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seumyo · 10 days ago

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rainy mornings with husband!bakugou

Bakugou didn’t like the rain. That was a fact.

But the thing about rain is that it’s inevitable, something that only nature has control over (and additionally the particular people who have rain-based Quirks).

The rain was steady, soft against the windows like a lullaby. It wasn’t a storm, he notes, just a lazy morning drizzle that blurred the glass and painted the world in cool grays and muted greens.

He stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing loose black sweats and one of your hoodies—oversized on you but fitting snug on him (he remembered the sheer happiness you had when he told you your parcel finally arrived). The sleeves were a little too short, exposing his forearms as he stirred a pan of scrambled eggs with slow, unhurried movements.

He wasn’t in a rush, and for once, there wasn’t any tension in his shoulders. Thank god his schedule was getting lighter these days, especially as Japan is now entering a much colder rainy season this year.

Behind him, you were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a throw blanket tossed lazily over your lap. You hadn’t bothered changing out of your pajama shirt yet—one of his old Dynamight shirts (which he was sure was sold at a golden price nowadays since it was one of the first ones released), faded from too many washes. You had your tablet propped on your knee, aimlessly scrolling through something, one hand cradling a mug of still-steaming tea.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching your thumb flick across the screen, your brows furrowed just the tiniest bit in that way that always made him want to kiss it away.

Damn marriage making him soft.

Having him thinking of kissing your worries away and whatnot.

“You ready to eat?” His voice was low, rough with sleep still lingering around the edges, though he’d been up for a bit now. It was the kind of morning that made him feel stress-free again—quiet, warm, you.

You didn’t even look up. “Mm… not yet. Gimme ten more minutes.”

Bakugou snorted, scooping the eggs onto a plate with a quiet clink of the spatula. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I did not,” you murmured, still distracted. “I said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“...Nossir.” No, Sir.

“Uh huh.”

He turned off the burner and walked over to you, crossing the room with his usual quiet authority. You didn’t flinch when he sat down next to you and didn’t look up as he leaned in to press his lips to your temple. You just shifted slightly, making room for him as if it were the most natural thing in the world—which, honestly, it was.

Because if you hadn’t seen all of him by now—

Ahem, then casual intimacy would be a bit awkward when you’re 4 years into your marriage.

“You’re not even really lookin’ at anything,” he muttered, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I’m looking at furniture,” you replied, lifting the tablet slightly for him to see. “For the entryway. I found this bench with drawers under it. It’s soo cute.”

He peered at it, expression blank. “It’s a bench.”

You gave a dramatic sigh. Here we go.

“It’s a functional bench. With storage. It’s called multi-purpose, Katsuki.”

“Yeah? Looks like a trip hazard to me,” he said, lips twitching at the corners.

You gave him a lazy elbow in the side, just enough pressure to make him grunt but not enough to move him. “You’d survive.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I busted my ass ‘cause of somethin’ you brought into the house,” he said, smirking now, eyes flicking down to the tiny mountain of throw pillows on the floor that had been there since you reorganized the couch again last week. “You and your ‘aesthetic.’”

You finally looked away from your screen, giving him an unimpressed look. That expression—one he knew all too well—is so fucking cute it makes his chest hurt.

“You like the aesthetic when it’s candles and not vanilla-scented ones and have things that are either black or white instead of having color. What’re we trying to have here? A monochrome house?”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he said, and kissed your cheek again, slower this time. “Just sayin’… you got a way of makin’ this place feel lived in. That’s all.”

That made you pause. You turned your head just slightly, enough to meet his eyes, your features softened, and your smile became a little cheeky. “That’s sweet of you. I knew I had that effect on you.”

He shrugged, embarrassed now, and tried to cover it up by reaching for your tea. “This still warm?”

“Get your own,” you said without bite, holding it out of reach.

He let out a soft huff and leaned into your space more, nose brushing against your jaw. Because if anything, the husband version of Bakugou Katsuki—your husband Bakugou Katsuki—doesn’t have a concept of personal space during mornings.

“You really gonna deny your husband a sip? Really? When I prepared this for you?”

“You’re gonna drink half of it.”

“I will if you keep holdin’ it hostage,” he threatened, and you laughed—an actual, sleepy laugh—and finally let him take the mug. He took a sip, then handed it back with a little grunt of satisfaction. “Uh huh. Made it right today.”

“I make it better.”

“You put too much honey in it sometimes.”

“I like it sweet.”

“I like you sweet,” he said under his breath, then added, “Not your damn tea. That’s a health hazard at some point, dummy.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned over and bumped your forehead against his. He stayed there for a beat, closing his eyes as he let the closeness sink in. Outside, the rain kept falling, and the whole apartment smelled like eggs, toast, and the faint vanilla candle you lit sometime before he got out of bed.

“You gonna eat with me or what?” he murmured against your skin.

“In a bit,” you said again. “You’re warm. And it’s raining. I don’t wanna move yet.”

He made a low sound in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and settled in beside you, one arm looping behind your shoulders, the other resting on the blanket over your legs.

“This your excuse to make me feed you like last time?”

You smiled, sleep still tugging at the corners of your lips. “Maybe. That’s what husbands are for, right? Serving their spouses?”

“You’re a pain.”

“And you love me—unless you don’t. Then I’ll have you know I will be taking the washing machine with me; that one’s the most expensive piece of furniture we have.”

Bakugou snorted. “Really?” he says. “But fuckin’ right I do,” he added, voice low and reverent now. “I love you ‘til the sun fucking explodes, and even after.”

...

“That was poetic, hun. You should’ve written that for our vows.”

“... I’m regrettin’ that I forgot.”

You sat in silence for a while; the only sounds were the rain, the occasional tap of your fingernail on the screen, and the soft buzz of the world going on without them. Bakugou didn’t mind the quiet—not with you, at least.

You made it feel full instead of awkward.

Safe.

Eventually, you sighed and leaned into his side, closing the tablet and letting it slip onto the couch cushion beside you. “Okay,” you murmured. “Maybe I’m ready now. Because I don’t like cold eggs.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes half-closed. “But only if you bring it over here. Then we could continue watching that romance drama we forgot to finish because you went to Spain.”

Bakugou huffed, standing up with a stretch. “You’re spoiled.”

“You spoil me.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen. “And don’t you forget it.”

He brought over the plates a minute later—eggs, toast, and a little variety of fruits because you liked it when he tried to be ‘balanced.’ He handed you the fork and watched as you thanked him and lazily started to eat, your movements slow, like your brain still hadn’t fully woken up.

He sat back down beside you, one knee brushing against yours under the blanket, and started eating his food, satisfied by the small sounds you made with each bite. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t flashy. But it was theirs—yours.

A rainy morning, warm food, the person he loved within arm’s reach—Bakugou couldn’t have asked for anything better.

So yeah, Bakugou might not like the rain, but he likes spending it with you.

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ilovemilestellersmoustache · 19 days ago

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Just a Tuesday

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Bob’s decides he can’t take the silence in between missions all alone so he ventures around New York and stumbles across a flower shop with the most gorgeous owner he just knows is his soulmate. Problem? He accidentally says he has a girlfriend, and is now finding ways to still see her at the shop.

WC: 3.4K

Part Two

⸻

The city was quiet in its own crooked, charming way, a quiet that didn’t mean stillness so much as a familiar undercurrent of life. Horns honked lazily in the distance, feet slapped hurriedly against wet pavement, and sirens wailed somewhere far off, like the city sighing through its teeth. New York never truly slept, never fully silenced itself. But that morning, something about it felt subdued. Or maybe it was just Bob.

The Thunderbolts had shipped out hours earlier, some hush-hush mission in the wooded dead zones of upstate New York. Hydra remnants, government paranoia, it didn’t matter. Bob hadn’t even asked for the details. He didn’t need to. He already knew how it went.

He wasn’t invited. He never was.

Not because they didn’t want him. Not exactly. But because they couldn’t. Bob couldn’t let the Sentry, a walking nuclear option, out with the other side. His powers didn’t come alone. They came with him. With it. With the thing inside him that clawed at the walls every time he even considered using them. The Void.

So he stayed behind. Again. Grounded like some too-big dog who might accidentally maul the mailman if someone dropped the leash.

It was becoming routine.

He wandered the long, sterile halls of the Thunderbolts’ tower like a ghost, half-drifting from room to room. He paced. Sat. Stared out windows like they might show him something besides concrete and clouds.

Then he reorganized his comic collection.

Then he reorganized it again, once alphabetically, once by publisher, and once by how the covers made him feel.

He tried baking. Banana bread. Twice. The second loaf burned slightly at the edges, but he ate it anyway, standing barefoot in the kitchen in a hoodie that didn’t fit quite right anymore, wondering if this was what it felt like to live in a snow globe.

The silence pressed in.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, elastic, suffocating in the way only loneliness and fear disguised as control could be. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring just to remind you you’re still alive. The kind that made Bob itch beneath his skin. Made the Void whisper.

He could feel it, coiled and patient, somewhere deep inside. Like a shadow beneath his heartbeat, waiting.

He couldn’t risk it. Not even a flicker of light. Not even a sliver of power. Because when he let the Sentry out, the Void always followed.

And so he didn’t fly. Didn’t lift. Didn’t glow. He stayed grounded. Human. Harmless.

Until that morning, when he simply couldn’t take it anymore.

So Bob Reynolds did something rare. Something almost revolutionary in its simplicity.

He put on his shoes, shrugged into his old zip-up hoodie, pulled the hood over his messy blond hair, and left the house.

Just Bob. Just the city. Just the hope that maybe, somewhere out there between the cracked sidewalks and overpriced coffee, something might remind him how to feel like a person again.

⸻

It was the kind of gray morning that felt like rain was near, the sky heavy with clouds the color of wet concrete, soft and close like they might fall if you looked at them wrong. The kind of morning that muted the city’s chaos just enough to make you believe something meaningful might actually happen.

Bob zipped up his worn hoodie and pulled the hood over his unkempt hair, letting the city swallow him whole. No plan. No direction. Just feet on pavement and the low, steady thrum of New York waking up around him.

He moved through it like a ghost, unnoticed and unremarkable, past bodegas stacked with sun-faded chip bags, past graffiti-tagged corner stores and cafes spilling steam onto the sidewalk, past a man outside a laundromat playing a saxophone with the kind of fury that suggested jazz is the only genre.

Bob might’ve kept walking, might’ve looped the city like he always did until the static in his head quieted, but then the air shifted.

Not in the way he was used to. There was no warning chill, no thunder in his chest. No Void whispering from the seams of his mind.

This was different.

It was subtle, almost fragile. A sudden burst of scent, fresh, sweet, alive.

He turned instinctively, like he’d caught something moving just outside the corner of his eye. And that’s when he saw it.

A flower shop.

Delilah’s. It sat tucked between a wine bar and an antique bookstore, almost too charming to be real, like someone had dropped it in from a movie set. The windows were fogged slightly with morning dew, framed by climbing ivy and painted lettering in faded gold.

He might have kept walking, honestly, he meant to. But then he glanced through the window.

And there you were.

Behind the counter, surrounded by wild arrangements of roses, tulips, peonies and eucalyptus, your hands moving with gentle precision as you wrapped twine around a bouquet. You laughed, something light and true, and tilted your head just slightly as you tucked a final bloom into place for a customer.

Bob froze.

There were things he understood deeply. The gravitational force of the sun. The pressure of time against skin. The weight of a million lives resting on your shoulders. The yawning, endless black of the Void.

But you?

You were something else entirely.

Not celestial, not apocalyptic. Not a vision or a threat. You were, real. Warm. Human in the most impossible, breathtaking way.

And radiant.

Not in the way Bob knew radiance, that blinding power he kept caged behind his ribs. Yours was quieter. A kind of glow that came from being good without needing to prove it. A light that didn’t demand to be seen, but somehow illuminated everything around you.

He panicked.

He stared for exactly three seconds too long, long enough to feel the shame settle into his spine, then spun around like someone who had forgotten how walking worked. His steps became frantic, clumsy, too-loud against the pavement. His heart thudded like a warning bell in his chest.

He didn’t stop until he was three blocks away, chest tight, ears ringing, hoodie pulled low enough to shadow the flush in his cheeks.

But it was already too late.

You were in his head now.

⸻

The next day, Bob found himself walking down the same street.

He told himself it was just coincidence. A convenient route. A longer way to the coffee shop he didn’t even like. But as his steps drew him closer to Delilah’s, his breath hitched in his chest the same way it had the day before.

There you were again.

Through the window, sunlight filtered in golden shafts, catching the strands of your hair as you leaned over a vase. You were laughing, again. Laughing, like joy came easily to you. Like the world hadn’t ever tried to crush it out of you.

Bob didn’t go in. He passed by without turning his head. Except, of course, he did turn his head. Just for a second.

Just enough to see you tuck a flower behind your ear, all soft petals and easy grace, and that was it, he was done for.

And then he came back.

The next day.

And the day after that.

He tried to keep it casual, though casual had never really been in Bob’s skillset. Hoodie pulled low, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he could somehow fold himself into invisibility. A blur of anxious glances, a carefully calculated pace, fast enough to look like he had somewhere to be, slow enough to not miss a glimpse of you.

Some days, he walked past three times. Four. He’d loop the block like a lost tourist, count red lights as a stall tactic, curse how obvious it felt. But you never seemed to notice. You were always busy, greeting customers, arranging spring displays, tying ribbons around wrapped stems. Bob had learned you hummed when you worked. That you wore your hair different every other day. That you had a habit of smiling to yourself when no one was watching.

Except someone was.

Every day, he nearly walked in.

He’d pause near the corner, heart thudding painfully hard against his ribs, hand twitching like it wanted to reach for the door. But the moment would pass. Panic would settle in his chest like a stone. He’d picture himself stammering, fumbling, freezing, ruining whatever spell your world had unknowingly cast over his.

So he didn’t.

Not yet.

⸻

It was day eight when Bob finally cracked.

Something in him gave out, maybe it was the way your laugh echoed through the glass that morning, or how the corner of your mouth lifted as you tied a ribbon with practiced care. Or maybe it was just the quiet that waited for him back at the compound, the echo of empty halls and silence that pressed too hard on his lungs.

Whatever it was, it propelled him forward.

His hands were sweating. Badly. The kind of clammy, panicked sweat that soaked into the sleeves of his hoodie. His heart pounded like war drums in his chest as he stood across the street, psyching himself up like he was about to disarm a bomb instead of walk into a flower shop.

When he finally crossed and pushed open the door, it felt like stepping into another world. The bell above the frame jingled, a small, cheerful sound that somehow made it worse. More real.

The air was warm and sweet with the smell of fresh blooms, eucalyptus, and something soft like jasmine. Everything was bright and lush and beautifully chaotic, with flowers arranged in mismatched vases and shelves lined with little ceramic pots and twine. It was nothing like the cold steel and concrete of his usual life.

Bob stepped in like a man who was unsure of everyting, reverent, terrified, entirely unsure of himself.

You looked up from behind the counter and smiled.

“Hi there!” you greeted, voice honey-light. “What can I help you with?”

Bob opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then opened it again as his brain hit the emergency eject button.

“I, uh—I need flowers,” he said, his voice about an octave higher than normal. “For uh-“

“My girl-..? Uh-“ Bob mentally cursed himself for saying. He didn’t have a girlfriend? He could barely speak to people in general, he got mixed up in his thoughts thinking about this girl and him wanting her to be his girlfriend.

A beat of silence.

You blinked once, then smiled wider, completely unbothered. “Aw, that’s sweet! What’s the occasion?”

Occasion?

Girlfriend?

Right. The lie. Commit to the bit, Reynolds. Commit to the bit.

“It’s just…” Bob cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Tuesday. And she, uh… likes Tuesdays.”

He winced internally. Likes Tuesdays? Really?

But you just giggled, an actual, genuine giggle, and began pulling tulips from a nearby bucket.

“That’s adorable,” you said warmly. “Honestly, I wish more guys bought random flowers just because. What kind does she like?”

Bob’s brain went blank. Static. He couldn’t remember a single flower that existed, except one color.

“Purple.” he said. Confidently. Like it was a personality trait.

You didn’t even pause. “Nice. Irises and lavender, then. They go beautifully together.”

With the grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times, you bundled the bouquet in brown paper and tied it with string, then handed it over like it was nothing.

Bob took it like it was everything.

“Tell her she’s lucky.” you said with a wink.

He managed a noise that might have been “thanks.” shoved a few crumpled bills into the register tray, and turned to leave. His foot caught on the doorframe. Naturally.

Outside, he all but sprinted back to the tower, clutching the bouquet like it might break if he breathed too hard. Once inside, he stuck it in a vase, then stared at it. For an hour. Maybe two.

The flowers sat perfectly still on the counter.

His pulse didn’t slow for the rest of the day.

⸻

It became routine.

Every few days like clockwork, Bob would return, hoodie zipped, hands fidgeting, nerves jangling. Each time, he walked through the door of Delilah’s with a new bouquet request for his completely imaginary girlfriend.

“She likes lilies now.” he said on a Wednesday, eyes darting anywhere but at you.

“Big fan of sunflowers.” He claimed the following Monday

You always played along. No judgment, no suspicion. Just that same warm smile, that same easy grace.

But something changed.

You didn’t just ring him up and send him on his way. You talked to him. Really talked.

You asked what kind of food he liked “Is banana bread a food group?”, what movies made him cry “Okay, but Paddington 2 is a cinematic masterpiece, don’t judge me”, and what he thought the best pizza joint in Manhattan was “That’s a loaded question and I refuse to start a borough war”.

You told him when to visit Central Park for the best view of the cherry blossoms, which corner of the East Village had the best dumplings, how the city sounded different just after rain, quieter, but softer.

You laughed at his awkward jokes. Teased him when he flubbed his words. Every bouquet he bought came with a little extra, a sprig of rosemary, a twist of eucalyptus, a single daisy tucked in with a wink. “Just because.” you’d say with a shrug.

And then came the days when he stopped pretending altogether, well, mostly.

He still mentioned his “girlfriend.” but he stopped buying flowers.

Instead, he brought coffee. A scone. A wrapped muffin from the bakery two blocks down.

“She had a dentist appointment.” he said one morning, sheepishly placing the cup on the counter. “I, uh… just happened to be in the area.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Uh huh. And you just happened to bring my favorite latte?”

“…She likes vanilla.”

“Does she now?”

He nodded, perhaps too vigorously. “She loves it. Obsessed, really.”

You smirked, taking the drink. “Well. She has excellent taste.”

He flushed. A little too pink in the cheeks, a little too jittery in the hands. But he stayed. Leaned against the counter while you prepped arrangements. Asked questions about dahlias and peonies, even though he barely remembered which was which.

It wasn’t just about the flowers anymore. Or the lies.

It was about you.

Your voice, your laughter, the way you scrunched your nose when you miscounted stems or forgot where you put your scissors. The way you always looked so at home in the chaos of petals and twine and color. You were the kind of beautiful that didn’t announce itself, it radiated.

And Bob was caught in your orbit.

He just hadn’t figured out what to do about it yet.

⸻

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rosemaryhoney27 · 2 months ago

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“Danny vs. Gotham: Rogues, Riddles, and Regret”

aka: Gotham's Villains Realize They've Made a Terrible, Terrible Mistake

Vlad wanted to leave. He wanted to scoop Danny up, fly far away, and pretend the Gotham trip never happened. But Bruce had insisted Danny stay another week for “family bonding.” And Vlad—against his better judgment and his rapidly thinning sanity—had agreed.

What he hadn’t agreed to was sending Danny out on a “light patrol run” with Red Robin and Spoiler.

“He’s a child!” Vlad hissed. Bruce shrugged. “He suplexed a gang leader and sword-fought Damian with a smile.” Tim sipped his fourth espresso and muttered, “Kid’s got better reaction time than half of us. Might as well let him stretch his legs.” Vlad: internal screaming intensifies

Later That Night – Gotham Financial District, 10:22 PM

It should’ve been a routine patrol.

SHOULD’VE.

But this was Gotham. So naturally, they ran into Riddler. And not just Riddler. Riddler with a microphone, a speaker setup, and a slideshow.

“Riddle me this, Batbrats!” he declared, laser pointer in hand. “What flies forever, rests never, has no lungs but can still scream?!”

Danny blinked. “That’s wind.”

Riddler paused. “…I—I wasn’t done.”

“You said it in the wrong order. Classic misdirection. Also, you did this one in Amity Park two years ago. You posted it online.”

“…What?”

“Yeah, it was part of your ‘multi-state riddle tour.’ You rhymed ‘obfuscate’ with ‘paperweight.’ My friend Tucker roasted you for a week.”

Spoiler wheezed. “OH MY GOD.”

Tim was filming. “This is gold.”

Danny smiled like a polite little demon. “If you want new material, I can send you Tucker’s podcast link. He does villain reviews.”

Riddler stared, brain lagging. “I—I have—graphics—”

“You spelled ‘cerebral’ wrong on slide 4.”

“…I hate it here.”

Five Minutes Later

Riddler’s henchmen surrendered unprompted. Riddler ran face-first into a recycling bin while trying to flee. Danny phased him through the lid and said, “Please stay in there until Gotham has better riddles. Thank you.”

Tim couldn’t breathe. Spoiler was crying laughing. Danny handed Riddler a sticker that said “I Tried My Best (And Failed)” before floating away.

But It Got Worse

Because then, Scarecrow showed up.

And naturally, he released his newest fear gas on the group.

“Let’s see what horrors hide in your soul, little ghost,” Crane sneered.

Danny blinked as the gas swirled around him.

Then sneezed.

Then sniffed it.

Crane: “What—what are you doing—?!”

Danny: sniff sniff “Ooh. Cinnamon and despair. Very vintage.”

Crane: “THAT’S NOT HOW FEAR GAS WORKS—”

Danny exhaled, glowing green, and the gas dissipated.

“I’ve been inside the Ghost King’s mind, dude. This is like spa day fog machine levels. You want real terror? I have a VHS of Tucker’s high school poetry.”

Crane dropped his canister and backed away. Spoiler whispered, “He’s ungasable.” Tim, still filming: “That’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week.”

Danny offered Scarecrow a cough drop and a tissue.

“Bless your heart,” he said.

Crane ran.

Later – Back at the Cave

Danny was handing out debrief cookies. Again.

Bruce was watching the security cam footage with the face of a man who was trying to process “he sniffed the fear gas.”

Dick leaned over. “This kid’s either going to save Gotham or traumatize it into behaving.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “He gave Riddler a sticker. That’s psychological warfare.”

Damian looked up from sharpening his sword. “He told me he once bit a cursed toaster.”

Vlad, in the background, was staring at the Batcomputer like it had personally betrayed him. “I—he—he ate fear gas. He corrected Riddler’s grammar. He is not normal.”

Bruce looked at Danny, who was humming while reorganizing the med supplies.

“…He’s a Wayne.”

Vlad: “NOOOOOOOOOO—”

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #vlad plasmius #vlad is tired #damian wayne #jason todd is a little shit #the riddler #scarecrow #danny fenton is a little shit

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saatorus · 2 months ago

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— freak like me ୨ৎ

based off of this post

wc — 2.8k

warnings — oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, genuinely just 2.8k words of filth bc i need satoru :3

Sometimes, you truly want to grab your husband by the shoulders and genuinely ask him what the hell is wrong with him.

In a purely cute, loving, wifey way, of course.

You had been lounging at home, listless but not tired, charged up but not in a productive way. The kind of restless where you start wiping already-clean counters just to burn energy. Or reorganizing your skincare drawer for the fourth time that week.

Your body felt hot under the skin, like something in you was coiled up and ready to snap. There was only one explanation for this kind of jittery, razor-sharp awareness running under your skin like a live wire. So, like any other normal person, you opened your period tracking app.

Yup. Ovulating.

Fantastic. That explained the horniness bordering on religious fervor. Everything in your body was screaming breed like it was written in your DNA. So, just like any other wife with the patience of a saint and the self-control of a demigod, you texted your husband Satoru at work.

You 12:47PM

hey u

quick q

Husband (derogatory) 12:48PM

answer is yes unless it’s illegal

You 12:48PM

r u busy or r u like pretend busy like usual

Husband (derogatory) 12:48PM

ur sounding like ur abt to ask me to pick up toilet paper and i hate that tone

what’s up

You 12:49PM

im ovulating

Husband (derogatory) 12:49PM

oh👀

ok. and?

You 12:49PM

so when u get home

ur not gonna get to say hi

or breathe

or take off ur shoes

i’m going to destroy you

like i actually might kill you with my pussy

Husband (derogatory) 12:50PM

😳

bold of u to assume i’d try to survive

You 12:50PM

bold of u to send me nothing spicy of u but be mean to me when u know i’m genuinely suffering and shit like omg

Husband (derogatory) 12:51PM

what do u want me to do??? send u a live feed of my cock at work???

do u want me to be on a list???

You 12:51PM

no but like

a lil thirst trap wouldn’t kill u

show me smth for the spank bank

Husband (derogatory) 12:52PM

u want a pic of my abs rn??

i got time

lemme hit my office for a sec

You 12:52PM

if u send me a pic right now i swear i’ll spontaneously combust

Husband (derogatory) 12:55PM

[1 image attached]

🥰

tell me i’m pretty

You 12:55PM

i hope u know this photo just signed ur death warrant

ur gonna be BURIED in me. like to the point where ur dick is like never getting out of me

Husband (derogatory) 12:56PM

ok but like

worth it??

do i look hot

scale of 1 to rawdog me in the kitchen while the rice is still cooking

You 12:56PM

absolutely rawdog in the kitchen with zero regard for the rice

ur not even making it to the bedroom. my clit hard at dis

Husband (derogatory) 12:57PM

god

i’m bricked up in front of principal yaga rn

i hope ur happy

You 12:57PM

good

suffer

consider it foreplay

You stared at the photo again. The audacity of this man to stand there with perfect abs, just barely flexed, pants sitting sinfully low on his hips like he knew the way your brain would short-circuit. The lighting in his office was stupidly flattering—somehow made his skin look so nice and delectable. Not to mention the veins going down to his cock?

You chewed on your lip, pacing the living room like a predator. There was simply no way you were surviving the next few hours. You even considered sending him a photo back—bait for bait, a little tit-for-tat—but decided against it. Let him suffer.

Let the anticipation kill him softly.

When he gets home? You’re not talking. You’re not greeting. You’re not doing anything except dragging him inside and absolutely sucking the soul out of the man you had ended up marrying.

–

It was exactly 6:02PM when you heard the door unlock.

Two minutes late. Not that you were keeping track or anything… except you definitely were, curled up on the couch in a barely-there pair of shorts and one of his old shirts with no bra underneath. Strategic slutty domesticity. A war tactic.

You didn’t even look up right away. Let the tension simmer. Let him walk in and realize what he’s just stepped into.

The door creaked open, followed by the soft jingle of his keys and the unmistakable shuffle of his slides hitting the entryway.

Then:

“I’m home—”

You were already standing in front of him before he could finish the sentence.

The look on his face was criminally satisfied. Like he knew he was walking into the lion’s den and brought himself as the offering. His blindfold was pooled around his neck– it was a habit for him to take it off at home. His white hair was a little tousled from the wind, and he had the audacity to be smiling.

“Hi, babe—”

You didn’t even let him finish his sentence. You fisted your hands in the front of his shirt and yanked him down into a kiss so hot it made your knees buckle. He groaned into your mouth, hands flying to your hips out of instinct.

“Jesus—” he panted against your lips, breath already shaky. “You weren’t joking.”

“I told you I was gonna ruin you,” you muttered, kissing down his jaw, “You think I just say things for fun?”

His laugh was breathless, cocky, but already crumbling. “You do, though.”

You reached between your bodies and palmed him through his pants. “Not today.”

Satoru hissed, bracing one hand against the wall. “Okay, wow. Hi. Hello. I see the demons are home.”

“You started it,” you said sweetly, unzipping his pants like you were opening a present. “Sending me that photo like I’m not clinically insane for you.”

“I was tryna be nice— shit—”

His sentence broke off into a groan as you sank to your knees right there in the hallway. He wasn’t even fully undressed, shirt still on, pants down just enough for you to get what you wanted. And what you wanted?

To suck his soul out like a Capri Sun.

You eagerly took him in your mouth, lips wrapping around him– absolutely no time for teasing– taking him as far as you could the moment he slipped into your mouth. You moaned at the taste of him, at the feeling of his prominent veins on your tongue, and the way that he just sat so hot and heavy in your mouth.

“Baby,” he rasped, one hand threading through your hair, the other gripping the wall so hard you swore it cracked a little. “Not— not even the bedroom?”

You hummed around him in response.

“Fuck—okay, okay—take everything. Take the whole paycheck.”

You didn’t let up—not even when his knees buckled, not when your nose repeatedly kept hitting the smattering of white hair above his base, not when his pink, throbbing tip kept hitting the back of your throat so good that your pussy felt like it was a puddle at this point, not when he was gasping out half-finished apologies to whatever god he believed in, not when he muttered something about filing for short-term disability because of "whatever the fuck this is."

He came so hard you were genuinely concerned for a second that his soul had actually left his body. Filled your throat with him, even. Like a capri sun. Man folded like an origami crane. Sagged against the wall with his shirt all rumpled, hair sticking to his forehead, and the most dazed, fucked-out look you’d ever seen on his stupidly pretty face.

You licked your lips and stood up slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like a villain in a K-drama.

Satoru looked up at you like you were the Messiah and the apocalypse all in one.

“You’re insane,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he breathed. “God, I really do. I’m in love with the devil.”

You cupped his cheeks and kissed him sweetly, gently, like you hadn’t just given him a religious experience with your mouth.

Then you whispered in his ear:

“Round two’s in the kitchen.”

He made a sound that was not human.

By the time he made it to the kitchen—pants back up but barely, shirt half-untucked like he just walked off a battlefield—he looked like he had one brain cell left, and it was begging for mercy.

You, however?

Unbothered. Glowing. A menace in tiny shorts and smug satisfaction.

You leaned against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of water like you hadn’t just rearranged his internal organs. “I said round two in the kitchen,” you reminded him, sipping slowly. “You moving a little slow there, old man.”

He squinted at you, chest still rising and falling. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Technically, I warned you.”

“You warned me via text,” he muttered, walking over with the exaggerated drag of a man heading into war. “There’s a difference between texting me you’re gonna ruin me and actually attempting a physical exorcism on my soul through my dick.”

You grinned. “Still had enough energy to come find me, though.”

“That’s because my penis is a traitor and doesn’t believe in self-preservation.”

“Your penis is smart. Your penis is loyal. Your penis knows who feeds it.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. You set the glass down with a click, reached for his collar, and pulled him in. “Bend me over the counter,” you whispered against his lips.

He choked.

Eyes wide. Pupils blown. Brain visibly buffering.

And then: obedience.

“I—yes. Okay. I mean—of course. Obviously.” He practically tossed your glass to the side and spun you around, hands already slipping under your shirt, finding your bare skin like he was made for it. His thumbs hooked underneath the waistband of your shorts, halting when he felt the smooth skin of your hip bones and not the waistband of your panties.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “No panties?”

“I was planning ahead,” you said, bending slightly and bracing your hands against the counter.

“God, I love you so much it actually hurts.” He kissed down the back of your neck, worshipful. “You’re unreal.” He slipped down your shorts, and then his already halfway down pants, aligning his tip with your soaking entrance.

Then he slid into you with a groan so filthy it echoed off the cabinets. You gasped, arching, clenching around him instinctively, and heard him let out a shaky laugh.

“This is a setup,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “I feel like you’re doing this to steal my powers. Like I’m not gonna be able to use infinity after this.”

You couldn’t even form a reply—your mouth was open, moaning, hands scrabbling for purchase. He wasn’t going slow. Not anymore. Whatever restraint he had left burned off the moment he was inside you. It was fast, deep, messy. The kind of fucking that blurred your vision and made your toes curl.

Satoru’s fingers dug into your hips as he pounded into you, saying all kinds of nonsense against your skin:

“Been thinking about you all goddamn day—” “—knew I was in trouble when you said ovulating—” “—you were serious about the soul thing, huh? gonna baptize me in pussy—”

You half-laughed, half-cried out as he hit a spot that made your legs shake.

He reached around to rub tight, dirty circles on your clit, whispering, “C’mon, baby, let go for me, lemme feel it, wanna feel you lose your mind—fuck, please—”

And you did—with a broken moan and a full-body tremble that had your knees buckling, your body locking up so tight around him that he swore out loud, dropped his forehead to your shoulder, and followed you over the edge with a deep, shaky groan that sounded like it came from the depths.

The kitchen went quiet except for your breathing. The rice cooker beeped once, like it had seen things.

You both just stood there, still connected, sweaty, wrecked, in the soft afterglow of holy sin.

“…do we have any electrolytes?” he asked weakly.

You giggled. “Top shelf. Pedialyte in the purple bottle.”

“You’re a menace,” he said, pulling out slowly with a wince. “I’m not even mad. I’m just scared.”

You turned to face him, cupping his face and giving him the sweetest kiss imaginable. “You’ll live.”

He blinked. “Will I? Are you sure? Like… can I put you on my life insurance as both the cause and beneficiary of death?” Satoru was still recovering—barely holding himself up against the counter, forehead pressed to the cool surface, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon while holding his breath.

You, on the other hand, were just sitting on the counter next to him sipping water like a perfectly reasonable, not at all deranged wife. Ignore the fact that his cum was steadily drying on your thighs after dripping out once he pulled out.

“So,” you said casually, like you weren’t actively naked in your own kitchen. “You think the rice is done?”

“Baby,” he said, voice hoarse, muffled, like he didn’t trust himself to lift his head. “Please. I don’t even remember my own name.”

You leaned over and patted his ass. “That’s okay. You don’t need a name. You just need to sit up on that counter for me.”

He groaned. “I need food. I need air. I need—what did I even do to deserve this?”

“You sent me a thirst trap.”

“You literally asked me for it,” he whined, straightening up slowly, eyes glassy.

You pushed off the counter—with a slight wobble—and before he could get another sarcastic word out, you moved away from from the counter in the middle of the kitchen, boosting yourself up onto the counter right next to the stove, legs spread, voice sugar-sweet.

“C’mere.”

He blinked. “Oh my god. Are you gonna ride me next to the soy sauce?”

“Would you prefer the spice cabinet?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Spice cabinet.”

—

Somehow, somehow, you ended up on the higher shelf. Not the safe little cozy edge of the island—no. You were straddling him on the counter in the corner by the window, legs draped around his thighs, knee bumping the pepper grinder, and he looked like he was going to have a nervous breakdown about how hot it was.

Satoru kissed you like a man possessed—hands on your thighs, holding you open for him, still too breathless from the last round to be cocky but desperate enough not to care.

“I don’t have anything left,” he whispered into your mouth. “You’ve drained me. I’m just a shell of a man now.”

“Then let me fill you back up,” you said, not even remotely sorry.

“Do you even hear yourself—holy shit—”

You’d sunk down onto him again, slow and deep, pulling a moan out of him so loud it had no business being that pretty. His head dropped to your shoulder as you started riding him, deliberately slow this time, grinding in small, agonizing circles.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he whispered. “You’re gonna have to call Shoko and be like, ‘Hi, I murdered my husband with pussy and now he’s trapped in the rice cooker, can you help me scrape him out?’”

You leaned in close, teeth grazing his ear. “She’d say ‘finally.’”

His hands flew to your hips, grip bruising, and he started moving with you, fucking up into you like he’d found his second wind in the middle of his own funeral.

The countertop creaked under you. The spice jars rattled. A cinnamon container fell off the shelf at one point and he caught it one-handed without breaking rhythm, then threw it over his shoulder like an anime protagonist mid-battle.

“Why is this the best sex of my life—” he gasped, eyes wild.

“Because I’m ovulating and mad,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “Because you purposely sent me your cum-worthy abs.”

“So my ballsack is being drained because of some muscles on my abdomen?—”

“You don’t get it—”

And then you came together in the middle of the kitchen like two idiots in heat, clinging to each other, half-screaming into each other’s skin like the world was ending. Which, in a way, it was. Your knees were shaking. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching.

The counter was definitely never going to recover.

And when it was over, when the both of you were breathless and sweaty and completely unhinged, he looked at you—kiss-bitten, flushed, utterly destroyed—and whispered:

“I don’t think I can eat rice ever again.”

being a virgin and ovulating is not for the weak 🙁🙁🙁

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