps you under them. You sink into the bed, still warm and flushed, your limbs loose and heavy. And then he slides in beside you, curling around you from behind, his chest to your back, one arm slung over your waist like a blanket.

His lips find your shoulder, then your neck, then your temple. “You feel okay?” he asks quietly, fingertips brushing your belly in soft, slow circles.

“Yeah,” you whisper, reaching back to tangle your fingers with his. “I feel... loved.”

He exhales slowly against your hair. “Good. Because you are. So damn much.”

You turn just enough to catch his lips, and it’s not a kiss full of hunger—it’s one of gratitude, of softness, of everything that lives in the spaces between the words he hasn’t said. When you pull back, he nudges his nose against yours, and your eyes flutter closed as he draws the covers up around you both.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice barely audible now, wrapped in sleep.

“I love you too, Frankie.”

And wrapped in his arms, warm and clean and cherished, you let sleep take you—knowing without a doubt that you’ll wake to him there, still holding you like this.

[rosenclaws]

How does Logan react when he thinks you're dead (either he sees your body, or thinks you're lost in an abyss, anything) but you awake or come back to him.

mm the angst yes please. I got a littleee carried away with each one but uhh its fine.

warnings: violence, injury, blood.

Origins Logan -

Logan is heartbroken. It's pretty much straight out of the movie where you're attacked by Sabertooth and Logan finds you bleeding out in the woods. He thinks your dead and there's a good reason to because of the blood on your clothes and he can't seem to find a pulse. He goes into a rage, he's angry and hurt and he hugs your body close to him and cries. He's dead set on revenge which is how they lure him into becoming part of the weapon x project. Turning his bones to metal in a very, very painful process. He does it for you thinking your dead but the whole time you're a pawn in Strykers game.

You don't knowingly spy on him like Kayla though (Ik she was being threatened but I wanna change things from the plot a little). You love Logan and you'd never do that to him. But they knew that hurting you was the best way to get to Logan so they did. Once Logan left your body they swooped in and experimented on you too to see if they could get anything out of you. You weren't a mutant like Logan and they wanted to see if they could insert the gene manually. When Logan escape it forces them to move you and ramp up their experiments. They try and wipe your memory just like Logan but it doesn't work. Somehow their stupid experiments don't kill you and you escape but now with powers you can't control born from Logan's DNA.

When you find each other again it's emotional. He thought you were dead and at first he thinks it's another trick but he sees you still have his dog tags and he knows you're real. He almost tackles you to the ground, holding you tight and burying his face in your neck. He asks a lot of questions and you don't have a lot of answers but when he sees you're now mutated he gets pissed. He wanted to kill Stryker for what they did to you. He knows the pain they put him through and he doesn't even want to think of how they hurt you. He keeps you by his side as you both try to explore this world now.

Trilogy Logan -

He's absolutely distraught. You're on a mission with the team and things are going fine. The two of you fight like hell and he still finds the time to make flirty quips as he digs his claws into another guy. It's standard. Until it isn't. Something goes wrong and you just don't know what to do. It was a trap, luring you in with mutant children just to kill you all. The building was literally going to collapse in on itself, burying you all alive. You use your powers to try and keep the building up but there are soldiers surrounding the building. it basically turns into a "Grab the kids and lets get the fuck out of here" plan. You keep the building up with every fiber of your strength and Logan is waiting for you. He's got like three kids and you know deep down that you can't go with him. If you break your concentration the building is gone and so are those kids. He refuses to leave you. He can hear scott yelling into his comm so he rips it out of his ear and throws it to the side. He's stubborn as hell but you won't let him put those kids in danger.

You can feel your grip slipping. The building shaking as your strength starts to dissipate. Bullets come flying through the concreate walls and you know that your time is up. So you tell Logan to go and come back. Lying to him that you have it handled and to focus on the mission. He makes you swear that you're okay and you do. You feel bad for lying but its what you have to do. The moment you know Logan is back on the jet you let go. Accepting that this was the end and that you saved those kids, saved your team, and saved Logan. Logan watches the building crumble, crushing anything around and in it. The roar he lets out is painful. They have to go and they know it. If they stay they risk giving up the sacrifice you had made. The jet doors close before Logan can get out. He's banging on them. Yelling and screaming to let him the fuck out. His claws sinking into the metal and it refuses to budge. The whole team is devastated and listening to Logan just makes it so much worse. Jean tries to calm him down but he tells her to fuck off. He's lashing out and everyone knows it.

He basically quits the X-Men for a while. He was a loner for a while and then he found you and this little family and he didn't mind fighting for something, for someone. But now you're gone. He tries to continue on but he just can't. I think he disappears for a while. Just to be on his own again because everything reminds him of you. He doesn't keep in contact with anyone. Just him and the Canadian Rockies. He doesn't know that you survived. That you crawled out of that rubble. Broken ribs and a lot of internal bleeding. That some nice old couple found you and let you stay until you were healed. You found your way back to the mansion months after they all thought you died. They couldn't believe it but the one thing on your mind was Logan and he wasn't there. After a tearful reunion with everyone else you hopped into one of Scotts cars and drove all day and all night until you found yourself at his cabin. He took you once and he promised to take you again.

He was outside chopping wood when he hears the car pull up. He just rolls his eyes and gets ready to tell them to leave him alone but then you step out. He must be dreaming he thinks. He drops the axe as you walk closer. Then his name falls from your lips and he takes off running. The first thing he does is kiss you. It's messy and desperate but holy fuck you're alive and you're here. Your crying and telling him you're sorry and he's just telling you it's okay. The two of you spend a lot of time in his cabin getting reacquainted. You tell him what happened and he listens. He watches you sleep in a not creepy way just because he wants to make sure you're really alive. he He's extra touchy and he's just happy that you're alive.

DOFP Logan -

I think losing you breaks him, I mean he gave up everything for a peaceful future. He went back in time to make sure his fellow mutants. His friends and family are safe. That you’re safe. Things were going well. Until the mansion was attacked. Logan was fighting off the attackers and you were evacuating the kids. It was utter chaos. Somehow an agent slipped past him and managed to fire a full round right into your stomach. The kids were okay, you protected them. But by the time Logan got to you, you were against the wall with blood everywhere. He was angry, pissed at himself and at whoever dared come and hurt them like this. He told you that everything was going to be okay. He wanted to stay with you, protect you. But there was still fighting and Logan had to put the kids first. With tears in your eyes you told him to go and it takes everything in him to leave you. By the time he came back your body was gone. Presumed dead.

The whole mansion could feel Logan's grief. While they all mourned you he was the worst of them all. The happiness had once again been ripped from his life. He thought things were supposed to be better in this new timeline but he just can't be happy apparently. He stopped teaching, hell bent on getting revenge on the group that attacked them. He wanted to avenge you, he was going to make them pay.

When they found them Logan went off by himself. The team could show up if they wanted to but fuck he was going to kill them all. No mercy. He slashed his way through but nothing seemed to heal his heart. No matter how many guards he took down. Until he found a room with lab equipment, attached to it was a small cell and that's where he found you. They had taken you from the mansion and were experimenting on you. But you were alive. Suddenly Logan wishes he spent more time on their deaths, regretting killing them so quickly. He bundles you up and carries you back to the jet where everyone is shocked to see you in his arms. He doesn't let go as they fly back to the mansion. You curl closer to him in your sleep and he promises to never let them take you again.

Old Man Logan -

He doesn't hesitate to kill them all. He just wants to be left in peace but these fuckers keep coming back. Mostly for Laura but the two of you have vowed to protect this little girl with everything you have. The ambushed you in public, shooting up a damn grocery store just to catch the two of you off guard. Logan was off working when he heard about it on the radio. He broke every traffic law in sight to get to you. Pushing past the people running away to get inside. That's when he saw you lying on the ground in a pool of blood and those bastards hands trying to drag Laura away.

All he saw was red. He barely even felt anything as he killed every single person in there. They killed you, tried to take Laura away. They didn't deserve his mercy. They deserved pain and pain is what he gave them. By the time they were all dead he still didn't feel satisfied. Until Laura called his name. She was next to you. Logan felt this horrible pain, knowing he was going to have to tell her you were gone. Then you moved. He rushed to your side and felt your pulse. You were breathing, alive. An ambulance came to take you away and Logan almost put his claws through some damn officers who tried to get him to stay. He told them they could ask him some fucking questions later because all he cared about was you. It was an agonizing amount of time before he was told that you were stable. You looked so frail when he walked into your hospital room. It took a couple days but you woke up and Logan was right there. He didn't tell you what happened after you went down, not about the blood he shed. He just told you Laura was okay and left it at that. He held your hand and listened to your heartbeat, just happy to see you alive.

Worst Logan -

He's fucking devastated. You were at the mansion when they attacked. When Logan was getting drunk at that bar. There was a lot of guilt festering in him but he couldn't find your body. He searched the whole mansion for you but he just couldn't find you. He couldn't even bury you. Like in the movie he turned to alcohol and rage. Killing because he hoped that maybe it would bring back any feeling but nothing could cure the hole in his heart.

When he got dragged to the void the last person he expected to see was you standing at Cassandras side. Your name left lips as he walked towards you only to be thrown into the ground by Cassandra. Are you a variant? You have to be. But as Cassandra probed his brain she made a comment that let him know it was really you. He tried to talk to you, ask you for help but you just stayed quiet. It really was him. You had conflicting feelings and Cassandra could sniff them out in an instant. You promised you were loyal but when Logan came back you couldn't bring yourself to hurt him. Even though he could heal you just couldn't. Cassandra sent you into a wall when she saw your weakness. Logan charged at her, telling her to get her fucking hands off of you. He won't fail you again. She lets you free as she turns her attention to Logan, digging deep into his brain to see all his memories. His failures, his guilt. Somehow his weird red friend managed to stop her. Logan's speech, he looked right as you as he spoke. How he wants to be a better man, to be the X-Man that you and Charles told him he could be. When she made the portal Logan didn't hesitate to grab you and take you with him. He wasn't leaving you again.

When the world was saved and everything was over you two spent some time together away from the crazy. He fell to his knees and apologized for being a coward. For leaving you. You told him how you got there, that the TVA had showed up and zapped you into the void. You joined Cassandra to survive but Logan didn't care about that. He understood. He was just happy to have you back and for once he felt like he could breathe.

[see-arcane]

Everyone is like haha lizard crawling haha his cape but am I the only one thinking this part is one of the creepiest and manipulative Dracula has ever been? The psychological game here? Forcing Jonathan to write home that he is staying with Dracula longer and having a lovely time?

“What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins's interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way:—“

Oh, it's absolutely chilling. There is no signalling SOS, no way to slip out of it without immediately putting himself in even greater danger. It's the duress of having a gun pointed at your head and being told to tell everyone you're happy and safe, hoping all the while--not knowing!--that the trigger won't be pulled for a little bit longer if you comply.

[anon-188]

AJ + movie nights 🍿

summary: movie nights with AJ. except he's not watching the movie—he’s watching you. sweet in theory, filthy in practice.

pairing: AJ x f!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), fluff-to-smut, established relationship, public teasing, semi-public sex, hand stuff, car sex, fingering, lap-sitting, grinding, riding, soft dom!AJ, light exhibitionism, language

a/n: this one’s longer bc i couldn’t pick just one buuut i hope you guys enjoy!! ♡

❥ movie theaters:

♡ AJ’s definitely the type to prefer staying home for movies. he doesn’t care about the big screen, surround sound, or any of that.

♡ but he does care about how excited you get when a new movie drops. how you insist it’s “different in theaters.” how your whole face lights up when you call it a date.

♡ and that word? that’s all it takes. once you call it a date, he’s in. no questions. he’ll never say no to that—and you both know it.

♡ the classics follow: large popcorn (extra butter), way too many snacks, and one drink to share. “because it’s romantic,” you say. he just smiles, shakes his head, and pays like always.

♡ seats? top row, middle. always. AJ doesn’t mind—he likes the privacy.

♡ he doesn’t love the rest though—loud previews, candy wrappers, people talking. but he puts up with it. for you.

♡ which is why you always make sure to thank him. sometimes it’s a kiss on the way to the car. most of the time, you wait until you’re home to really show him. most of the time…

♡ other times? you pretend to cover yourself with his jacket, draping it across both your laps like you’re just cold—when really, your hand is already sliding toward him.

♡ he spreads his legs without saying a word, low eyes cutting over to you in the dark, hips sinking lower into the seat—an open invitation.

♡ his breathing comes heavy through his nose, jaw tight as your hand slips beneath the waistband, wrapping around him slow, stroking him harder the more he twitches in your grip.

♡ when you lean in and kiss his neck—right there, that one spot he loves—he lets out a breath, sharp, almost too loud, and you feel him throb in your palm.

♡ he never tells you to stop. not when his eyes flutter shut. not when he bucks up once. not even when his fingers grip your thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him from groaning out loud.

❥ drive-ins:

♡ a soft spot for AJ, though he’ll never admit it. he likes it because it gives him just enough privacy to feel like you’re alone, even when you’re not.

♡ you do it all: throw blankets in the backseat, bring a pillow that never gets used, and sneak in extra snacks.

♡ he’ll act like he doesn’t care, but the smirk says otherwise when he sees you pull out your stash mid-movie, proud like you just pulled off a job.

♡ his favorite part of the night is when you climb onto his lap, legs stretched across the center console, arms wrapped around his neck as you whisper, “i just want to be closer.”

♡ you’re always watching the big screen, acting unbothered, while his hands rub slow up your legs, getting rougher near your thighs like it’s not intentional. 

♡ every time you glance at him? he’s staring straight ahead—like he’s innocent. he’s not.

♡ usually, you ignore it. let him tease. get your payback later—that’s the game. 

♡ but the one time you can’t take it? you slide your legs off the console and sit upright in his lap—back pressed to his chest, pretending it’s just to get comfortable.

♡ you grind your hips once, then again—slow and teasing, just enough to feel him stiffen under you—until his voice drops, low and dangerous, “you’re really doing this here? gonna fuck yourself on me like you don’t care who’s watching?”

♡ you don’t answer—you just move. your shorts and panties shoved low, his pants lower. then he’s sinking into you, thick and steady, while you grip the steering wheel and bite back a moan as he stretches you open.

♡ the seat’s leaned back. your hips roll slow against him, dragging him deeper with every grind—keeping control, even though you both know he’s barely holding it together beneath you.

♡ he wants to thrust—you feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his fingers dig into your hips—but you know the windows aren’t tinted enough for that.

♡ his frustration comes out in low, gritted breaths, like it’s killing him not to fuck you the way he wants—but it still feels too fucking good to stop.

spoiler: now that you’ve given in? don’t expect him to be so patient next time. not when he knows he can have you like this—right here, with the windows slightly fogged up and your thighs shaking in his lap.

❥ at home (bonus):

♡ again, AJ's favorite, hands down. no noise, no strangers, no distractions—just the two of you. 

♡ you’re either spread across the couch, tangled in blankets, or curled up in bed with nothing but skin and soft sheets between you.

♡ his hands are never still. they drift—through your hair, across your back, over your thighs—lazy, soothing, but always there, like he doesn’t know how to not touch you. but it never stays innocent for long.

♡ it always starts the same. your head turns, you kiss him—sweet, just because. and he kisses you back, just as soft. but when you pull away, even a little, his hand finds your cheek and he murmurs, “one more.”

♡ it’s never just one more. it’s him laying you on your back, kissing every inch of your body until you’re squirming, protesting just to hear what he’ll do—and he shuts it down with two fingers slipping inside you, his mouth still on your skin.

♡ it’s you riding him slow, deep, messy, his hands dragging your hips back down every time you try to lift off too fast.

♡ and when he has you pulled up on all fours? it’s him sinking in slow, then snapping his hips rough, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist as he fucks you deeper with every stroke, muttering how good you take it like he can’t help himself.

♡ when you’re finished, the credits are rolling. he always tells you you can start it over, try again. but the look he gives you—the one that lingers low and dark as his thumb drags slow across your thigh—tells you exactly how it’ll end.

let's be honest: AJ doesn’t really care about watching movies. not in the theater, not at the drive-in, not even at home. his favorite view? you—on your back, in his lap, under him, over him—any way he can have you. movie nights are just another excuse.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

tag list: @alealuvshayden @haydenchristensenisbae @sythethecarrot

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, just let me know (comment or message me). i’m happy to do it! :)

links: masterlist

[officialnostradamus]

The Shadow Dragons’ safehouse

is safe by name only. Even the safest of spaces in Minrathous exist under the looming threat of a magister’s whims. Perhaps those with the highest of blood sleep soundly in their manors, certain those threats don’t apply to them. Any with half a mind know better. The citizens of Minrathous know better. Tarquin knows better. He knows that the sweetly crackling fire and the way it bathes the room in soft light is an illusion of peace. Come morning, it will be broken by somber news of some atrocity or by the mere fact of being a rebel who still dons a uniform. Each will crack against this serenity, yet he will soldier on.

“What are you still doing here?” Ashur’s voice is as gruff as it gets. A thready rasp of exhaustion that can’t quite overcome the smooth diction of lofty breeding.

“Someone has to balance the ledger.” Unlike the divine incumbent, Tarquin is half a step from being a farm boy. The hour is late and his mood shows. “Unless you’d like to.” 

Beneath the soft crackle of the fire, long since burned to embers, there is the whisper of breath. Sleeping shadows finding respite in the back room, piled onto cushions like stray cats. It’s a light sleep, Tarquin knows because he’s been there. Here. But at least it is rest and they are as safe as it gets. At least someone is awake.

“I appreciate you working the books.” Ashur isn’t in the mood for jibes, it seems, and Tarquin finally bothers to look at him. The circles beneath his eyes are dark and heavy, notable over the veil shrouding his face, and his shoulders slump. It’s slight, still more than he usually lets slip. 

“Your eyeliner is smudged,” Tarquin says, because it’s easier than asking what happened. Ashur’s huff isn’t quite a laugh, but maybe it’s close enough. The Shadow Dragons aren’t the work of one man. They all put their lives on the line to make Minrathous better - even if doing paperwork feels like a mundane part of that - but Tarquin knows the role Ashur has played in it. Knows the role he still plays, with them and in Tevinter. The Viper means a lot to the city and the revolution. Beneath the table, Tarquin kicks out the chair across from him. “The tea is fresh.” 

“Thank you,” Ashur takes the offer. Steam still curls from the kettle now between them. There is a moment of quiet, still catching the occasional stutter of noise from the backroom. Then the sound is Ashur, a soft sigh, and Tarquin sets his work aside. A soporati pouring tea for a highblood is so common it might as well be a joke. If Ashur had asked, Tarquin would have bristled. Instead, he pushes the mug across the table and watches. It’s familiar enough now it’s almost a game. Ashur’s elegant, precise fingers unthread the loop of his mask and he lets out a breath that pulls tension from his shoulders. He looks just as tired beneath the veil, and no less lovely for it. They are comfortable here. It’s a dangerous feeling to acknowledge more than what The Viper means to Minrathous, but what Ashur might mean to him. 

“Alright, what happened?”

Then again, he wouldn’t be a Shadow Dragon if he was afraid of a little danger.

**I couldn't actually write tonight so here's a tiny Tarquin/Ashur thing. I may be an EmmRook blog but I'm not immune.

[gayspacepiratesss]

Hiiii friends I made a thing!!! 💕 An illustrated mini-fic, to be precise.

The art part isn't quite finished but I think the last three illustrations might take me longer and I wanted to share what I have so far. There are six color plates now and eventually I hope I'll have nine. I'll do a separate art post when they're all finished for folks who aren't as interested in the story!

I wrote this because I was thinking about trauma, and Neve's love for Docktown, and how two people who take too much responsibility for things might try and fail to help each other. About how breaking out of regret prisons isn't something most of us get to do just once, but over and over again: new chapters in the same old story. Plot twists that get a little better each time, if we're lucky.

I think Neve and Rook are lucky, but you be the judge of that. 💕

***

Red-eye

In which Neve gives new meaning to the phrase "Cry it out" and Rook fights gravity with exactly the amount of success you might expect.

Content note: Some mild hurt/comfort, references to blood, angst, and many feelingsy illustrations.

-~-

The veins are starting to fade, but her eyes are still red. Staring herself down in the mirror, Neve Gallus can't honestly tell if it's the Blight or sheer exhaustion that makes it impossible to recognize her own face.

The days since Elgar'nan's fall have been hard for a happy ending: the work of digging friends from the rubble, patching injuries and broken bridges, burying or burning the dead.

Neve's gaze flickers past her reflection towards the slight, sleeping figure on the sofa behind her.

Rook has been there for all of it. Minrathous, Treviso, Arlathan. First to volunteer, last to leave at night. She's never been afraid of heavy lifting.

You showed up. You always do.

...but where am I?

In Dock Town, the ocean always made her feel like she could breathe. Here, the blue light of the aquarium is drowning her again. Cold shadows run restless across her face, almost dancing with the black traces etched into her skin.

She slips out the door alone. Again.

-~-

"Again?"

Rook sags against the wooden railing opposite Hal's fish stall, her shoulders tight even as her face falls.

The older man squints sympathetically. His hands scale the day's catch with expert automatic movements, but his eyes stay with her. "Earlier this morning," he confirms. "Same time, same story."

Every day for the past month. Early, late, in between. As soon as there was a moment they might talk, Neve disappeared. If Eann "Rook" Aldwir had ever been the praying kind, now—not the fall of Minrathous or the rise of the Evanuris—would have been the moment she was on her knees.

I would burn worlds for you, but I couldn't pull you back when it mattered.

What have I saved if I didn't save Neve Gallus?

She runs a hand through her hair, putting on a rosy face to match, and forces a grin she doesn't quite feel. "Ah, well. It's been hard for everyone, but..."

"... mmhm." Hal nods. "Time is what the city needs, maybe. Time, and they'll remember..." his voice fades. Suddenly he is very busy with the mackerel.

... that she loves them. That she always loved them. That she never—she didn't—

"It was Elgar'nan and Ghilan'ain—" Rook can't quite hide her frustration.

"I know." Hal chops a fishhead slightly too aggressively. "They'll know."

But does she know?

From the street, a shout as ropes go up to raise new scaffolding—there's work to do on some of the dockside apartments, newly in danger of tumbling into the sea.

Eann buys a fresh skewer and sinks her teeth in. "If oo fee er--" she ventures, mouth full, eyes already on the next task.

"I'll send her your way," Hal finishes.

But he won't. They both know.

-~-

They both know. Everyone knows. Neve Gallus, protector of Docktown—until she destroyed it.

She takes a long drag from her pipe, staring across the city from her perch above the Lamplighter—one of the only buildings to go unscathed by the massive tentacles of Blight that she, personally, had directed. The elegant cruelty of Elgar'nan's choice wasn't lost on her—if anybody knew how to target Minrathous' weak points. If anybody knew the city's secrets. Set her against the place she loved best and watch it fall.

In the moment, it had been a pleasure.

How do you come back from that?

When Treviso had been ravaged by the Blight, her heart broke for Lucanis—but her relief for her own people had blunted the pain. She remembers the moment Rook showed up on the field, one step behind Neve and Tarquin, one step ahead of the dragon. She remembers her own disbelief: "You came."

Eann had never looked smaller than she did against that burning-black sky, her skin—so pale it was almost blue in a certain light—flushed and uneven, jaw set against her fear. And Neve had never loved her more—a thought she had shoved down immediately, fiercely, completely, as she skewered a nearby Venatori with ice.

They won that day. Parts of it, anyway.

And when Minrathous did fall, it was Neve's fault. Not Rook's.

-~-

"Not Rook's!" Elek Tavor has brought his Threads. He shoos Eann away from the complex dance of ladders and platforms they're erecting to shore up the dockfront. "That's your job, nughead! I need her here!"

Gang members and locals set shoulders together against the weight of newly-cut stone and crumbling Blight, clearing the one from the ruined apartments and storefronts to make room for the other. They look like a training montage or an inspirational poster—if training smelled like clotted blood, and inspiration felt like vertigo.

He winks at her from over a pulley, tossing her a safety harness and a length of rope. "You're too good for us gutter rats."

She straps in, eyeing the higher floors. The corruption still needs clearing before they can fully assess the damage. It's not especially stable, but she'd rather risk her skin than someone else's. "Better a rat with wings, huh?"

"Better you than me."

She doesn't argue. Instead, she climbs -- reaching hand over hand for a better view. The city shrinks and shifts as she pulls herself above it. The Cobbled Swan blends into the paper seller stalls and merchant alleys, already in business again with whatever scraps they each could scavenge. The sea's slate mood gives way to a smudge of sky and stone, reflecting up the cliffs across the channel.

I know you're there.

Tucked somewhere among those caves and crawlspaces is a detective with a shattered heart, blowing smoke rings and tearing herself to shreds. Rook has watched her disappear, slowly but surely, with every day of "recovery." To rebuild something is to see what was broken, to go over the damage in fine detail. To catalogue every blow. But for Neve, it is cataloging her own sins, her own failures, in a neat series of boxes to be checked and confirmed with evidence. For Rook, it has been watching that soft face flinch and flatten with each victory, each moment of hope, as though it were a nail in her heart's coffin.

But Neve still comes to the city for solace. She can't help herself. And so Eann haunts Minrathous, signing up for tasks that don't really need her, checking in on the people she knows Neve loves. Looking for answers in The Case of the Blighted Dream. The Broken Detective. Docktown's Ghost.

She has tried to be patient. So. Patient. But sometimes the most ungenerous part of her thinks, I broke out of my prison. To find you. To have this.

Now I'm losing you to yours.

Distracted by the weight of her thoughts, Rook barely notices when the stone she reaches for crumbles in her hand—until it pulls the harness anchor with it, the whole wall of the second story giving way. There is a sharp jerk, and she is falling—

Falling?

Falling.

But even as her heart freezes in her throat, it is still pulling her across the water. Even as she braces for the impact, her eyes are still half-scanning the cliffside for a tell-tale flash of teal, a smudge of smoke.

-~-

Smoke.

Neve squints suddenly, her pipe drooping between slack fingers. Smoke? By the docks?

No. Dust.

Something is falling.

But the channel is not wide, and she realizes with growing horror that she can hear the sound not just of stone, blight, beams crumbling, but also voices. Shrieking, wavering. "Look out!" "Back up!" "Clear it OUT—"

And then: "Rook!"

Someone is falling.

Rook.

A blinding, burning fear bites into her chest. The pipe clatters to the ground. If she was drowning before, she is choking now, clawing her way to the surface of a dream she has been walking in for weeks. Trading pains of the past for a present that sears her lungs and surges down her spine.

Mages cannot fly, but all that is left of Neve in that alcove as she bolts through passageways and across rooftops is a pipe's worth of tobacco and the shadow of a thought, echoing like a stone dropped in a dry well.

Wait for me. Wait.

-~-

“Wait.” Eann coughs wetly, throat clogging with dust and something unpleasantly, unexpectedly—oh. Blood. Well. She drags herself up on one elbow, waving Elek and the others back slightly, hissing as the movement sends a shock of pain through her body. “Wait, dammit! I’m not—”

“You’re not what?”

Time turns to sludge as familiar brown eyes meet hers, topped by brows knitted together in fury and fear. “Not hurt? Not climbing walls alone?”

Neve kneels beside the shaking elf, hands already moving, telling Eann’s blood to stay inside her body, her bones to know themselves under the weight of stone for seconds rather than minutes. It’s no small feat, and she is immediately sweating. They both are. “Not the Maker's own damned idiot?”

In spite of herself, Rook laughs. Weakly, painfully. “No,” she wheezes. “I am that.”

Neve’s eyes flash and then flood, tears of rage meeting her perspiration as she gingerly eases one hand under Eann’s head, using the other to clear what stone she can. “What were you thinking?”

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. But to Rook’s surprise, it hurts more to look up into eyes that are actually seeing her for the first time since the fight for Minrathous. A face that is furious but not masked. She coughs again, her own eyes burning, unsure if her chest is seizing from the weight of stone or just the love of Neve Gallus. “I—”

You look for lost things. Well, I look for you.

“They need you,” she finds herself choking furiously. “I was thinking they need you, and you’re not here, and I—am—so until you come back from your fucking pity party—ow—”

Neve is already on her knees. She can’t fall further. But the red spilling across the stones is more than time can stop, and she knows she needs to do something—quickly.

Eyes on me, Rook. Stay with me.

“Me?” Her rage is half for show, until it isn’t. And her heart is beating half a step too fast, and half too slow. “You think they need me? Look at me! Look at this.”

If it wasn’t for Neve, the stone would be as sturdy as it ever was in Minrathous. Hal’s fish would come out of the water in nets, not dredged from the surface with glassy eyes. She ripped through the Cobbled Swan, she crushed the lean-tos and shacks of the alleyways to little more than crumbs. She is the reason her tiny, tidy apartment stands in ruins and the cats go hungry. Docktown would be better off if it had never known Neve Gallus to begin with.

Rook screams. It is partly words. “I need you!”

And Neve is ripping her best coat into ribbons because she can’t slow time and send people for bandages, for medics—and there is.

No.

Time.

But she feels her face go numb, and her hands are shaking, and her burning red eyes fly up to meet that fierce, clear gaze. She wants to answer, but she has no answer.

Stay with me.

“What was the point—of all that—if—” Rook’s face is flushed, but Neve thinks flushed is better than pale, better than empty, better than gone. She uses the tiniest push of frost magic to calm the angry red of bones and flesh forced out of place. To stop the swelling before it starts. Almost mechanically, she wraps strips of her dragon coat around Rook’s arm and chest, shattering rocks with one hand as her other shields that stupidly precious rose-crowned skull from further damage.

“—if it didn't bring you back?” Eann rasps.

Neve is shaking so hard now that she can’t bind the fabric properly. She’s not sure it matters. “Bring me back for what?! So that I could—I would—” What can she do, anyway? She’s no healer. If Emmrich were here—or Harding—but they aren’t. And I am going to lose you, and I am going to deserve it. “So I could watch you die?”

Sharp, ragged sobs. “So you could be here—with us—” It’s not easy to cry and suffocate all at once, but Eann is making it work. “Not alone—with everything—”

The black traces of Blight on Neve’s skin mingle with sweat and stone, forming a filigree mask across her face. She feels her grip on the air, on the time around her start to slide.

Not yet. “Rook—”

Eann reaches up with her one free hand. Presses Neve’s forehead to her own, Blight and all. Her body is looser now, heavier—she, too, is struggling to keep control. Sound leaks through the barrier around them. Is someone… shouting?

Her eyes are closed. Her energy directed only towards the point where her skin touches Neve’s.

“Stay. With me,” she whispers. Please.

And Neve Gallus, despite her best efforts, is out of time. She winds her fingers through that rosy hair, and lets a deep, heavy sound tear through her throat. Not knowing, not caring what it is.

I’m here.

Around them, into sound and color and light, the city explodes.

-~-

The city explodes. Scraps of sound and light fracture through Rook’s mind, almost artful—a pastiche of pain and motion with occasional splatters of blessed black unconsciousness. Emmrich is there, then Maevaris. The Lighthouse might feature at some point. Definitely there is blood. So much blood. Then black again. And then—

Ow.

Teal-tipped fingers are laced around her hand. The bedspread beneath them is clean. The hands are not.

“There you are.” Neve has not slept in a long time. Her voice catches. “Oh. I—”

I almost missed you. Missed this.

Where was I?

Rook reaches to cup her fingers around the detective’s cheek. Instinctively, Neve presses closer, lifting her shoulder to cradle the gesture.

“You showed up.” Eann finds that smiling hurts more than she expected. She doesn’t care. “You always do.”

Neve lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I could have made better time.”

The light plays across her face, still silt-stained and shadowed. Eann rubs some of the dirt away with her thumb, wincing at the not-yet-mended motion of various body parts, ignoring them in favor of something far more pressing. Then she stops. “Your eyes. Neve…”

A flash of something like fear. “Oh, they must be awful—”

“No.” Eann pulls the detective closer. She kisses the eyelids, the cheekbones, the saltworn freckles. The dusted brows. Beneath the dirt, there is only the warm brown of these features she knows so well. Beneath the exhaustion, there are only shades of caramel and acorn and leather in those bright, faltering eyes.

Holding the other woman's rueful, aching, anxious face between her palms, she inspects it with great seriousness. Her own blue gaze holds steady beneath a vaguely crinkled brow.

“Neve, the Blight—it’s… gone.”

And this time Neve doesn’t need a mirror to look for her own face. To recognize herself. Something more like a laugh than like a sob curls through her throat and hangs in the air between them, weightless. “Is that so? Maybe you knocked it out of me.”

“Knocked it out of you!” Rook’s wheeze is its own commentary. “Remind me not to pick a fight with a pile of rocks anytime soon.”

“Maybe just pick fights with me, for a while.”

“Mm.” Rook still hasn’t let Neve go. Their noses bump together. “I don’t only want to fight with you…”

“Later.” Neve pushes back, smirking gently. A promise, not a refusal. “You did very nearly lose that last one. But I’ll be here.”

“What happened—” Eann is serious now, her hair falling earnestly into her eyes. “Neve. It happened to everyone. And I know—it was awful. But we can’t—I can’t—”

Not without you.

Neve pushes the hair out of Rook’s face. “I’ll be here.”

This time, when she shuts the door, it isn’t on her way out.

[pages-and-stages]

Both Arms Cradle You Now

Yet another Konrad Curze fic, but an attempt at angst this time! Hopefully y'all enjoy!

"They'll be here soon, they always are," Konrad mumbled to himself. "They *will*, won't they?"

Logically, you had died. Been dead. He knew that. That didn't stop him from staring at the door in confusion, wondering why you hadn't followed him yet. Wondering why you hadn't come in to drag him off to bed, requesting soft cuddles. You were his only softness, after all, gently putting braids in his greasy hair, scattering them here and there. He still hadn't taken the old ones out. You'd be here *any* second to redo them, after all. You had to come.

He remembered meeting you, on some backwater planet. You hadn't run. You'd actually taken an interest, inviting him in and offering tea. He remembered staying there longer than he normally would, just to spend time with you. Trying to convince you and himself that he wasn't good for you. That you'd be in danger. You had laughed, and cradled his face, stroking thumbs under his eyes, softly.

And then, you had followed him, sneaking onto his ship. He knew you were there, of course. The cameras had caught you. They had also caught the determined, excited glint in your eyes as you crept around. He'd give anything to see that glint again, now. He knew you were there. He couldn't be bothered to catch you, or send his sons after you, until after a week. Until he was too far away from any port worth leaving you at. If you wanted to stay, who was he to question the only person who hadn't pissed themselves looking at him.

And then, just like that, you became a part of his life. Stuck to his side like glue. You named the stars, you'd sing softly as you got ready for bed. He could still hear your voice, vocalizing softly. And when his visions got bad, you would always cradle his head, singing that same song as he came to again. At first, the song grated on his nerves. Now? Throne, he'd give anything. He'd give anything.

Logically, you were dead. He knew this. Logically, somebody was coming to kill him, today. He also knew this. But it didn't hurt to pretend, just for a little while longer, that you were still here. That you'd drag him off for cuddles, cradling his face and humming as you braided his hair. He still felt bad for the first time you attempted it. How he slapped your hand away harshly, with a warning not to touch him.

You had smiled, shakily. And he felt bad. He'd never felt guilt before. Not this bad. So the next day, he relented, bowed his head, and let you gather the strands and braid them. His fingers found the strands still in his hair, twisting the braids over and over in his hands.

He sang the song you both loved, his voice cracking and breaking. It was the only memory he allowed to haunt him, but today, of all days, he let everything come after him. Your smile, your hands, your voice, your arms as they wrapped around him. A tear slipped down his cheek as he tried to hold on.

You'd be here, any second. Tugging him away, away from everything that hurt. Any second now…

[gazstations]

Fatum signatum, Canis esuriens

CHAPTER TWO - anima mea turbata

ᯓᡣ𐭩 CHAPTER SUMMARY

You try to outrun Johnny, but he latches on. He also finds out that being home doesn't particularly mean peace as the past is surrounding him.

♡ Chapter Warnings: Implied abusive childhood, family issues, Johnny still doesn't know how to take no for an answer

◇ Notes: I love writing dark!Johnny, so much. I love that he just has one slightly off-putting vibe that everyone hates.

○●○ SERIES MASTERLIST ♡ PREV ♡ NEXT

NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

YOU FLEW THE ROOST THE VERY NEXT DAY.

It perturbed Johnny, really. Brought out a shimmering heat in the thick of his bloodstream when you pretended he didn’t exist in your world anymore. He always existed in your body, down to the deep rotten core of you. He was a foundation. A structural column that molded you into who you were today.

That date you promised him seemed to have floated away from your brain. It made Johnny pinch his eyebrows together and subtly curl his lip into one of disdain. Had you only agreed to get him off your back? Oh, doe, that wasn't going to work with him.

He was a leech.

He'd just keep siphoning until you were nothing more than a husk. And he really didn't want to scare you. He wanted his sweet little doe docile and sweet. If he could have you on your terms, then he would prefer that. Even if he had to woo you first. Anything for you.

Church was as montonous and mudane as he remembered. He lingered in the very back row closer to the corner and pretended to be surprised when he saw familiar faces blink into existence.

Old Miss Hannigan was still frail and somehow zippy as she paraded down the center aisle with eager footsteps. She wore a dress straight out of the 1800s. Johnny could almost guarantee it still smelled of dust and cedar wood from sitting in the closet a long time.

Then there was Ziggy. Johnny used to volunteer during the Thursday street markets with him. They'd whip out a mean burger or corndog. By the end of the day, Johnny always smelled like barbecue. It was his least favorite day.

He was the first person Johnny lost contact with after he deployed for the first time. Replaced. By the scrawny, anxious youngest son of the Maguire family. What a fucking load of bullshit.

Johnny sunk further into the pew when he saw his parents. The little boy in him cowered in shame still, while the fully grown adult cursed those two people that brought him into this world. It was a plethora of reactions that Johnny didn’t do well with. Instinctively, he wanted to seek absolution from them. Now, he wasn't so sure he'd be able to hold his tongue.

He frowned. His slouched, guarded posture thankfully deterred lollygaggers from sitting anywhere near him. Though, lucky for him, the 4 back rows always remained unattended. it was easy to slip away into the shadows and observe.

Yet, the moment he saw your glowy form enter the church, his mind started working. He watched as you offered a hug to Ziggy's sister, who still lingered by the entrance. His eyes half-lidded as you dipped your fingers into the bowl of holy water and made your sign of the cross. You were a sweet little thing as you started to gravitate towards the front of the church.

You were at the other end of the pew, waiting to navigate around a clustered family. Your hands were folded politely in front of you as you let them finish their conversation. Always the patient doe. Aren't you, bon?

Johnny was sliding down the legnthy bench seat before he could stop himself. You hadn’t noticed him yet, probably not see the danger while you were under the eyes of God. Even though he had already found you again in this very location. He needed you to sharpen your environmental awareness.

“Doe…” he spoke, and he watched you go rigid. Your fright didn't please him as much today. Instead, it made him grimace.

“Johnny?” You hissed quietly when his large hand enclosed on your bicep. You continued smiling, though, so that people didn't start looking too much. “What are you doing here?”

“Told ye, doe. Ah'm a changed lad,” Johnny said cooly. “Dinnae look so surprised. Ye ken ah was comin' again.”

Your eyes analyzed him closely. He at least had the audacity to dress nice for church, and he noticed your eyes unconsciously check him out. It made him preen like a bloody peacock, and he sat up a bit straighter in your gaze.

“Sit with me,” Johnny offered, but it really wasn't up for debate. He was already pulling you into the pew while you were pulling back.

“I sit in the front, Johnny,” you said and he made a “tsk” sound.

“Ah ken. One day in the back isnae going tae kill ye,” Johnny insisted. “Ye can have the folks think yer doin' charity if it helps.”

He watched you blow air out in exasperation. You knew you couldn’t fight him. He would just cling on and leech from your warm blood more. He loved your sweetness. It was easy to get underneath and choke the life out.

“Joh-”

You slid into the pew with a sigh, and he immediately had his arm around your shoulders. He was not shy like you. He wanted to show you off as his girl all the time. He found it best when you were secured against his side.

You started to complain, and Johnny shushed you quickly. “Easy, doe. Dinnae fash. Ah ken ye get cold in here.”

You slouched, by default that meant into him. He chuckled lowly and maneuvered you back towards the end of the pew closest to the corner. He knew people naturally skipped over the back pews, so it would be safer if both of you were further away. He had to make his pretty little doe comfortable, after all.

“Reckon we can ‘ave our date tonight, aye?” Johnny spoke.

“I have plans tonight,” you dismissed, and Johnny frowned.

No, that wasn't good.

“Plans?” He hummed. He looked down at you, and you shielded your gaze. “Doin' what?”

Johnny's plan wasn't to isolate you. That created resentment, and he didn't want you to resent him. That wasn’t fun. He wanted you to crave his touch just as you used to when he had you pinned in the back of his shitty Ford. Your babbles were music to his ears.

Last time you turned sour, the whole tree wilted. He lost contact with you for 7 years. He wasn't going to do that again. Yet, he was an impatient man, and you were resisting his advances. What was he supposed to do? Grin and bear it? He was not a good man. He didn't wait. He took selfishly from the ripest bunch.

“Girl’s night.” You muttered after a moment.

“Aye. Cannae miss a night with the lasses,” Johnny replied. “Ye gonna drink?”

“Maybe,” you shrugged.

“Can ah give ye a ride then?” Johnny asked.

You turned your head, blinking. You must've believed you had at least one day to yourself. Surely, Johnny wouldn't impede on girl's night. Not technically. He wasn't going to tarnish your fun. But what kind of man would he be if he didn't help you get home safely?

He was just showing you how chivalrous he was. You wouldn't get hurt if he helped you.

“I was just going to Uber,” you said in dismissal.

Johnny shook his head. He turned sideways in the pew and made you look at him. His finger touched the bottom of your chin as he observed you for a moment.

“Jus' wannae make sure my doe is safe,” he replied softly. “Ye dinnae need tae waste money on some ride.”

In another lifetime, those words would be intended to flatter. To charm innocently and prompt a further relationship. For Johnny, they were dripping possession and revealing the not so innocent mindset he had towards you. He simply believed he had the right to you because he deemed it so.

“We may be out pretty late.” You tried to deter, and he just shrugged.

“Tha's fine. Ah stay up,” Johnny said. He wasn't going to let you extend those sweet legs of yours and scramble away. Not anymore.

Your eyebrows pinched together. “Okay, fine. You can give me a ride.”

He could practically taste the anxiety on you. He noticed the way your head turned slightly as if trying to spy a good Samaritan to help you. It was adorable, really. You were trying so hard to fool him, to throw him off your scent. But he had a lock jaw. Once the canines sunk in, not even a kick to the head could shake him off.

Johnny was pleased, to say the least. He leaned back into the pew and spread out his legs, his lip curling into a small smirk. “Good girl,” he murmured, and he watched your body tense up with sick satisfaction.

You really had made a mistake humoring the man who had seen you at your most exposed. Who knew just the right way to get that honeyed pleasure to flip in pitch and waver. He remembered the hitch in your breath, the way you babbled so sweetly.

Fuck. He had missed you.

He adjusted his hips with a soft sigh, and you finally looked over at him with an incredulous look. You knew why he was adjusting, and you were obviously revolted.

He leaned down to your ear, “Dinnae fash, doe. Ah willnae try anythin’ under God’s nose.”

You side-eyed him. You were doubtful, he could tell. You knew better than to fall tor his rancid lies, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to trap you by his side. He was a liar, sure. He would bend you over this pew if he had to.

The only reason he didn't was because he wanted you to be compliant. While his core burned, aching for a satiation, he played the long game. He lost you already by being a mutt that was lost in the throes of its rutting. This time, he knew better.

There was nothing sweeter than a doe that slowly succumbed to the gnashing teeth on their own.

The opening song began, and Johnny suddenly felt like a little boy again. But he was a soldier. If he had to sit still for an hour next to you to prove something, he would.

He noted the way you didn’t move his hand when it naturally fell upon the fat of your thigh.

♡◇♡

Getting in discretely was the easy part. Getting out while the God truthers mingled in the front entrance and out in the front lawn proved to be a challenge. It had been years since Johnny had found himself in this orbit, yet he doubted anyone forgot his face.

He was the troublemaker. The teenager who turned his nose up at social etiquette and instead danced to his own tune. He was the one who found the chemical benefits of marijuana at fifteen and got the McLeary boys addicted. The one that acted out in class and spent more time in trouble than he ever did learning.

He was one that disappointed his family when he put pen to paper and recruited himself into the military.

He was the bane of most people’s existence because he was also deeply charming. Got along with most people, could sweet talk and pamper, and was always willing to help out. It was a contradiction most of the time. He knew and acknowledged that one small synapse in his head was misfiring, and he relished in it.

He was brought out of his humbled thoughts when a voice broke over the crowd.

“John MacTavish, wha’ are ye doin, ‘ere?”

Johnny stiffened, hand curling around the meat of your bicep as he turned only his upper body. The sense of accomplishment he had felt while being by your side faded into the chasm while a more dominating presence took hold. A helpless little boy and a retired SAS soldier fought against each other as his ice blue eyes narrowed and there was the smallest bob of his Adam's apple.

“Da…” He said tersely. He had not wished for this interaction today. Naively, he had hoped seeing his parents walking down that center aisle would be the only time.

“Ye got some nerve showing yer face after seven years,” his dad, William, seethed with barely subdued distaste.

“Aye. Ken ah'm like the devil rising in yer eyes,” Johnny quipped back. “Just accompanying my doe. Dinnae fash.”

William's eyes flickered over to you, judgment seeping from every clogged pore on his body. You shifted on your feet uncomfortably as you were affected by the growing tension. Everyone with ears knew of the fallout in the MacTavish family.

“Yer datin’?” William asked you.

You averted your gaze for a moment, and Johnny sensed the protest building on your sweet lips. He immediately frowned, pressing himself into you more. Just like a doting boyfriend would do.

“Tha’s none o’ yer business,” Johnny snapped. “Doe's business with me is ‘er secret.”

William grimaced. Johnny stood up straighter. He had taken down dozens of terrorists and the biggest pieces of shit one could imagine. He had long grown past the days of being the bug beneath his dad's shoes. He knew better now.

He was stronger. Not that scared little boy that begged God for a way out.

“Kick ‘im tae the curb,” William pleaded you. “Ye willnae be happy with ‘im, lass.”

“Thank you for the advice, William,” you said politely. Not one for starting conflict. Are you, Doe?

William seemed appeased by that remark, or he just simply didn't have the energy to ramble more about why John MacTavish was hell on earth to be around. His own father thought he was the scum of the earth. A rotten, no good fruit on a tree.

He would be right. Johnny had a habit of spreading that sickness.

“Guid talk. See ya never. Hopefully.” Johnny said, pinching your arm and guiding you down the steps of the church.

By now, people would know he was back in town. It was obnoxious. Though, he also relished in the fact he caused enough upheaval with his mere presence. People spouted a lot of shit about not caring about him, but they sure did talk about him a lot.

“Bloody bampot.” He muttered once the both of you were far enough.

“Johnny…” you started, but he was already dragging you towards his car.

“C'mon, doe. Ah'm famished.”

You were a subdued creature as he herded you into the passenger's seat. He batted your hands away when they tried to secure your seatbelt on their own. He wasn't in the mood for you acting all independent right now. He was hungry and deflated, even if he would rather die than admit the latter feeling.

His dad always had a way of sucking the life out of him. It's why he left as soon as the military gave him the green light. He didn't particularly enjoy the idea that he'd have to confront some aspect of his upbringing.

He wasn't that dopey eyed twenty year old that finally left for good when he got sent on his first tour, after two years of grinding in training. He wasn't some small little ant in a giant's world anymore. He survived a fucking bullet to the head, for christ's sake.

Johnny climbed into the driver's seat, letting out a soft sigh. The one thing that never changed was his need to eat. It was even better having you join him.

“Bet yer famished, too,” he spoke as he peeled out of the church parking lot. Bloody hell, he hated that place.

“Oh. I suppose. I don't need to go out, I'll just eat something at home,” you deflected. You were tense. It made an annoyance bubble in his core.

“Dinnae fash,” Johnny brushed it off. “Ah love treatin’ ye. Gotta get yer belly full ‘fore ye drink.”

You just slumped on your seat, likely knowing you couldn’t argue. You knew that about everything. You wouldn't be here if you had some form of self-preservation or even respect.

Perfect for him, yet bad for you.

He dropped his hand onto your upper thigh, squeezing it gently.

°•○●○•°

TAGLIST

@callsignpxnguin @sushi-enthusiast @niresenrab @tired-writer04 @shhitskinkytime @babybatreads @armycaratlover

If you would like to be added for future chapters, let me know!

[littlelamy]

"sushi"

synopsis: you flirt with pope, making rafe upset word count: 1,4k warnings: +18 minors dni, food play, jealous!rafe, female receiving, inappropriate use of food, language. please let me know if i have missed anything!

even though topper's party is so loud, rafe still hears your laugh, that honey-sweet sound that makes his fists curl under the table. especially when he hears you say pope’s name? and say, “i’d love to get sushi with you sometime,” rafe’s molars grind like tectonic plates moving in anger.

he doesn’t interrupt the conversation he instead, he tucks it away. files it under things you shouldn’t ever say.

as soon as you two get home, you’re already barefoot and oblivious, bouncing on the balls of your feet as he shuts the door behind you and locks it.

"you wanna eat sushi with pope?"

you blink. "...what?"

his fingers are already undoing the buttons on his shirt. “you said you wanted sushi. with pope.”

"i mean—he just asked and i said—"

"shut the fuck up," rafe snaps, stepping into your space. he cups your jaw in one big hand, fingers digging in just enough to make you squeak. “you know how many things i let slide? how sweet you get to be? but you wanna say his name like that?”

you shake your head frantically, but it’s too late. you’re done for. your fate’s sealed the second his palm collides with your ass with a loud smack. him dragging you to the couch by the wrist, sitting you down and yanking you across his lap.

"gonna feed myself sushi tonight," he growls, dragging your panties down your thighs. “since you wanna act like a dish on someone else's table.”

your face burns as he presses between your shoulder blades, folding you neatly. your chest pressed to the cushions, your ass up high and bare. you’re squirming, but not fighting him. you whimper when you hear the familiar rustle of takeout, the plastic clatter of chopsticks. you twist to look, and—oh my gosh. he’s unpacking rolls, spicy tuna and eel and tamago, like it’s a picnic and you’re the plate.

"keep still." rafe’s voice is low, and angry. “unless you want me to shove wasabi in your ass.”

the cool, delicate press of sushi rice settling on the curve of your bare cheek. he hums, placing another on your lower back, a strip of eel trailing dangerously close to your crack. soy sauce dribbles—on purpose—down the small of your spine.

"perfect little platter," he mutters, and you hear the snap of chopsticks.

you feel the shift of the rice leaving your skin, the warm breath on your ass before his teeth drag against the flesh just beside where he took it from. he licks up the soy sauce spill, tongue lazy, claiming every drop.

you moan—fuck, you don’t mean to. it slips out of you, you clench around nothing, and he knows it. he taps a piece of salmon against your entrance. the fish cool, your cunt hot, hungry.

“think pope would eat off your ass like this?” rafe asks, and the smack that lands across your other cheek makes your hips jerk. sushi almost topples.

“n-no,” you whimper.

“you think he’d put his tongue right here?” his fingers spread you open, thumbs pulling your cheeks apart, exposing your wet little hole. he blows on it—fuck—and you sob.

"say it."

"no! only you—only you eat me—!"

he laughs, low and filthy, like you just affirmed some dark gospel. "that's fucking right."

you try to press your thighs together, desperate for friction, but his thigh beneath you is unyielding. he grips your hip and bites into a piece of tamago that had been resting right where your lower back curves into your ass. chews slowly and moans just to mock you.

"you know what this tastes like?" he laughs.

you hiccup, chest heaving. "w-what?"

"ownership."

he eats another, dragging the tip of the chopstick across your slit like it’s an accident. you mewl, wriggling.

then he spanks you again and again. you can barely breathe, tears on your lashes.

“please—please i’m sorry—”

“shhh.” rafe leans down, licks a stripe from your pussy up to your tailbone, groaning deep in his chest. “still got a whole roll left. you don’t get to cum until it’s all gone.”

you sob into the cushions, every nerve alight, the drag of the chopstick down your spine, the weight of his thigh under your belly, the slick tease of his tongue collecting soy and sweat. he nudges a piece onto your lower lips, watching it balance, just barely, on your cunt.

"hold it there for me, sweetheart."

you clench, muscles trembling, as he takes his sweet time.

you sob into the cushions, every nerve alight, the drag of the chopstick down your spine, the weight of his thigh under your belly, the slick tease of his tongue collecting soy and sweat. he nudges a piece onto your lower lips, watching it balance, just barely, on your cunt.

"hold it there for me, sweetheart."

you clench, muscles trembling, as he takes his sweet time.

his tongue dips lower this time, starting from the base of your slit and dragging up, slow and obscene, collecting your slick like it’s a dipping sauce. he pauses at your clit, lips grazing it like a secret before pulling away, leaving you twitching.

he eats the sushi, naturally, but not before letting the edge of it trail across your folds. the cold rice against your heat, the seaweed tickling your entrance—he watches how your back arches, how your thighs quake trying not to close.

"look at you," he says, voice full of grit, chewing slowly. "shaking. and i’ve barely touched you."

he wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then smears that same hand across your pussy, pressing the sticky scent of soy and salt into you. you whimper, feeling the drag of his palm over your folds.

"pope ever make you feel like this?" he growls, two fingers slipping between your slick lips, teasing you but not pushing in. "ever have you wet and begging just from being looked at?"

you shake your head, fast, frantic.

"no? say it. say he doesn’t do this to you."

"he doesn’t!" you cry out, voice muffled in the cushion, fingers clawing at the couch. "only you, baby—only you do!"

he slides two fingers in deep without warning making you scream. he curls them instantly, finding that sweet spot like he mapped it out the moment he first split you open. and he uses it against you, relentless, pumping hard, merciless.

your ass bounces in his lap, hips jerking with every thrust of his fingers, slick dripping down to his palm, making loud wet sounds that echo through the room.

another spank, hard enough to make your thighs tremble, and then he leans down to lick the sting. again. in a pattern now. fingers thrust, palm spanks, tongue soothes. over and over and over. a sweet and harsh punishment in a perfect rhythm.

he grabs another piece of sushi, presses it to your clit like an ice cube, making you wail from the coldness.

he laughs at you whoile rubbing it in circles, letting the cold rice and fish smear against your swollen bud while he fucks you with his fingers, your body a trembling mess.

“you want me to stop?”

you scream, “no, please!”

“you want me to cum all over your back instead of inside?”

“no! please! i want—i want—”

he shoves the piece between your lips before you can finish the sentence.

you choke a little, eyes going wide, but chew fast, tasting the soy sauce and your own slick on the rice. his fingers never stop. he doesn’t let up, not for a second.

“that’s it,” he growls, lips brushing your ear as he leans over your back. “swallow it, slut. swallow every bite. you wanna be dinner? be dinner.”

your eyes roll back as the orgasm crashes through you—fast, violent, unexpected. your pussy clamps around his fingers, milking them, and your thighs spasm. you bite down on the sushi to keep from screaming too loud.

"don't fucking stop clenching," he hisses. "i'm not done eating."

and he dives into you.

tongue replacing fingers, lips sucking, teeth grazing. he eats like a man starving, like the meal is running away, like he's afraid someone might snatch it off your ass if he doesn't devour it now.

he eats you until you cum again, and sits back, wipe his lips, and let out a satisfied breath.

"best sushi i've ever fucking had."

you’re still panting, while he watches your legs wide, and cunt leaking down your thighs.

he can't help but tap your sore cheek, hard.

"get up..."

you don’t move.

he grabs you by the hair and drags you up into his lap, onto your knees between his spread thighs.

his cock is completely hard.

"now open that sweet little mouth," he says, fist wrapped around the base, aiming it at your lips. “and let me wash down dinner with dessert.”

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[samazing0831]

Jessie's Girl - Steve Harrington x Reader

Steve Harrington x Reader - Song Lyric Challenge

Modern AU

WARNING - alcohol consumption, dubcon (if you squint), underage alcohol consumption, cheating (!)

Steve Harrington never liked Jessie. Maybe it's the cocky attitude, maybe it's the way Jessie takes everything for granted - including the girl curled up on his couch. Steve knows he shouldn't want her. She's Jessie's. Off-limits. But that doesn't stop him from falling anyway. A party. A kiss. A secret.

1.3k words

Jessie’s got himself a girl and I wanna make her mine.

It’s a thought Steve shouldn’t be having, especially not when the girl in question is curled up on Jessie’s couch wearing his Hawkins Tigers hoodie, laughing at something dumb on TV. But the thought keeps showing up, uninvited.

You look up at Steve from across the room, your smile lingering a little too long. Jessie doesn’t notice - he’s too busy trying to crush a beer can with one hand while bragging about something from gym class.

Steve leans against the doorway, arms crossed. He’s never liked Jessie. Too cocky. Too loud. Too unaware of how lucky he is.

And you? You’re just too damn much.

Too pretty, too funny, too good to be hanging on some guy who talks more to his biceps than to you.

But you’re Jessie’s girl.

And Steve’s not supposed to want you.

So he settles for the next best thing - teasing you, stealing glances, slipping into conversations when Jessie leaves the room. You flirt back. Just enough to keep it dangerous.

It’s harmless. Until it isn’t. 

The house is packed. Music is loud, drinks are flowing, and Steve’s buzzed enough to forget he’s not supposed to be watching you dance.

You’re tipsy, red solo cup in hand, hips swaying to the beat. Jessie’s nowhere to be seen, probably shot-gunning beers in the backyard. You’re surrounded by friends, but your eyes keep drifting - back to Steve.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, jaw clenched, watching you with that look he gets when he’s trying not to think.

She’s loving him with that body, I just know it.

He’s not wrong. You’ve been with Jessie for a while now. Everyone thinks you’re perfect together. But your smiles are more practiced these days, your kisses timed for an audience. When Steve looks at you, really looks, you feel seen. Like he knows the performance you’ve been putting on.

You find him outside later, sitting on the porch steps, fiddling with a bottle cap.

“You ditchin’ the party?” you ask.

He looks up. “Just taking a break. Too many drunk freshmen in there.”

You sit beside him, a little closer than necessary.

“Jessie’s probably playing beer pong. He won’t miss me.”

You’re right. He won’t.

There’s a beat of silence. The buzz, the music, the alcohol - it all swirls into something electric.

“I wish that I had Jessie’s girl,” Steve says suddenly, his voice low.

You blink. “What?”

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t flinch. “I wish you were mine.”

And then you’re kissing.

It’s hot, a little sloppy, desperate like you’ve both waited too long. Your hands are in his hair. His grip tightens on your waist. He groans against your mouth, and you swallow the sound like it’s your own.

Then -

“Babe?”

Jessie’s voice slices through the air.

You bolt upright, breathless. Steve’s lips are still red. You’re flushed, panicked.

“I’m here!” you call, voice cracking.

Jessie doesn’t see Steve - doesn’t really see - but the moment is shattered.

And Steve?

He’s already looking away.

You didn’t sleep much that night.

Jessie had passed out next to you after the party, one arm flung across your stomach like you were some kind of placeholder. You lay still, staring at the ceiling, lips still tingling from Steve’s kiss.

Your phone buzzed once. You didn’t need to look.

You already knew it was him.

The next morning, you avoided Steve in the hallway at school. And again in the cafeteria. But it didn’t stop the heat crawling up your spine when you caught his eye from across the lunchroom.

And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time,

Wonderin’ what she don’t see in me.

Steve was unraveling.

You weren’t the only one haunted by the patio kiss.

He’d been so sure you felt it too - that spark, that fire. But here you were, still walking around with Jessie’s stupid letterman jacket slung over your shoulders.

I’ve been funny, I’ve been cool with the lines.

Ain’t that the way love’s supposed to be?

He joked with Robin. He high-fived Dustin. He played it cool because that’s what Steve Harrington did. That’s what everyone expected.

But inside? Inside he was losing it.

I wanna tell her that I love her but the point is probably moot.

Then came the worst part.

You and Jessie - clinging to each other in the hall like it meant something. Like Steve wasn’t the one who had kissed you like he need you to breathe, like it had wrecked him for anyone else.

And Jessie?

Jessie, the dumbass, slapped Steve on the back at lunch and said, “Man, you should’ve seen how cute she was last night, all tipsy and clinging to me like a kitten.”

Steve wanted to throw up.

I feel so dirty when they start talkin’ cute

That night, you finally texted him.

You: Can we talk?

Steve: Please.

You met behind the old gym.

It was cold, but you didn’t care. Your hands were stuffed into your jacket pockets, and you were pacing when he got there.

Steve stopped a few feet away, eyes searching yours.

“You came,” he said quietly.

“Of course I did,” you whispered. “Steve, I -”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said, hands raised. “I get it. You’re with Jessie. I shouldn’t have -”

“No,” you said, stepping closer. “You should have. Because I wanted it. I want you.”

He froze.

“But I just can’t drop him like that,” you added, voice cracking. “His parents and mine - our friends, everyone thinks we’re perfect. But I’m just… I’m pretending.”

I play along with the charade,

There doesn’t seem to be a reason to change.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “So what, we just keep pretending nothing happened?”

You looked up at him.

“I don’t want to,” you said. “But I need time.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Time.”

It wasn’t easy.

You waited a week - one long, aching, guilty week - before you broke up with Jessie.

He didn’t cry, but he looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him. “Is it someone else?”

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Steve?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

You showed up at Steve’s house two nights later, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out the knock of your fist on his door.

When he opened it, his expression was unreadable. You’d kept your distance since the night behind the gym. You couldn’t blame him if he didn’t trust you anymore.

“Hi,” you said, breathless from the cold.

Steve leaned against the doorframe. “Hi.”

You gave him a soft smile, nerves twisting in your stomach. “It’s over with Jessie.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours. “For real?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’m tired of pretending. I want to stop hiding.”

He stepped closer, voice quiet but sure. “And what do you want to do instead?”

Your hands found his chest, heart racing under your palms. “You.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth was on yours in a heartbeat - hungry, hot, like the weeks of tension had finally snapped. You tugged him to his couch, fingers sliding into his hair, and he let you pull, let you guide. His body pressed against yours like he was starving for you.

This kiss was different. Not a stolen moment in a hallway or a drunken blur at a party. It was real - open, honest, wanting.

His lips moved to your throat, and you gasped, hips tilting up into him. His hands slid beneath your shirt, fingers spreading over your ribs like he needed to feel every inch of you.

“God,” he whispered, “you drive me crazy.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathed.

And you meant it.

Where can I find a woman like that?

Turns out… she was here all along.

With him.

[bloodsalteds]

dean feels her tighten. hold him snug and warm as hips begin to slow their thrusts and eventually stutter to pause then sink into the mattress. breathless after his murmured confession--long lashes dip down to veil his eyes from view. gentle fingertips run along his hairline and he lets out a soft hum in response to the way his nerve endings tingle in their wake. cassie's touch is something he'd chase after. time and time again. so, it's on surprise that he lifts his head slightly off the pillows to do exactly that. an uneven smile sits lazy and sated upon his mouth. there's no energy left in him to hone in on the implications of what he said. of what it could do to them or what troubles will, undoubtedly, surface and force them to face. his lifestyle isn't the greatest for any sort've connection.

he shouldn't have those. shouldn't go seeking out more than a one-night or one-weekend stands that are cut and dry and zero ties once the town sees nothing except his tail lights on the way out. that's the sort've life that the family business permits. not the kind where you go telling people you love them and expect to just nope out of the danger it could put them in.

yeah, his brain isn't going there.. and, this time, it won't.

there's no sign from the hunter that he has a single clue what she's about to do. or, this story would unfold in a very different manner. all he knows is that his gaze swings open cause her breath is near his mouth and soon as her lips stamp the spot where a warmth of an exhale washed over? dean happily returns it as his own fingers lift to push through her dark hair, cup the back of her head.

and just like that.. the memory of words he hasn't dared to share with anyone are gone. the emotion? that sticks. so much that he can feel his heart about to burst with it and they are, once again, on the edge of his tongue. they wobble there--telltale signs in the way his eyes soften and go round at their corners. dean beholds her with the look of someone seeing a sunset to end all sunsets. taken back in the best brand of the word possible. he wants to tell her but doesn't because what sort've life can he give her? not much of one.

another squeeze around how he's slowly softening. a moan slips free. makes his eyes roll back. dean's nodding against the pillow when he utters a gravelly, "better than good.. was perfect." long fingers that've saved as many lives as they've ended and then some curl around her wrist to draw her palm to his mouth. kisses rain down against it soon as it's there. "so good, we're having a repeat before the night's over." look at that devilish glint inside pools of endless hues of green! oh yeah! big time!

                            CASTIEL WANTS TO GIVE HIM EVERYTHING, but she can't give him this. No, she's surrounded by troubled water, but the wave to wash her away is not yet close to her little island, so Dean must experience this on his own. It's fine, though. She came twice already, and now it's his time. He deserves it. Meeting his frenzied thrusts, she squeezes around Dean's shaft with a soft moan while she stares unblinkingly into his eyes. His pupils are blown, his green irises only a slim ring. His release is hot inside her. His whole body trembles.

                            There you go, she wants to say, but it dies inside her mouth when his confession reaches her ear. Love. Not love for this act, for their shared pleasure, no, love for her. I love you. Castiel suddenly feels cold all over; goosebumps break out over her arms that have nothing to do with lust. She lets him pull her close and then carefully guides him to lie on his back again. Her small breasts are pressed against his chest, his shaft still snug and warm inside her. Her hand wanders from the back of his head to his temple, fingers brushing over his brow. Love isn't for angels except if it's love for their Father. But passion and drunken lust and the desire to build a family together –– that's entirely human. That was never her plan. Friendship? Maybe. Every human needs friends, and Dean hasn't seemed to have anyone in that regard. But this romantic infatuation is wrong. It has to stop.

                            Castiel doesn't know what to do except lean down and kiss Dean. Her fingers find his temple again, and her grace dips inside his mind. It's relatively easy to delete his memory of ever saying I love you. It's only five seconds in total. He won't even notice that little gap.

                            Satisfied that she has brought the mission back on track, Castiel pulls back a little to peer down at Dean. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips. He looks content. Happy. "Good?" she whispers, squeezing around him for one last time. Sadly, she can feel him grow soft.

[tonycries]

ABRACADABRA

Synopsis. No one else made you cúm before? No problem! Of course, he’s there to help.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, JJK men making you cúm after your ex couldn’t, PÚSSYDRÚNK MEN, matíng presses, cervíx kíssing, dúmbifícation, TALKING YOU THROUGH IT, biiig stretch, creampíes, spítting, chokíng, oraI (f), exhíbitíonism (Gojo), use of jujutsu, doctor!Higuruma, p examinations, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Happy early VaIentine’s day lovelies <33

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - COCK(Y)

“M’almost insulted, doll.” Toji’s letting his muscular back slouch heftily against the padded pillow, pinkish tongue poking out to drag a slow lick across his scar at the way you straddled him. “Let your dear Toji here take gooood care of this pretty pussy now.”

“B-but Toji–” Your hands ghost down his tensing abs, rock-hard and so sculptured underneath your sensory tips that you can’t help but ogle. Whispering, “None of my exes have ever made me c-”

“So what, girl?”

He’s latching a strong hand onto the side of your waist, letting your eager hips slip n’ slide all down that girthy length of his. Scorching hot, lathering your entrance in a slobbering layer of pre at just the thought of being inside you. 

A puffy vein catches on your sappy entrance and you find yourself letting off a moan, spine arching into his bulging pecs. And all you can hear are his rasping chuckles, something dangerous. “Ya seriously think Toji Fushiguro wouldn’t be able to make ya cum?”

And it was a rhetorical question - something to make your bottom lip wobble oh-so-cutely just the way he liked. 

But when you’re steeling your hazy gaze on him and shaking your head? Oh, if Toji was any lesser man then he might’ve just cum right then and there. 

Aching shaft throbbing out a rapid little ba-dump–! right around your gummy ring of muscle. Stretching you out agape, Toji’s of such staggering size that he has to splay out his feet flat on the springy mattress - rutting up in sloppy strikes to your mushy walls just to fit inside. 

He takes a fat few fingers to pry open your leaky maw, thumbing apart your kiss-bitten lips until your tongue lolls out automatically for him to spit-

“See that?” Toji thumbs away the see-through splatter sprayed at the edges of your cockdrunken grin, murmuring. “Show me- show me.”

“Ngh- s-so dirty, Toji.” You whine, jittery body wracking with shivers after every inch he slipped inside of you. After every moment spent basking in his heady gaze, willowy eyes narrowing down when you dart out your tongue to put that webbed mass of saliva all on display. 

“H-heh, yeahhhh, atta girl. Mine inside n’ out now.” Your eyes slide allll the way to the back of your weary lids when he splats your tastebuds with- not one, but two more weighty wads of spittle. Closing your slackened jaw shut with one hand, the other finds itself cushioned underneath his sweat-dampened locks. Biceps flexing sexily, your stomach tightens in need. “Ride yerself stupid on me now, why don’t ya- Make that pussy cum.”

He’s pounding up into you like he hated you - like he hated those stupid memories of faking your orgasms in the years before. Wanted to prove himself with every syrupy peck at goopy pussy. 

Breaths spilling out in clouded puffs, your nose crinkles at the way that you’re stumbling to take such copious inches of him. Every bounce swabbing Toji’s rounded mushroom tip at the deepest sponges of your cervix, “Shit- shit, s-so big–”

“Yeah? Big, huh? Just big?” 

Babbling away, “Really, really big.”

And that only made him harder - bulging out your tautly stretched walls until you were wrapped around him like a clingy second skin. Until you were molding to every bit of his circumference and bumpy veins. Meeting your pap! pap! papping! cadence with mean bucks of his own, Toji wastes no time rolling the plump hill of his thumb across your clit. “See her? That cute, needy clit? Ever had her played with?”

“O-only on my own.” You’re sinking your teeth into your quivering lower lip to stop the overspilling squeals - but it doesn’t work. Not when every lil’ calloused heart being drawn on your bundled nub makes you see stars, “Feels so good Toji—”

“What’d I tell ya, silly girl?” Oh, he’s so smug. Stray hand grazing down your spine in a little massage that makes your hips stutter down even harder. Faster. With a quirked brow, Toji feels himself grin at the wet little slurps slurring from between your bloated lips. Your other ones. “Damn, real hngh- chatty she is- hold on, you’re gonna loooove this, doll.”

Your head bobbles stupidly, mewling. “Love wh-wha- oh.”

In the split-second it takes the honeyed syllables to fall from your mouth - Toji’s fucking them out just as fast. With a jagged, drilling thud! of his fattened cockhead against your g-spot. 

For the first time ever.

“Tha’s your g-spot.” Rovering up the globed pad of his index all up your tummy, you flinch when he presses hard down where his length was striking the very bottom of your pussy. “My favorite.”

“H-hit it again-” 

“Tch, greedy.”

Your throat is rendered so very parched with every soppy French kiss he planting on your magical spots. Once. Twice. Thrice. You were addicted. So many times that you can’t help but lose count and drool- “Fuuuuck. Oh my god, th-there. There- I’m so close.”

“Shush, girl.” A bulky hand plasters over your noisy mouth, seeping Toji’s steaming hot skin with glossy lathers of your spilling saliva. He nods downwards, where you were screaming out squelches. “Give ‘er some respect, she’s bein’ fucked properly for the fist time n’ wants to speak.”

You were being fucked properly for the fist time.

And it seemed like Toji had no thoughts of stopping - no thoughts of even slowing down from the way he was spearheading every tender orifice homed inside of you. Making you dizzier and dizzier and dizzier with each passing second-

“Toj- mmpf- Toji-” you’re sobbing, like a little mantra. Like the only thing in your mind right now - and he knew it, smugly. 

Pulling the curved edges of his fingers away with a slick few strings of juices connecting them, it’s the last thing you register before the solid spank. “Cum.”

You were so pretty when you hit your high. He thinks he might be in….love.

All throaty moans of Tooooji, and your lashes glazing with thick layers upon layers of tears. Hitting headfirst into the hardest orgasm you’ve ever had, it’s all you can do to throw your head back and clench around Toji’s thick, throbbing length tightly. 

Dirtily. Until he was hissing and fighting to drag you n’ your gripping cunt with one big, beefy arm to fuck you through your high.

“Tha’s why you couldn’t ngh- c-cum, doll.” He spits into your open mouth, letting you claw and bite and ruin the steamy plane of his sweat-simmered flesh. “Wasn’t fucked properly- wasn’t- s’alright. Toji’s here, Toji’s makin’ you cum. Gonna take gooood f-fucking ah- care of you.”

And your vision tinges with black, treacly slit grinding back against the delicious curve of his plumpened balls. Head static, entire body still wracking with shivers when you feel it-

He’s teasing an innocent kiss near the curled corner of your mouth. Feverish. “Now…have ya ever heard of squirting, doll?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Ladies first.

“Never?”

“Never.” 

Fuck- a gorgeous girl like you and none of those boys have ever even made your pretty pussy cum? 

Your coworker finds himself gulping, thickened digits trekking up to his yellow tie and loosening. He feels so…feverish at the thought.

Thank god it was just the two of you working overtime tonight.

And even clearing his throat doesn’t make that ragged edge of his words bate, doesn’t make him sound any less feral. Eyes molten and hot on yours, you catch the way the tips of Nanami’s ears scorch bright red. “I-if you would like, darling…I could show you how a real man fucks.”

That’s how you found yourself like this - pinned face-down on your corporate cubicle desk, maw leaking saturated waves of drool onto documents you were sure were important. Struggling to squirm against the shackles of his tie with every pressurized pound-

Ptwah! A messy wad of something slick and slippery strikes your overstuffed pussy, spittle smeared across your bulging folds with a sultry swipe of Nanami’s fat thumb. 

“Kento–”

“Almost hah- almost there, my love.” He’s gruffing out in a roughly condensed pant from behind you, hot breath hitting the back of your neck and making your skin simmer with goosebumps. The doughy curve of his length twitches, “Just a little longer.”

“L-longer?” You’re babbling away stupidly through flooding strings of saliva, head able to lift only a few centimeters off of the cool plane of your office desk. “Are you gonna c-cum too, Kento?”

“Ladies first.”

And, shit- Nanami Kento might be known around the office as the perfect gentleman - but when he fucked, he fucked you so filthy. Like no one else ever had before.

You swear you could feel your goopy walls contracting and molding to every hot, weighty square inch of him.

Curling a few dexterous fingers underneath where your wrists were pinned haplessly behind your back, all it takes is the tiniest of jerks for Nanami to lift you cleanly off the desk. With one hand, weightless. 

Pressing a sweet, sweet kiss against your sweaty temple, he was hunched over you so close now with the changed angle. And you could count every flex of Nanami’s thick thighs pushing you from behind, every scratch of his tawny happy trail against the jiggling curve of your ass.

Humming, “Mhm— this cute cunt’s tellin’ me that she’s gonna cum right about…” One soft peck at the corner of your mouth, and then another one from his globular tip against your g-spot. Hard. “-now.”

And when has Nanami ever been wrong?

It takes one- two thuds! of his bulky tip crashing into your most tender spots before your vision closes and you see black. Jaw dropping open to gape n’ close soundlessly, brows furrowing at the heat in your tummy because shit, it feels so good.

Your melty walls clinging onto his shaft so cozily- “Fuck, s’f-fucking tight. Can barely even fuck you through your cute high. How are ya even ngh- taking this big fucking cock, darling?”

“Wait-” you’re trilling away like his favorite song. Every dab of his weepy orifice into your cunt making you sob, “Oh my god- feels so- so good. So fuck! D-does it always feel like this, Ken–?”

“Awww, poor girl missin’ out.” Nanami’s glissading pecs stick to your back like a cushion, rumbling. Hips hitting yours with a thwack! thwack! thwack! that leaves you craving carnally for more. “Gotta teach her proper- teach- teach her properly.”

Before you can even ask what he means - before you can even register Nanami’s moans - he’s latching on a few fingertips onto your plump clit. Rolling over and over in lazy circles-

“Cute lil’ clit- poor thing’s never been given ngh- loving before.” Oh, he’s been holding this back - heart racing at the way you’d cum all over his cock and nothing but his cock. And Nanami sounds desperate now. “Clench ‘round me, my love- clench. Please.”

Heedlessly, you’re listening to his exact words before you even register them.

Dewy walls squeezing around Nanami’s girthy length, massaging every lightning bolt of his veins. His slit. Everything. And he’s losing his fucking mind- 

“Ohhh—” Planting kiss after kiss on your neck, he tugs you with that lecherous tie wrapped around your wrists until you were just plastered all across Nanami’s Herculean front. “Good, huh? Good? Can you say biiig stretch?”

“B-big-”

“Mhm?”

“Biiig s-stretch-” God, he was fucking you until you felt shy.

“Atta girl.”

“Feels so w-weird, Ken–” You’re yelping, pearly gumdrop of tears welling up behind your lids at the way you feel so raw. Your sensitive walls pried apart with Nanami’s flaming red tip, probing inside until it felt like he was jackhammering your very lungs. “M’all- ngh- extra s-sensitive and- ah!”

And you don’t know what you expected Nanami to do - you don’t know how you expected him to react. But it certainly wasn’t for him to snicker. 

Octaves higher, reverent. 

“Awww, my overstimulated girl.” Murked clouds hit your prespired neck, and it’s as if his strokes get impossibly deeper. Faster. Sloppier. So, so messy on your clit that your syrupy ribbons of slick puddle on the ground with a spattering splat! “Don’t worry, m’g-gonna make it allll better- ya here? Gonna make you feel so good.”

You can’t even think at this point. “Good?”

“Mhm–” Within only a few blinks, a tannish veiny forearm takes up your blurry vision. Nudging your slobbering lips, “Now bite.”

Your teeth sink into his muscled mounds of flesh before you can stop yourself - and Nanami’s letting his head fall before he can. A grated f-fuck! escaping him once he graces your snug pussy with a thrust so harsh that it leaves your legs dangling in midair. 

You think you’re cumming again for the second time - you think you’re blanking out. But the only thing you can feel right now is the scorching hot dripping of Nanami’s warm cum seeping into each nook n’ cranny inside you.

Overspilling from your puffy lips. Sloshing around with every drilling stab-

“Now that’s called a c-creampie, darlin’.” He’s groaning out - and you know what it is. You can feel it swashing down in buttery rivulets from the insides of your thighs, sticking to your warm innards like a sloppy second skin. And he’s still pounding you utterly stupid- “Say ngh- ‘creampie’ f’me?”

You’re whimpering, wrung so tautly that it felt like you were about to snap. “C-creampie.”

“Good…good girl.” Nanami’s purring, sneaking in a thumb to pattern little drawings all over the ivory splatters of cum topping your clit. Plugging those very same fingers into your mouth- “Now can you ngh- say ‘Ken, please b-breed me’, my love?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Never enough?!

“S-Suguru, I’m gonna-”

“Damn right.” He’s spitting glinting speckles of spit past your slackened lips, narrowed eyes boring down at you deeply through an inky curtain of bangs. The look in them is animalistic. “Again- cum f’me again. Cum goddammit-”

With your head striking the ends of the puffy pillow with a thud! you swear your entire body shivers as if shocked by a thousand volts of electricity. Crashing headfirst into so many white-hot peaks of bliss that it makes your head spin.

Over and over.

And it’s just about all you can manage to force your boneless limbs right now to throw your hands around Geto’s sweat-glistened back and claw your way back to sanity. “M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming.”

“Fuck!” He hisses at the agonizing sting that only makes Geto’s puffy cockhead twitch ‘round your gooey insides. Tight. “Got ya fucking addicted now, huh? Needy lil’ slut.”

It could’ve been your fifth orgasm of the night - hell, it could’ve been the five-hundredth and you wouldn’t have known at this point. 

Because Geto Suguru wasn’t just making up for a single round of missed orgasms - he was well and fully intent on making up for all of them.

And you’ve barely stolen back heady clouds of your breath, barely even blinked the woozy vision back into your eyes before Geto gives your fluttering cunt a sharp spank. Snickering mercilessly at the way you’re flinching your spine into a deep curvature. 

Cute. 

Padded kneecaps smearing your helpless thighs ever-wider in a mating press so filthy it couldn’t even be called one right now. You can only watch as Geto’s toned hips slow down until he was barely even grinding. Lazy, sensual drags of his swollen shaft up n’ down your tender walls. 

He smears the doughy fringes of his fingertips all over where you were simply bulging to desperately accommodate his size, “Not gonna s-say ‘thank you’ for your fifth orgasm, gorgeous?”

“Wh-wha- thank- ngh!” Your veins boil with embarrassment at how you can only gurgle and gasp right about now, a thick stream of drool flooding from the edges of your mouth. “Sugu—”

“Oh?” Before you know it, there’s a searing grasp on your scalp - Geto. His perfectly manicured fingers clawing onto the sweat-dampened crown of your head and dragging you mercilessly off of the drenched mattress. All the way until your tears cooled with his murked puffs, “What was that?”

Teeth drawn, canines glinting. He was snarling. 

You’re squirming impatiently, jostling his split-ended tip in wet swivels around your greedy cunt. Still throbbing. Still unmoving. “Said- ngh-”

Bent alllll the way back - he’s angling his ears to face your fucked-out face with a grin, tightening that shackle-like hold on you until you were keening. Enjoying this way too much. “What? What was that? How bad do you hah- want it because m’not moving an inch.”

You didn’t even know if you could cum at this point - whether you could physically even handle it. Stringing endless beads of tears from your eyes, skin breaking out with heaps upon heaps of shivers.

Sensitive. 

“Can’t- can’t even-” And the only time you’re seeing his rude façade splinter is once your trembly fingers trek upwards to clasp around Geto’s own slender throat. Tight. His breath hitches, bumpy Adam’s apple bobbing underneath your touch-

Fuck.

Fuck.

And he can’t fucking stop himself from giving in to slash your slick-buttered cervix with a sudden thrust. Arching off of the soaked-through bed with a slightly singing creak! the clammy skin of Geto’s pelvis sticks to your own like glue. Smearing and oh-so-sloppy.

All that it takes for the words to be fucked out of you cockdrunkenly, still twitching with the remnants of your previous orgasm. “Th-thank- Thank you, Suguru–”

Oh, what a sight it was.

With Geto’s eyes glazed over, long Stygian lashes flickering like they were about to screw shut. High cheekbones radiating off scorching waves of his bright blush, and- and he was drooling. 

A thin, silvery line of saliva that spattered from the edges of his oh-so-feral snarl. “Y-yeah?” Oh, his pretty baritone cracks many multiple octaves higher. “Now you can sh-show some fucking ngh- appreciation, can’t you?”

“Sugu-”

“Shut up.” One push. Two. Three. Until it felt like the scratch of Geto’s drenched black happy trail against your pelvis was going to brand permanently on your skin, scratching something deep and primal seated inside of you. He darts out his candied pink tongue, “Suck on m’tongue.”

And when you do it’s like your favorite bubblegum candy, he tasted so sweet - and he was fucking you the exact opposite. Quick, rugged thrusts that rendered you speechless-

“S-stupid girl- isn’t that right gorgeous?” Muffled and mean. It takes you a few tizzy seconds to realize that Geto wasn’t even talking to you at this point - clouded amethyst eyes locked on your saturated pussy. The way she was swallowing his reddened length endlessly, “Doesn’t even know what she m-missed out on ngh-”

Each pressurized force of his pounds left your heart racing, swabbing to leave geysers of pre in softened spots that you didn’t even realize you had - hell, you might just be falling in love. 

Fingers dipping away from the prespired column of his flushed neck, just a mere slippery inch before you’re startled by his parched voice. Shaky. Begging. “No- nooo you d-don’t-” Geto’s clasp on your wrist is bruising - permanent. Wrapping your fingers back where they were beginning to form red banded marks ‘round his throat. Tightly. “Ch-choke me- choke me while I make you cum a sixth time, gorgeous.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Sweet Expresso

“Oh, baby…” Choso’s drawing out in a sweet, simpering sigh - entire mouth just watering at the sloppy bucketloads of slick pouring from between your sappy folds. It was like he had his favorite meal all laid out in front of him. “Baby baby baby—”

Your legs splayed apart on the soft mattress, twitching ever-so-slightly with every hot cloud of breath that your awestruck best friend was panting out. 

In love with you. In love with your drooling cunt.

Back arching off of the sticky sheets, you’re lifting your hand to run over Choso’s long mahogany locks. Lower lip jutting out in a way that makes him almost whine- 

“T-told you, Cho- no ex of mine has ever made me cum before by eating me out- ah!”

And Choso Kamo wasn’t one to interrupt his lovely lady. He wasn’t one to cut off the pretty noises you were making before they’d finished ringing in his ears - but now?

Oh, now he’s promptly bludgeoning his clammy head between your heated thighs. Stealing a hypnotized little kiss right on the edge of your puffy clit. Again. And again. And again and again and-

“F-fuck.” He’s gurgling in a hoarse little tone all the way from the back of his throat, a thin line of drool spraying from the upturned corners of Choso’s plump lips because he just couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m gonna m-make you cum, baby- me.”

You’re almost breathless at the way he sounded so desperate that it was pained; dark chestnut brows scrunching together as if in prayer. “R-really?”

It didn’t matter to him what your tch- exes have failed to do before, he neve thought they were good enough for you anyway.

Choso saw a pretty pussy he wanted to kiss over n’ over again and he couldn’t stop. 

Pointed peak of his button nose pressing right into the perk of your clit, the scratchy pads of his tastebuds everywhere. Every vibration of Choso’s tremoring your snug outer ring, whimpering. “Yeah. Yeah, want you to cum- need- need you to cum.”

“Seems like you want me to cum more than ngh- I do, Cho–” You’re giggling out, eyes hazy with the curling swashes of his mouth pressing repeated French kisses on your puffed-up pussylips. 

“Ngh-” God, he sounded so pretty - whining the very moment you comb your trembly digits through Choso’s velvety strands. Cheeks painted red with a delicate blush, his breath hitches just darting his eyes up to meet your own. Fully heart-eyed. “I do. Need to show m-my best friend what she’s been missing, baby.”

Thumbing apart the gluey fringes of your folds with a squelched pap! You’re feeling his plump tongue swirl out saturated hearts right on the sultry target of your clit - and he’s never looked more like he’s in heaven. 

“Gonna f-fuck her now, m’kay–?” Just the thought of filling your snugly winking cunt up with his tongue is enough to have Choso’s hips rutting down on the mattress mindlessly. Groaning. 

Needy.

He wanted you so badly - he’s been wanting you so badly for years and years and years - that you’ve barely even started your lazy nodding before he snarls back his teeth to swipe swiftly into your leaky hole. Ragged texture of his tongue swiveling into every ridge and crevice-

“S-so warm–” you hiccup, fingers tangling into Choso’s perspiration-matted hair because he was moving ravenously. Animalistically. Your oh-so-gentle best friend- you couldn’t even control him at this point.

And he couldn’t control himself.

Pinning you down with his powerful upper body, the curve of his sculpted deltoids dig into your rutting mounds of flesh once Choso grinds his chin underneath your treacly slit and roughly shoves your thighs apart. Further n’ further until it burned. 

Groaning into the weepy mound of your cunt, his tongue slashes in an urgent in and out that makes your hips jerk- shit, you can’t help but think mindlessly that you wanted this…forever. 

“H-hold on–” Choso darts out one hand to guide both of your own - allll the way until you’re steering the soft spheroids of his dishevelled spacebuns. Tightly. “Hold on t’me, baby. Use me- use me.”

He wanted you to use his hair to guide him. Faster. 

And doing it so fervently. Folding to your every want and whim when you’re angling your hips into a tempo just the way you like it - Choso’s chin clacking into the base of your pussy, his nose rovering all over your sensitive clit. With squelch after squelch, you swear you feel him stall over that fleshy nub to take a loooong sniff of your cunt-

“Shiiiit- d-didn’t know you were s-so good-” You’re practically shrilling out, ogling the bob of his Adam’s apple after every gulp of your sweet, sweet sap. Your slick overfloods his mouth and puddles right up to his cheekbones. “Where did you even learn this?”

And for perhaps the first time ever in his life, your best friend doesn’t answer you immediately. 

He doesn’t do anything but let the bed sing out splintering creaks! when he increases the speed of his motions - until you’re rendered spellbound. 

You’re tugging more forcefully on one of his knotted spacebuns and he gives you the sweetest full-bodied whine. 

“I i-imagined it.” Comes the shy answer, and a long few inches of two of Choso’s ringed fingers pumping your goopy cavern doubly full. He makes your tummy lurch just by gliding over your pretty g-spot, whispering. “With…you. With you all the time.”

And you don’t know whether it’s that little confession, you don’t know whether it’s the sudden press off of his doughy fingerpads into the sweltering hot bullseye of your g-spot - but something about it makes you cum.

All of a sudden.

“Choso-” Your breath hitches, pushing him ever-deeper between your legs. Spine electrifying with something white-hot, seeing fucking stars. He was right - you were missing out. “Choso.”

And if you were surprised, then Choso was enchanted. 

Hips coming down hard to hump against the puffy sheets on the bed - feral. Through the crack in your woozy eyes, you sneak glimpses at the way his dark eyes twinkle, tips of his ears blazing red.

So pretty. The sight was enough to make your hips twitch with more and more sparks of euphoria - yeah, you were really missing out before this.

Long tongue slithering out to gyrate over and over fucking you through your high, your skin beads with blissed-out sweat with every peak he’s trawling out. Brows furrowed, Choso just couldn’t decide between licking his lips for the voluminous ounces of slick clinging onto his skin or fucking his wet muscle back into your wet mess again and again and-

“Fuh-fuck—” You’re hearing from above you, still so numb from your orgasm that it takes you a long few seconds to even realize that Choso had pulled away from his favorite spot making out with your pussy. And was now hovering over you with his red, furious cock clasped in one fist-

Your mouth lacquers with a fresh wave of greedy spit, dryly. “Cho?”

“Fuck fuck fuck m’sorry m’cumming–” He’s spitting hotly, fingers flying furious down the tender edges of his girth. Hunching over until his washboard abs were rippling almost painfully, every inch of skin burned an aroused red. “I can’t stop- I can’t stop, baby—!”

“Give it t’me.” You’re managing out, giggling at the strained whine it makes Choso spill out into the air. “Give it all to me, baby.”

His hulking body jolts like he’s been shocked with a million bolts of lightning at the mere sound of your voice. Gasping, “Don’t- don’t call me that or m’gonna-” 

But it’s too late. 

He’s not even given the mercy of finishing his sentence before Choso’s frosting your open entrance with such thick globs of cum. Ribbon after ribbon that sprays over your drooling slit in such a viciously syrupy sheen. 

“Look- look what you’ve done.” He babbles away, slurring over the very curve of his mushroomed tip down your pussy - and it makes such a mess that Choso just can’t help but imagine how much messier it would be if he plugged you full of his seed from your deepest innards. Coral pink mouth slacking into an oh! at the puddles oozing below you. “Fuck- cumming jus’ from eatin’ ya out- ngh- o-only you, my baby.”

Sloppy.

But what was even sloppier was the way that it takes only two seconds for Choso to sift down till he was back lips-to-lips with your ballooned pussymound. Smiling. Giggling to himself. 

You can only watch in awe when he takes a looong lick up your overstimulated slit, purposefully showing off the creamy layers upon layers all over his tongue. So much of it that you can barely see any usual bubblegum pink-

“C-can we kiss, baby–?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Big, big O

“Hm? Have I got ya babbling like a cockdrunk lil’ slut already or what, ma?” Sukuna’s entrapping your cheeks between two fat fingers in an embarrassing little pout. The curled edges of his nails poking your heated skin, and he looks into your heart-eyes deeply. “Because I swear I heard ya say no one else has ever made ya cum.”

“I-it’s true–” you’re stuttering out, barely louder than the sappy squelches ringing from below. Your hips were rutting almost mindlessly into his and he found that so cute. 

Well, if he wasn’t fucking irritated right now, that is.

Not at you - no, never at you even though he’ll never ever admit that. More so at those pesky lil’ losers before him that didn’t know how to work your pretty pussy properly.

So instead the king of curses slouches back on his decadent throne room, and if someone was to walk into his court - let them. 

He’s leaving a stinging little swat! right at where your pussylips were spewing out the most ribbons of sloppy slick. Tugging your plump folds apart to give a thorough few slides of his dually aching cocks, “Stupid girl. I’ll be fucking damned if I never make my human cum.”

“Wh-wha-” Your eyes are snapping open with a gasp, immediately darting down to where Sukuna’s lengths stood hot and throbbing. He was certainly staggeringly bigger than anyone else you’ve had before…both of him. 

“Nuh uh- are you second-guessing your king, girl-” Pointed, you’re rewarded with numerous spanks upon spanks that leave your perked clit stinging. His globular tip cleaning off the geysers of slick leaking out of you, “Now spread those legs n’ take it.”

Hands clawing precariously onto the mountain of his broad shoulders when Sukuna’s meaty thighs start bouncing to inch you down-

Fuck, you can’t help but lean all back and- god, it felt like you were being split apart. Two plummy crownheads mazing past your snug entrance, Sukuna was bullying up into every single sensitive orifice inside you without even trying. 

“Gonna do more than make you c-cum, brat- just you fuckin’ wait. ” He’s spitting out into your drunkenly open maw, face twisted into a feral growl. “Just watch, ohhh just you watch.”

So hot inside of you, every wiry string of precum leftover in your gummy walls after each papping ride was scorching - and the only thing hotter was that fat, glutinous brush of something wet. Squelching. 

Sukuna’s cushy pecs rumble instantaneously with a thunderous groan, “Mmm tastes as sweet as sh-she looks.”

“Wh-what is–” And you don’t know where to look - Sukuna’s handsome face, where he looked so very fucked, or down where his second monstrous mouth was making out with your overstuffed pussy. 

He’s inching back even further on his throne to let the large glistening tongue - almost the size of your face - loll out. Drawing deft little circles on your teary slit, honing down right on the button of your clit. Tasting you. Savoring you. “Oh.”

“Oh? Oh?” Rolling his crimson eyes, “That all you can say? Maybe I really have fucked ya stupid.”

“N-no, I–” But you were - ah, you were. 

All it takes is for Sukuna to lurch off of the sticky cushion of the throne with a creaking schwaf! Sultry hipbones smacking into the backs of your thighs, up n’ down. He’s hitting the very back of your dewy cervix with a resounding thud! drawing long, long lines with the sprinkling ends of his cocks. 

God- pounding into places you never even knew existed before. Rubbing his puffed-up veins against the grazing area of your tender g-spot. Sukuna was having the time of his life making you break-

“H-heh, yeah right— S’that why you’re all drooling f’me, ma?” A plump palm comes down on your spit-flooded mouth to lather itself in a filthy glaze of saliva, all trickling n’ spilling down the sides of Sukuna’s wrist. “As if the king wouldn’t be able to make this pretty pussy cum- a-as if m’like those useless bastards.”

Speaking more to himself than you at this point. He’s muttering underneath his breath, light coral bows pinching together and concentrating. 

Concentrating on striking your bulging magical spots with each second of his ruthless staccato - he wasn’t letting up just because it was your first time about to orgasm from someone else. He wasn’t going to go easy on you- no, you only find yourself growing ever-spellbound with each slip n’ slide of his matchingly rock-hard shafts.

Plap! The curved edge of his tongue swirls around your clit, and you all but sob. “F-faster, Kuna—”

Kuna, huh? He’s finding his brows quirking up - and if there was a faint pinkish blush breezing across his cheeks, well, then he was just glad the increasing pace of his hips is enough to drive you crazy ‘nough not to notice. Growling, “Greedy greedy.”

With two hands latched onto your hips, and another on the crown of your head to push you rudely into each one of his incoming thrusts, you’re being fucked like he had a point to prove. 

“H-harder—” Your arms wrap in a wobbly semi-circle looped around his thick neck - and if there was anything that could get you even wetter right now, then it was a firsthand eyeful of your size difference. 

“As you wish, ma’am–” Gazing down at his slobbery second tongue below, “Jus’ that way- make her scream.”

Scream you did. 

Because Sukuna was monstrous, in both size and the rugged circular brandings he was leaving on your cervix. And the drag of his scratchy tastebuds down your pulsing clit- Oh, you could feel your thighs starting to shake already.

“S’gonna be a big one–” He’s tittering from above, something dangerous glinting in both sets of his cursed eyes. Peering in even closer - until you could count each heady pant of his - something catches Sukuna’s eyes and his breath hitches. “Oho? A reeeeal big one.”

And when he meant big - he meant big. 

Because in only a few merciless hits, you’re not just cumming - you’re squirting. In thick, generous heavals of sloshing slick that drip down the sides of his sculptured front. It glazes all the way down to puddle at his throne, it makes such a slobbering mess that you can’t rip your ogling eyes away from it. 

Gasping for air, head lolling from side to side at the sheer intensity. The buzzing electricity that sprints down your spine goes on for ages. 

“What’d I tell ya? Love when you’re filthy, ma.” Sukuna gives your quivering cunt another spank of good job with the flattened base of his velveteen tongue. 

Shit, how his second mouth was enjoying every peak of your orgasm.

Lapping out graciously to catch every fountaining squirt, the entirety of his pinkish muscle coats with a lather of pure gloss. He was drinking you in like he was addicted.

He is.

And you thought that might be it, you didn’t think with all your cottony mind that he would continue edging his tongue to slip right past your mushy hole. Smearing your entrance widely agape until your vision was flashing blissful white, “Do that f’me on my hah- tongue again, ma, n’ I’ll breed ya until you can’t remember your name.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - “She jus’ came.”

And that’s what makes you finally pry your gluey eyelids apart, batting tearily up at the filthy, filthy image of Gojo still plastered to your phone. 

Pert, bubblegum tongue peeking out when he plugs his puffy pink head between your bawling folds and lets out a drawling sigh— “Fuck- y-you get me so hard, sweetheart.”

It’s almost as if he’s forgotten the yelling from your ex on the other end of the phone already. Forgotten everything but how warm n’ soft you were - you always did have that effect on him. 

And it’s with leisurely, drunken motions that the strongest takes a looong few seconds to swab the doughy edges of his pale thumb over your slit. Up n’ down. Making you throb in a rapid ba-dump–! as soon as he smears the scorching hot ounces of sappy slick escaping from you. 

Before darting them into his parched mouth with an exaggerated slurp! 

There’s another tinny crackle from the call that makes Gojo’s pretty features twist in dark delight-

“T-Toru…” You’re squirming your hips impatiently, giving his pre-glossed, oozing tip treacly peck after peck. You might’ve just cum, but with Gojo your body always wanted more. “‘Nough teasing.”

“Ohhh? What’s that? This c-cute cunt wants me that bad, huh?” He’s snickering out into the speaker, a cute lil’ dimple embedding itself onto the edge of his smirk. “Bet you never had her begging for you like that, huh? Not when you’ve never even made her cum.”

Shit, as if to prove his point, he’s leaving a few generous heaps of sappy precum on your bloated folds. 

Streaming out layer after layer that makes Gojo slide in even deeper. That makes him swipe down a few fingers across where you were most puckered and forcing out a saturated squelch. “Heh, that’s the sound of ‘er agreeing with me.”

Gasping, you’re swatting at the bulging curve of Gojo’s bicep - something that only makes his mushroomed tip even more achingly hard. 

“Ah ah- hold on, buddy.” Before you know it, you’re feeling the sultry pap! pap! pap! of Gojo’s rounded thumb circling your overwhelmed clit. Sensitive. Buzzing with a few stray dredges of cursed energy, “M’about to do something your loser ass had never even hah- heard of.”

You were so pretty like this - his gorgeous girl. And you only ever deserved the best. So what if he made a show for that bastard ex of yours that just wouldn’t stop blasting your phone with calls?

He was going to make you his star.

“Prettyyyy fuckin’ pussy.” Gojo’s whispering - low, hoarse. Almost to himself when he slips apart your adhesive-like lips to steal a solid eyeful of your perked hood. “You’re missing out real bad, y’know?” 

He really, really can’t help the few vibrating sparks bleeding through his thickened digits. Pressing down hard on that buttony tip of your clit, twisting n’ turning in all the right lazy circles, over and over. Just a single ounce of Gojo’s touch is enough to make your tummy lurch heedlessly, to make your thighs shake when he rovers ravenously to your nub-

And pinches. 

“Sh-shit.” You’re gurgling out, head bent stupidly backwards into the velvety pillowcase. Hands clawing red all over the supple mountains of his deltoids. And you swear you can count each and every flex- “Toru- Toru, I’m–”

You don’t even get to finish your sentence before Gojo’s narrating it all. 

Cerulean eyes glazed over with something…feral, coral pink lips loosening into a stark oh! Ones that Gojo himself has to lick over before he can even begin to rasp, “O-oh? Look at thaaat-”

Your maw slackens with free rivers of saliva that Gojo leans in and licks clean off. Giggling - giggling - once your gooey walls clench around the rock-hard crown of his cock, snug with that fat circumference. “Made her c-cum with jus’ my ngh- tip in her. She had to ngh- fake that all the time with you, didn’t she?”

He was in awe.

You wonder whether he’s even breathing at this point. Thinking.

But it was like Gojo had lost all control of his body - moving yards and yards in front of his melty mind. Because as soon as you can manage to jerk your head off of the perspiration-drenched pillow, he’s moving. Washboard abs tensing deliciously. Rutting. 

All hot, plump inches of Gojo’s shaft rub your every tender orifice through and through. He’s pushing and pushing past your weepy pussylips like he never ever wanted to stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Fuck yeah–” You’re startling at the sudden syllables wrenching out of Gojo’s bobbing Adam’s apple, a slow line of sweat starting to trickle down his throat. But he simply flashes you one more sleazy grin, and two more pinches. “Show me wh-where I am, sweetheart- can you do that for Toru?”

“Y-yeah.” You’re whining, and somewhere in the distance sounds a gasp. The unsteady ends of your fingers curve all the way to about halfway up your tummy, pressuring a nudge at the cylindrical globe of Gojo’s crownhead mazing through you. Only halfway still. “Here, all the way u-up in my ngh- womb.

“Good girl–” He’s holding your mushy folds tighter together in a squeeze, so that his veiny cock was smearing even cozier - even louder. Squelch after squelch. Voice hardening, “Hear that? Fuck- fucking lucky you didn’t video call.” Slurring with every rugged thrust, it’s so hot inside you that he feels like he’s melting. Head lolling ever-so-slightly, “M’about to hit her cute g-spot now, but you wouldn’t know h-heh anything about that, right?”

If there was a response then you didn’t hear it. You can’t, because your ears are popping the very next second. Blurry vision tinging with black no matter how much you fluttered your heavy lids-

You think you’re cumming again. Once more. Twice more - so many years and years of missed orgasms crashing into you all at once until all you can do is latch onto Gojo’s muscled back and whine. 

And he loved every second. Meaty thighs massaging against yours, your boyfriend pounds you through every peak. Harshly. 

Tears bursting from the edges of your hazy eyes, head oh-so-cottony with the sheer burning stretch - it takes you a few seconds to realize. 

To realize that he’d finally, finally bottomed out with a stinging plap! of skin-on-skin, brushing a fat glide down that magical spot. And Gojo finds himself shivering, he finds himself hunching over.

SLAM!

Your veins boil greedily at the way you get even wetter once he reaches up to strikes a powerful hand down on his mahogany headboard and splits it in half. Easily. Tensing abs rubbing down your front, “That sound? The s-sound of me about to make her my wife n’ fuck her full of my ngh- kids, asshat.”

Then suddenly your ears resound with that familiar ending tone. And it was just you two.

Eyes darting syrupily upwards, “G-glad he’s never going to c-” 

Oh. 

You were fucked. 

Because Gojo’s eyes were blown wide - crazed. Smiling, and you think he’s never looked more like he was about to rack up a kill list higher than could be counted. 

Stray bolts of lightning curl at the ends of his snowy lashes, flickering when Gojo leans down to give the tummy bulge he was fucking into you a slow kiss. 

Lips grazing over his outlined puff, your heated skin gets hit with the splat! of something…wet. And it’s only then that you realize that you just made Gojo Satoru so pussydrunken that he was drooling. 

“Jus’ you n’ me now, girl.” His chuckles make your most sensitive spots vibrate, and Gojo bucks into you mindlessly. Half-way through, like he couldn’t even bear the thought of pulling out. Could never. “Jus’ say the word n’ you can use the hah- s-strongest like a fuh-fucktoy.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - EMERGENCY, DR.~

“Hm, labia majora and minora are supple and soft.”

“Dr. Higu-” You barely even have the time to catch your breath before you can catch the tail end of your sentence. Voice breaking off into a lecherous whimper the moment the stern man hovering above you swipes a thick thumb over your throbbing clit. 

Humming at the glossy rivulet of slick that seeps from between your puffed-up lips, it slathers a thick coating down his digits. “Good lubrication, clitoris is reactive, too. Spread yourself nice and open f’me?”

Before you even have the time to blink, Higuruma’s leaning back mere inches to take a looong, solid look at your splayed-out legs. You’re arching off of the cool examination table like such a slut-

“And above all–” He’s drawling away, and you swear you catch his lips quirk up into a sultry smirk. Dark brows arching, his strawberry pink tongue nips out at the heavenly sight of you. “-she’s pretty.”

This inspection was both such torture and heaven for you. 

You’re whining, fists balling up mindlessly in his cottony medical coat - you can’t think. You can’t even say anything other than a few clouded pants of, “I- I need it- I just want to cum, but no one else has ever…”

“Ohhh, s’that so, sugar?” Your bottom lip wobbles like heedless jelly as soon as he caresses the side of your cheek. So close now that your tits heave against his rock-hard pecs, he’s boring into your yes so deeply. Pretty. “Then let Dr. Hiromi here help you.”

It took only mere minutes for Higuruma to have your face bullied down into the chilling plane of the table, a puddle of drool already ever-growing when he swabs his tip sensually down your slit. 

“Easy there, easy there- spread your legs f’me.” Just about all you can do to listen to listen to his every word, your capped knees smear until Higuruma was getting a sinful eyeful of your glistening cunt. Already aching and so, so wet. “Atta girl- so needy…so, so needy.”

You’re flinching - full-bodied and gasping - the second he strikes your slick-flooding entrance with three exact wads of messy spit. Rolling the wadded mess over your bloated clit, “Pubovaginalis is tight- reeeeal tight, heh. Wonder if I’d even fit, angel–?”

Veering your head back to catch sight of his painfully hard cock, your eyes travel down his veiny length - the way it seems never-endless. Massive. 

And suddenly you can’t help but let your mouth water at the way you want him inside you oh-so-badly. 

“Oh?” Higuruma’s deep bass sends shivers running down your spine, and you can’t believe how you’re so positively soaked and he hasn’t even put it in yet. “Lubrication increased significantly- s’this turn you on, sugar?”

“Yes- yes.” You can’t even lie- fuck, you can’t even stop yourself from pushing your hips back in repeated ruts that graze Higuruma’s slender, expert fingers against where your core was the hottest. 

Needy.

Cooing down at you, “Awww, s’alright—” The very sounds sends your heart racing, and your thighs shivering once he measures out a looong few inches from the very base of your treacly entrance to about halfway down your tummy. “S’gonna fit- m’gonna make it.”

Your jaw loosens as if you were stunned, “W-were you measuring out just how deep you’d be inside me- ”

“Of course, angel.” Dark tone much too smooth for the way that Higuruma was swashing aside his formal white coat to make room. “The muscularis will feel better ah- raw…” You needed him. To barely crown your drooling hole with the very rotund fringe of his fat tip, pushing. “Count now. Count every inch m’inside you.”

And a sudden dab into a bundle of nerves in your weepy orifice told you that he was serious. “C’mon- with me now. Oooone–‘

Your voice shaking as you whimper, “O-one…two.”

“Good girl.” Comes the response, and of course Higuruma was a good doctor. Of course he was rewarding you with a pinch to the hood of your nub, “Keep counting. Three–”

Drawing little patterns of his name right where you were most sensitive, he was poking his swollen veins saccharinely into every nook and cranny inside of you. Scouring. 

It just makes you melt. 

“Four- six?” The disbelief just kept piling on, and with a low moan into the hard surface of the table you’re bucking. Eager to find out for yourself just how many inches he was hiding away, grinding the plump of your clit over into his palm - all slathered in an oozing layer of slick now. “Sev- eight…eight!”

You swear you hear Higuruma snickering, “Close, but…” Right before he sucks in a sharply condensed breath and ruts- “-it’s nine.”

Bottoming out - finally. Until your spongy cervix recoils back with the sticky French snog of his readily puckered head, until your clit stings with the impact of his buxom balls thwacking!

And when Higuruma strikes, he hits. Dead-on into the bulging target of your g-spot, he’s laying on long n’ girthy inches that take up every square centimeter of space inside your snug pussy. Stretching out your glutinous walls to his exact shape until you almost feel like sobbing- “Hiromi–”

“Rhythmic muscularis contraction, body heart, heart rate increase- There we go, thereeee we f-fuckin’ go-” 

Did you just make Higuruma Hiromi stutter? You don’t know what you’re reeling from more - that, or the fact that you didn’t know who was cumming first. You feel him shiver above you, “You’re cumming, angel– congratulations.”

Were you? Fuck- you were, riding your hips back into his swollen inches to drag out the burning stars bursting behind your heavy lids. 

And Higuruma was just collapsing right down with you, his muscular body pinning you helplessly. Washboards abs practically melding into you and making your orgasm only increase with intensity.

Your mouth wrenches open with breathless whimpers upon whimpers and drivel, ones that Higuruma plugs up easily with just a few fingers over your maw. Tutting, “Hydration is important, sugar- though, you’re already like fuckin’ waterpark d-down hah- there.”

Not just with your own sugary juices - but Higuruma had cum, too. 

Sloshing around a warm river of cum that knocks on your womb, it was so thick frosting your hole and way down into your thighs below. Streaming out until you felt like you were bawling from below, feeling the weight of his seed stick to your walls all filthily.

But Higuruma doesn’t mind the mess - he fucking loves it. Loves how it paints glistening rings on his bulky base, loves the way your cunt twitches once he scoops the escaping ribbons back in with two fingers. “Now for a full body check-up, sugar.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[minaharkerdailymirror]

Mina toyed with her drink, "Perhaps they would want me to save people but I do not think they would like I put my life in danger to do it."

She sighed, her mask of self righteousness slipping and something more vulnerable came out, "Christ the things I've done to save those people..."

And the mistakes she made that cost lives....

Would Jonathan look to her with love if she saw him again? Or shame that she used his name as a banner call for a life he never would've wanted for her.

At Carmilla's question, she shrugged and gave a small bitter smile, "Sometimes."

She glanced over at the vampire, "I'm proud of those who live because of me, but it comes at a price. I can pay it, I'll happily pay it so no one does. But some days, it's very hard."

Mina probably would not have accepted an embrace, she wasn't ready. She as still reconciling the idea that vampires were not mindless creatures of evil wanton violence.

Mina wondered what great thing Carmilla thought she'd gained in her trials. She was destitute, cold, hungry and always tired. Not the sort of exhaustion that you could sleep off but the sort of exhaustion that seeped heavy in your bones and weren't quite driven out.

And she was so lonely.

CARMILLA seemed to be doing fine though.

Mina turned to look at Carmilla, confused as Carmilla told her that her family would be happy she had this time and the opportunities it had.

"Maybe," she said quietly, and then her voice thick with emotion as she faced the thing she didn't like facing, "I don't think they would like who I am now though."

[luveline]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

you get a good dose, confess your affections, and leave poor, oblivious hotch to fix things up neatly. 

cw painkiller high, light suggestive theme 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hello.” 

You lift your gaze without blinking. Hotch is standing in the doorway, making his way in with a bouquet of flowers tucked under one arm and a white envelope against his chest. 

“Hello,” he says again, meeting your wide, still eyes with concern. “You okay?” 

“Flowers for me?” 

“You’re the one here in a hospital bed. They’re from me and Jack. He insisted.” 

You nod up and down robotically. Your heart is unhappy today. You’ve been fast and slow and now it’s running fast again, a tip-tip-tip on the heart monitor that makes Hotch frown. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They told me you were on a lot of pain medication, you shouldn’t be hurting anymore. Is it not working?” 

“I feel a lot.” 

“And that’s unsettling,” he surmises.

“Can I have my flowers?” 

Hotch offers them to you immediately. “Why don’t you count to a hundred for me?” 

“They’re beautiful, but there’s not that many.” 

“Count to one hundred. I can start. Do you need me to start for you?” 

You dip your face into the flowers. “I love when you say stuff like that.” 

Hotch doesn’t answer you. You begin counting, hoping he’ll say a nice thing if you do as he asked. The numbers get mixed up after thirty five, there really aren’t enough flowers to count to a hundred, but when forty five and fifty four begin to feel like the same number spiritually, Hotch reaches for your forearm and gives it a squeeze. That means job well done. Nobody else in the team gets arm squeezes —they’re for you. Nobody else has noticed, but you have. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

You beam at him. The heart monitor beeps in slow loops. “You’re welcome. Did it help?” 

“I’d say so.” He takes off his suit jacket and puts it over the back of the chair, pulling the chair towards the bed with his foot, and getting comfortable beside you, a little lower down than you but tall regardless. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“I can’t believe you got me flowers.” 

“I got you flowers the last time you were injured.” 

“I know,” you say with a laugh. “I know, it was amazing.” 

“Here’s your card from Jack. I’ve opened it for you, I hope that’s okay.” 

“I cannot open anything. I tried to stab my pudding open with a spoon and broke it and can’t find the sharp part in my blankets. I’m worried it’s going to poke me.” 

Hotch stands from his chair. “That’s not good.” 

You take up Jack’s card, pinching the folded printer paper and pulling all of its homemade glory from the envelope. The front has a red heart drawn with bandages wrapped around it, and inside is a message written in impressive penmanship considering his age. To Y/N, it says, Please get well soon. We are hoping you to have a speedy recovery! Love you, Jack and Aaron 

“It says you love me,” you say. 

“Mm, Jack wrote the message. He misses you.” 

You catch the feeling of Hotch’s hand where it slips between your legs and almost burst, giggling excitedly, which makes his hand jump away from you like a fish out of water. “You have the spoon!” 

“Found it. No more danger.” 

“Thank you. I knew you could find it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The pain medication Hotch spoke of is starting to make itself known. You hadn’t felt very different to begin with, the only worthy note your absence of pain, but right now you feel weird. Light. Happy, but strange, like the opposite feeling of missing a step. You know something’s wrong and you know it’s the medication, but you’re elated at the same time. Hotch is here. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’ll know. 

“Do you think I feel happy ‘cos of you or the morphine?” you ask. Softly, slurring, you swallow and try not to sound as drunk. “I feel amazing.” 

“It’s the morphine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since I had some myself, but I remember feeling amazing at the time, and you’re on a lot more of it than I was.” Hotch sets himself back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you staying for long?” 

“Until they make me leave,” he says. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Yesterday you were here for ten minutes and I felt like my heart was bruised.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His eyes seem darker than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I had to be home to take care of Jack.” 

“I know you had to, it’s not your fault, but I still missed you.” 

You prop Jack’s amazing card on the nightstand with a proud grin. You love Jack Hotchner, he’s the smartest, kindest, sweetest boy you’ve ever met, and it must be because of his parents. You’ve not met Haley many times, but Hotch is amazing. It makes sense that his kid would be just as awesome as he is. Turning your attention back to the flowers, you find the courage to ask, “Do you think you could bring Jack to see me?” 

“I think he might be a little young for hospitals, I’m sorry.” 

“Well, maybe I can see him when I’m out of the hospital? How can I say thank you for the card? Does he still like bears?” 

“He has enough bears,” Hotch says gently. “You don’t need to buy him anything, he just wants you to get better soon.” 

“You’re such a good dad.” Your lashes kiss with the force of your smile. “You’re lovely. Jack is really kind.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re handsome,” you continue, slinking down in the bed. You feel tired but not sleepy, craving a really big, hot sandwich. Hotch holds your gaze. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“What?” he asks quietly. 

“Can you please get me a big, hot sandwich? Maybe with hot chicken? Or spicy chicken in a burrito? I really need it to be hot.” 

Hotch laughs aloud and reaches for your forearm to squeeze you again. “Of course I can. I’ll call Derek and I’ll make him get you both of those things, if you like.” 

“Oh, good. I really really don’t want you to leave but I really want the sandwich more than I want you to stay.” You tip your head to one side. “If you hugged me again I’d say I want you to stay more than I want the sandwich, ‘cos you haven’t hugged me in a long time.” 

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the pad of his thumb working against your wrist. 

“No, I know I’m not supposed to want you to hug me.” 

“We’re friends,” he says, shaking his head, “good friends, aren’t we? It’s alright if you want a hug. I should be better at giving them.” 

When he was with Haley you wouldn’t have dreamed of wanting it, because your affection for him has always been more than a friend‘s. You’ve guarded the secret carefully over the years. What’s more unfair to a wife than to fancy her husband? But Haley left Hotch, and he’s been single for a while now, and you think that lately he’s actively dating. He’s always had pride in his appearance, but his suits are tailored again. His hair is left to grow beyond what’s easily maintained. He and Dave occasionally joke about him getting back out there —he doesn’t need to get out there, you’re right here. 

You can’t help frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I think I’m a bad friend.” 

“You aren’t a bad friend.” 

“I am, I have ulterior motives.” 

Hotch rolls his eyes. “Honey, everybody does. You’re fine. You’re a good friend. You know you’re the sole member of the team who’s remembered Jack’s birthday every year? Remembered mine?” 

“I don’t do that to be a good friend, I just love Jack.” 

His hand slips down to yours. He holds it briefly. “I know you do.” 

“It’s why I remember yours,” you say, shaking your head, annoyed he’s taken his hand back but ready to move on to better things. “Can you ask Derek for my sandwich now, please? Please, please, I’m so hungry I’m gonna die.” 

Hotch gives you a funny look. “How about I go and get you your sandwich? I’ll be very fast. I’ll go to Sam’s across the street, would you like that?” 

“Can I have maybe a donut too?” 

“Sure, honey. I’ll get you a half dozen.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. Do you want any in particular?” 

Hotch goes off to get you a sandwich and you click the button for more morphine without really thinking. You’re asleep before he gets back.

—

You wake up shaking. 

Aaron straightens in his chair. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it’s nearing the end of your visiting hours and he’s been here since three. Your sandwich is stone cold in the bag and he’s not sure how he’ll get it warmed up.

Your arms are trembling badly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Hotch, where am I?” 

Aaron stands. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had some morphine and it ended up sedating you. The shaking will calm down soon, but nothing’s wrong, okay?” 

You’re noticeably confused, and Aaron hates it enough to sew his fingers between yours. His are thicker by quite a bit, but he’s used to smaller hands. He’s careful with you. He can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. 

The undercurrent of fear you’d been harbouring begins to ebb. You let Aaron hold your hand and settle back down into your sheets, turning your face toward him and shutting your eyes. You don’t seem sleepy. He’s not sure what’s wrong. 

When you say you love him, he understands. He loves you, too. He doesn’t think that he’s in love with you, but he could be. He’s had enough guilty daydreams about it, batted them away, moments doing the dishes or at the gym or when you’re standing together working a case, where he forgets to forbid himself the pleasure and imagines you in simple intimacies. He sees himself taking your hand. He pictures waking up to the smell of you on his pillows. When he’s especially pent up and you’ve haunted him with your bare face or a shy smile, he ends the day thinking of you. How he’d kiss your head with just a little of his weight atop you, or a lot. 

And then he feels so horribly wrong for doing it that he resigns himself to the distance between you forever. 

Aaron doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he could fall in love with you if given the chance. He has to determine how honest your morphine-confession was, and there’s no time like the present. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

“I brought you the donuts and a sandwich, but I’ll have to reheat it. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I ask for a sandwich?” you ask, startled.

“A hot one. You emphasised.” 

“Thank you, Aaron. I don’t think I’m hungry now, I’m kinda queasy.” 

“You had a little bit more morphine than you should’ve.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says under his breath, “that’s not your fault.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly. Any want to draw the truth from you is quickly dwindling. All he wants now is to make sure you’re okay. 

He spills himself closer to you and, without untangling your hands, brings your thin blankets to your shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay. The queasiness won’t last long. In fact, eating might help, but we can wait.” 

“Don’t you have to go home?” 

“No, I can stay if you want me to.” 

“Please, I want you to.” 

“You’re still on the morphine,” he says, rubbing your hand, “I can ask them to lower your dosage if you don’t like it, but you have to remember that it’s keeping you unaware of your pain.” 

You hesitate. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Then it won’t,” he promises. You had more than your fair share of pain. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“This is all I want. For you to look after me.” 

He takes a measured breath. “I would love to look after you.” 

You turn your head half an inch to see him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying to blend the half of him you know at work with the half of him responsible for his outer life, the part of him that flirts with beautiful women at bars, the part of him that loved being a husband. “I don’t know what you want, and now isn’t the time, but,” —he prepares to be brave— “if you want me to look after you, then I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.”

“Can you kiss me?” 

His heart skips a beat. “No, honey, I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

“Not even on the head?” 

His stomach aches, but it’s a good feeling. Like worrying you lost something and finding it in the first place you’ve looked. “On the head I can do.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed in wait of his kiss, a light, chaste brush of the lips to your temple. The morphine makes you laugh, a girly, giggly bubble of it as you burrow into the sheets, like he’s tickled you. He’s twice as endeared when you squint at him like you’re waiting. 

“Can I–”

“One more,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “Any more than that and you’ll die of embarrassment when you’re not drugged out of your mind.” 

“I’m not out of my mind. I’m just hallucinating. Or having a great dream.” 

He’s inclined to agree, but he knows with confidence he hasn’t had any heavy medication today. He gives you a fond look and sits back down, obliging you when you scramble to put your hand in his again. It’s a weight he could get used to holding.

“I really like you,” you confess quietly. 

He quite likes you in return. “That’s great, honey. Do you want to talk about it later? Maybe you can have one of your donuts.” 

You don’t take his misdirection as rejection, you just pull his hand to your chest and smile. “No thank you. I can wait.” 

He can wait too. 

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[crushmeeren]

ᝰ FIRST TIME FUCKING YOU WITHOUT A CONDOM .ᐟ

⋆ ft. itachi, neji, kakashi, sasuke ⋆

master list link

༝ ᭝ ༝ itachi ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Itachi is not someone who’d be reckless with this decision.

Sure, his cheeks would turn scarlet when you ask. His head would whip to the side so fast his neck would be in danger of snapping, drawing one leg up as his entire body shifts towards you on the couch. He would slip two fingers into the collar of his t-shirt and tug, desperate for a cool breeze to tame the suffocating heat now creeping down his throat, flushing his chest.

His gaze would flicker across your face, hand resting on your thigh, squeezing once. He’d ask, “You — are you sure? You don’t want me to wear a condom anymore?” His voice would crack on the word condom and his blush would darken. Itachi would take a second to clear his throat, glaring at you without any real heat when you couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m sure, Itachi.” You’d readjust your position, mirroring his, and look up at him through your lashes. “I just, I need to feel you. All of you,” you’d admit, playing with his fingers before lacing them together. The sweet heat building in your belly would remind you of the way it feels to drink a cup of hot chocolate.

Itachi’s lips would part, and you’d be certain you caught his dick jerking in his sweats. He’d make you wait until you’re on some other form of birth control. No surprise babies in this house.

Itachi would hold his breath when he pushed his latex free cock into you for the first time. His eyes would squeeze shut, a shaky exhale of your name spilling from his lips as he bottomed out and fucking came. You’d be able to feel the harsh twitching of his dick as he made you look nothing short of a cream filled donut. He’d be so embarrassed, ready to apologize, but he’d stop short at the fucked out look on your face.

The added slick sensation would turn you on like no other, cheeks hot to the touch as you begged him to keep going. He’d stay as hard as a rock, rolling you both until you’re perched in his lap. He’d draw his knees up, tangle his fingers with yours, and encourage you to “Ride me, sweetheart. C’mon, take what you need. I’ll let you use me until your pretty little pussy is sore.”

Itachi doesn’t have to tell you twice.

༝ ᭝ ༝ neji ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Neji loves having sex with you, but he’d be a bit paranoid.

Neji’s uptight. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell how pussy drunk he gets. He’s a whiny, breathy mess any time his cock’s inside you.

However, he’d also be hyper aware he could get you pregnant if he’s not careful. He wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of having a baby with you, but he wouldn’t be ready for quite some time. He’d wear a condom, no matter how bad he wants your pussy to squeeze him raw. You’d have multiple conversations about it, convincing him to try just putting the tip in.

He’d be….hooked, to say the least. It’d be by sheer force of will that he doesn’t shove his entire cock in your pussy that first time. But, it’d also be the very next time Neji swears “just the tip”, when things spiral.

The warm ache in Neji’s belly would overshadow his concerns. He’d end up knocking your thighs further apart with his knees, bending forward and planting his elbows on either side of your head, leaving just a few centimeters between you. He’d whine, “Baby, I can’t handle this temptation any longer. Please, can I feel your pussy?”

“Fuck, put it in Neji. As long as you pull out it’ll be fine, I promise.” You’d lift your hips to take more of him before he could regret it, and Neji would oblige. Your pussy would hug his cock better than in his dreams, and Neji’s low, broken moan would light your blood on fire.

Neji would straighten up to sit on his knees, grip one of your ankles and haul your leg over his shoulder, allowing the other leg to hang loosely at his hip. He’d bend you in half to deepen the angle, hands resting by your shoulders. Just to tease you both, he’d pull out halfway and push back in at an agonizing pace.

Neji would fuck you within an inch of your life, long hair becoming a curtain that cuts you off from the world. Your nails would scratch angry pink lines down his chest, and his cock would start to throb as he toed the line of release. You’d smack his chest, reminding him with a desperate plea, “Don’t cum inside me! Neji, Neji, baby — you gotta pull out!”

He’d slip his cock free at the last second, letting your body flop to the bed as he stroked his cock. With three quick pumps he’d cum all over your belly.

Safe to say, this would be Neji’s new favorite way to have sex.

༝ ᭝ ༝ sasuke ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Unlike his brother, Sasuke is impulsive.

He couldn’t deny the thought would cross his mind every now and then, playing with the idea of fucking you raw and seeing his sticky, white cum cover his cock and spill from your pussy.

Usually when he got the urge he’d jerk himself off. Cool fingers would wrap around his warm cock, shivers running down his spine as he stroked himself slowly. He’d cum in a heartbeat.

It would dull the ache of his desire for a while. Hell, he definitely wouldn’t want to have a baby any time in the near future. But soon enough it’d start to eat at him again. His stomach would clench tight every time you’d have sex, nasty dreams forcing him to wake up hard. That’s why, when you beg him to take the condom off, it’s take zero effort to convince him.

Your face would be buried in your pillow, ass in the air, and one hand would fist the sheets. The other would twist behind to smack against Sasuke’s lean lower belly, pushing at him to wait. He’d be too focused, hands pressing your lower back into a harsh arch, sweat trailing down his temple, over his jaw, dripping onto your back.

“Sasuke,” you’d moan, asking for his attention. “Wait, Sasuke — ah fuck!” You’d dig your nails into his belly until he sucked in a sharp breath. “Take the condom off, please!”

His hips would still, pressed flush to your ass. “What?” He’d ask, already be pulling out. “You want me to fuck you raw?” He’d tease. “So spoiled, princess.”

You’d roll onto your back, cheeks heated, chest heaving. “Just fucking take it off,” you’d demand, reaching to grasp the slippery latex and slide it free. Sasuke would smirk, eyes glued to his dick as it bobs once the condom pops off.

Sasuke’s jaw would go slack once you stroked his cock, the skin soft and slick from leftover lube. He’d fucking whimper, a noise he’d never made before, when he pushes all the way in. Sasuke’s thoughts wouldn’t be coherent after that. He’d put your knees to your ears and fuck you until he’s cum twice and you’re squirting onto his pelvis.

He would panic the next day, going dizzy with relief when you inform him you started getting birth control shots.

༝ ᭝ ༝ kakashi ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Kakashi would be asking you if he could hit it raw.

For your entire relationship, Kakashi would have it known that he’s got a fantasy about giving you a “cream pie”, for lack of a better word. He’d never push you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, no, he’d be more than happy to even role play the act.

There’s no denying that Kakashi would truly want to get you pregnant. He’d love to see your belly round with his baby, but he’d be patient and wait for you to give him the go ahead. However, Kakashi has a loud mouth, and he’d voice his desires at least every other time you have sex.

In the end, the idea would get in your head and become more than appealing to you. When you gave in, it’d be when Kakashi least expected it. It’d be a night when his back is propped up by a couple pillows near your headboard, calloused hands gripping your ass and guiding the slow roll of your hips. Kakashi would be drooling about how well you ride his cock.

Your hands would brace themselves on his pecs, nails digging into his skin, and Kakashi wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut. No surprise there. “Babygirl,” he’d moan, eyes rolling towards the ceiling when your pussy clenches tight. “Look so pretty when you ride me, m’gonna cum so hard. You’ll let me knock you up, yeah? Wanna see you swollen with my baby so bad.”

You’d slap your hand over his mouth to stop the stream of filthy words, cheeks blistering. “Kakashi,” you’d say through your teeth, voice pitching higher. “Take off the condom.”

Kakashi’s eyebrows would shoot to his hairline, jaw dropping open as the words he’d been waiting forever to hear sunk in. There’s no way in hell you’d have to repeat yourself. He’d shove you off his lap and onto your back, settling between your spread thighs as he all but ripped off the condom. He’d stroke his cock a couple times before readjusting his weight, taking his time to slide his bare cock back inside you.

Kakashi would whine in back of his throat, pushing your thighs apart until your muscles started to protest. “Kakashi!” You’d gasp, pushing up to your elbows, fisting the sheets as he railed the shit out of you.

“Sorry, can’t — fuck, can’t help myself,” he’d pant, not sounding sorry at all. You’d catch a glimpse of Kakashi’s sharingan whirling and then he’d be cumming before you realized he’s close.

He wouldn’t stop with one round. He’d wring pleasure out of you until your legs turned to jelly. He’d cum again after that, making such a mess that you’d both end up in the shower.