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ceilidho · 8 months ago

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Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position.

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood.

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby��I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache.

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish.

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income.

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air.

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him.

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss.

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic.

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt.

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you.

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance.

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job.

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit.

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed.

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.”

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him.

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment.

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone.

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are.

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you.

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you.

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy.

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking.

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations).

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too.

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man.

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin.

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap.

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind.

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams.

“Not bad,” you squeak.

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price x reader #john price x you #john price/reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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burgojo · 9 days ago

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VICIOUS KISSES. GETO SUGURU / M!READER

summary. no matter what happens, no matter what he does, he will always be your one exception.

tags. smut | top reader, bratty bottom geto, doomed yaoi or something, angst, childhood friends to complicated to lovers, reader is mentioned to have siblings + come from a non-sorcerer family, mentions of canon-typical violence, wilfully ignorant domesticity with a serial mass murderer but he's in love so it cancels out, geto in a jockstrap, sex toys, they're both possessive, unprotected sex, kitchen sex, edging, teasing, multiple orgasms, reader has a huge cawk and geto has a fat ass yeehaw (they're soulmates)

wc. 11.5k (it's a chunky one)

Since you met as children, Geto Suguru has always known you to be the dependable type. An extra serving of the snack your parents bought that he loved, the neat and detailed class notes you brought to his house when he was sick in bed, stern reminders the day before tests. You were all of these things, and he knew you loved him dearly.

He wonders, staring at your pained expression behind your front door, if this would be the end of whatever unspoken thing you had between you.

His grip tightens on the hands of two little girls. They huddle close to him, wearing muddy indoor slippers in adult sizes, and silently stare up at you from behind his legs.

He killed his family. He slaughtered a whole village, not a one left standing.

You open the door wider and step aside.

—

"Hey there, Shoko."

She turns, short brown hair brushing her collar. She pops a chewed lollipop stick out from between her lips and chucks it in the bin beneath the desk, leaning back in her roller chair. "Hey yourself. What was this about an urgent appointment?"

You smile, lopsided and familiar. You rest your palms on the heads of the two girls beside you, one gripping your shirt and the other gripping your trousers. "Do you mind giving this pair a check-up with a focus on cursed energy? I was hoping to get some bloodwork done, too – just the usual, iron and such."

She nods, gesturing to the three seats by the desk. "Easy peasy. More of your siblings?"

"It seems like sorcery runs in the family now," you say, taking a seat on the furthest side and placing an arm over the back of the chair beside you. Subtly, the dark-haired one in that seat leans towards you.

"No kidding," Shoko says drily, setting up a blood pressure monitor. "That's the whole point of clans – you and these two could be enough to make your own. You two cuties must be his favourites then, huh?"

The blonde one offers a small smile. The other one watches Shoko pull the Velcro arm band open with a riiip.

"I don't play favourites," you hum. "I would do anything for my whooole family. Ohana, you know?" You squeeze their shoulders affectionately. "If I am a little sweeter on some – well, that's a secret I'll take to my grave."

Shoko glances away from her files and forms, picking up the arm band and scooting closer across the wood-patterned linoleum. "Then in that case—" she mimes zipping her lips and tossing away the key "—my lips are sealed. Could you roll up your sleeve for me, honey?"

Nanako obeys, offering her arm. Shoko wraps the band around her bicep what seems like an excessive number of times; the girls are small for their age, and you both know it.

The time passes uneventfully. The girls are unnaturally obedient – to the point that Shoko notices. You might ask one of them to do something or sit a certain way and they'll listen immediately, as if... afraid.

She thinks half-heartedly, maybe he's a shitty brother, but you frown in your gentle way at the same things Shoko does, and your voice softens right after. You comfort them while she takes their blood, and though they seem to settle, they don't act quite... right. They don't reach for you, don't seek you out for support – they sit there stiffly with their arm out, bracing themselves, and startle when you offer a hand to hold and tell them to wiggle their toes, as if abruptly remembering that you're there.

Now, Shoko doesn't want to comment or speculate on other people's family dynamics, but unfortunately for you, a pair of little girls aren't world-class actors.

She grabs your wrist before you can leave. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

You glance at the twins, who hold each other's hands and gaze back at you. "Sit here for a while, please, okay?" You point to some chairs lining the hallway outside Shoko's shiny new office. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Shoko closes the door behind you and leans against it with a soft sigh, one hand discreetly grasping the handle. She blocks the only exit, and you notice it, immediately wary.

"They aren't your sisters, are they?" she asks, shrewd as ever.

You eye her, but her features are only tired, her gaze sweeping from item to item in the room conversationally. She's not looking for a weapon – just making you feel at ease without her boring holes into your skull.

"Family isn't just by blood," you say.

"No, it isn't," she agrees. "Did you read the report, by the way? All that death for two children not big enough to see over the dashboard... Maybe I could understand – after a drink or two."

You huff a laugh, wry. "I'll shout you."

"I'll take you up on that. You're the one with the believable ID."

"Are you saying I look old, Shoko? C'mon, now. Low blow."

Her lips quirk up. "You've aged a lot over the last few months. You keep putting off sleep like you are and you'll end up looking like Palpatine."

"Unlimited power." You wave your hands in the air, then huff and chuckle, shoving your hands in your pockets. "Don't worry about me, Shoko. It'll pass. All I want is to make sure the girls will be alright once I get them on a diet of my famous cooking."

"Infamous, more like." She rolls her eyes.

"Hey, Satoru knew he couldn't handle spice. Wasn't my fault he kept going because he wanted to outdo Suguru."

You share a little laugh at the memory, though it peters out at the end. Because that's all it is – a memory, a fragment of the past which you'll never see again.

Shoko steps forward, taking your hands in hers. She squeezes them, her mouth opening and closing before she sighs and butts her head against your chest.

"Take care of them for me. All of them."

All. Not both.

You squeeze her hands in return, pressing your cheek to the top of her head. You wrap your arms around her, and in a rare show of vulnerability, she lets you – she stands there, arms by her sides, her head against your chest, and doesn't push you away.

You pull away first. You have to, or you might never leave. You pat her shoulder, offering a small, sweet smile. "Am I free to go, doc?"

She nods, glancing at the blood samples in their labelled bags. "I'll call you when the results are back."

"Alright. Thank you," you say earnestly. You pause by the door, hand on the knob. "Shoko?"

"Yeah?"

"We're keeping this between us, right?" You offer a little lopsided grin. "If you'll do the same, I won't tell anyone you let me hug you."

Brushing her hair behind her ear, Shoko sighs and grumbles. "You better not. Otherwise, I'm putting rat poison in your soup."

"Okay, okay, I promise. Jeez, woman – violence isn't the only answer."

"If it's my first choice, my problems tend to go away." Shoko waves you out. "Now go get your girls. I'm sure they're bored half to death out there."

—

Suguru's nails dig into his palms until the skin breaks and bleeds. Red trickles down his wrist from where his hands are pressed to his mouth.

"Your anger is heavy," you murmur, crouching by his feet and gently prying his hands open to press a cloth to the red crescents in his skin. You hold it there, one hand cupping his knuckles and the other pressed firm and warm against his palm. It's like you're holding hands, Suguru thinks. "You can't bear it, but you can't put it down. I understand. But this path you're on... I can't follow you. I'm sorry."

"Please." He grips your hand, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Please don't make me go this alone. You've always been there for me. Do it again just one more time."

You gaze up at him from where you are on your knees. Your living room falls somewhere between barren and cluttered – you'd moved in not too long ago, wanting your own place off of campus, but things had happened so quickly that you hadn't the time to set out all your souvenirs and potted plants neatly. Whatever's out of its box is something with a use, and as such the place looks rather sad and empty. You'll have to change that soon.

"I can't, Suguru." Your voice is soft, and it wavers. You were always the logical, rational type, the mediator when Shoko riled up the other two and then bailed when things got dicey. He hasn't seen you cry since you were children, but it's not hard to tell you're close to it, gnawing on your lower lip to keep it from trembling. "Don't ask this of me."

"Can't, or won't?" Suguru asks sharply, meeting your eyes. His voice begins to rise. "Why? Why do you say you understand but refuse to come with me? If you understood, it'd be an easy damn decision. It's not fair!"

"You're not fucking fair, Suguru!" You match the vitriol in his voice. "Asking me to choose between you and everyone else I love? You're like a toxic girlfriend giving me an ultimatum. That's real fucking shitty of you."

He tugs his hand out of yours, though the immediate cold without them almost makes him backtrack. Stubborn as he is, though, he continues, mopping up the remaining blood himself and folding the cloth several times around his hand. It's something to do so he doesn't have to bear the brunt of your disappointed gaze.

He takes a deep breath, leaning back against the couch. You stand and move into the kitchen, silent as a ghost as you wash your hands and prepare tea from the boiled kettle.

Playing with the edges of the cloth you'd given him, Suguru glances at the clock. Nine at night. Still technically early, but exhaustion drags him down like cinderblocks. The girls are asleep in the bed you made for them, big enough to hold them both and still have room left over because they didn't like to sleep alone.

His sight begins to blur. It's like seeing a curse for the first time all over again, but this time he doesn't have you to fall back on when things got scary. How childish it is, to cry over a boy.

"Suguru." You place a steaming cup in front of him on the coffee table. "I hope you don't hate me." You hold your own over your lap, your index finger tracing the rim of the cup. Occasionally, you cut through the steam, watching the pale wisps tear in half.

"I should be the one saying that, shouldn't I?" he whispers, leaning forward and reaching for his cup of tea. He lifts it to his lips and the couch creaks under his shifted weight. He huffs, a mirthless chuckle. "You're in the presence of a criminal."

"Right. The guys in the big hats don't like you anymore." You sigh, leaning back and tipping your head to stare at the ceiling. "For what it's worth... I meant it when I said I understand. I get where you're coming from. I just think you're doing it wrong."

"Then why won't you come with me? Help me make things right?"

"In your absence, I have to take care of Satoru – make sure he doesn't go ballistic." You chuckle just thinking about it. "It's so obvious the guy's never had friends his age before. Knows nothing about emotional regulation, either. At least Shoko can talk about it, but Satoru? No, no. Just clams up and gets overly bitchy until I drop it. I'd like to think I'm making headway with him, though."

Suguru swirls his cup of tea, staring into it. "Why is that always your job? Always our peacemaker, our middleman, our damn therapist... Someone should pay you for it. At least that'll mean getting some colour in this place."

"Suguru."

He glances over at you. You lean into him, resting a warm hand on his shoulder. You're beautiful, even like this, but this is the first time where, despite your closeness, Suguru feels as if you're on the other side of a glass wall like a museum piece. That wall is there for your protection.

"You grieve," you observe. "Why?"

Playing right into his words, it seems. Suguru chuckles slightly, cupping his mug and raising it to his lips. "You know why. Even if we met up like this every single day for the rest of our lives, it'd never be the same. I'm mourning what we had. I really wish you'd choose to be with me, but, well. C'est la vie."

"You could force me to," you say nonchalantly, sipping your tea and folding your legs like a prince at a boring meeting. "I don't think I could bring myself to hurt you."

"And make you despise me?" he scoffs. "No, thanks. Pretty sure Satoru already does, and my social circle's become frighteningly small. More of a dot, really. A pinhead."

Your gaze softens and you reach out, brushing the back of your knuckles against his cheek and down his jaw with a wistful sweetness. He leans into it, gaze flickering up to you.

Suddenly, his lower lip quivers and he closes his eyes and cups your hand, pulling it into himself. He kisses your palm and strokes your wrist, gripping you tight to keep you there – as if you'll pull away if he doesn't. But why would you? You reached for him to begin with.

"When we die, I want to go first," he whispers. "Promise me that."

Your heart stops.

You stare at him unblinkingly. Then, you put down your cup, doing the same for his, and pull Suguru tight into your arms. He curls up under your chin, fisting the back of your shirt as he commits the warmth of your bulk and the smell of your cologne to memory.

If only he were cruel enough to steal you away – bruised and battered so nobody could blame you – to have you all to himself. If only you didn't love him so wholly and instead alerted the elders when he first stumbled to you, the blood still fresh across his cheeks.

You don't want to think about your failings. You bury your nose in his hair, his milk and honey shampoo making the bile churn in your stomach, and hold him tighter. "I promise."

—

You come when Suguru calls. You always do.

"Hello, darling," he hums, rising from behind his big mahogany desk. He pushes a pile of folders into a drawer and rounds the desk to meet you, his long dark robes swaying around his ankles. "It's been a while, hasn't it? How are the girls?"

"It's been two weeks, so that depends on your definition of 'a while'. They're doing alright," you reply, letting him drape his arms over your shoulders. "I keep telling them to make friends, but apparently all of the girls in their new class are mean and cliquey. At least they like their teachers and subjects."

"That's good to hear," Suguru murmurs, tracing your collarbone with his fingertip absently. "I'll visit soon. When are you free?"

Satoru leaves for an overseas mission in the weekend, meaning there's no chance of him popping in without warning. Well, less of a chance, at least. "In two days. The girls want to go out for shopping and dinner on their own – but they've promised to leave their locations on, won't stray off the main roads, and won't follow strangers into white vans, so they'll be fine."

"You sound so sure about that. You're going to follow them, aren't you?"

"Now, see, that's where you would be right," you begin, "if we had this conversation a few days ago. But after they scolded me for being overly anxious when they're perfectly capable young sorcerers, I've decided to use that day for a date."

"A date?" He tilts his head inquisitively. "What sort?"

"I know how busy you are, so I didn't want to waste too much of your time," you admit with an embarrassed smile, pulling him in by the waist. "Therefore: dinner date, whipped up by yours truly. Two-in-one."

Suguru grins, stepping up on his zori to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I don't suppose you'll leak what's on the menu?"

"Well, I don't know what you're paying yet."

He scoffs, placing a hand over his heart. "Making me pay? Bad with our monthly budgeting, are we?"

"Not bad, just generous. When Nanako says she wants that fluffy cardigan, I can't say no. If Mimiko finds a cute pair of shoes, I say, 'do a little spin'."

Suguru can't help the fondness that trickles into his voice. He's supposed to be stern right now. "So, yes, bad budgeting and a weak will. Fine – name your price."

You pretend to think. "Well... I could do with a little this," you brush your thumb over his soft lips, "and a lot of this." You squeeze his ass beneath his monk's robes. His breath hitches, body jerking into yours, and you smile as you peck his cheek chastely. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he replies, too quick and breathy for someone playing bad cop. "I can afford that."

When Suguru arrives on a fine and sunny Saturday, you can't help the painful little twinge that pings at your heartstrings. Seeing him in front of your door, long hair silky black and lips dabbed with a light gloss... you almost cave.

Take me with you. God, just take me with you.

He stays with you when he can, but when he does, it's dangerous. The moment they find out you're playing house with the worst curse user of them all, you'll be branded with the same iron, and your girls – god, your girls – will have all normalcy stripped from their lives. You couldn't let them lose their family twice.

"Good afternoon," he greets sweetly, hands bundled within his robe sleeves. "I hope I'm not too early."

"No, not at all." You find your voice and let him in. You've gotten exceptionally good at playing at light-hearted domesticity. He steps out of his zori and into his slippers by the door. "Early finish today?"

He chuckles, turning and pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Yes. I rushed my last few visitors so I could spend more time with you."

"Suguru..."

"Oh, don't look at me like that. If you could see yourself from my eyes, you'd understand why I'm so eager." He knocks your chin gently, playfully, as your cheeks warm, and he flutters deeper into your apartment like he has so many times before. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?"

"I, uh – no, you take it easy. I just need ten minutes before I start plating things up."

"My prince charming," he teases, fingers gliding along the edge of the dining table. It seats six and fits just fine in the apartment, thanks to the not-insignificant salary you're paid as a full-time sorcerer. A bottle of wine sits in the middle next to two glasses. "Well, I'll borrow your shower, then. Rinse off the grime of the day."

"Take your time. Use all the hot water you like."

"Is that a challenge?"

"You can't do worse than the twins and their bubble baths."

"Challenge accepted." He steps into the hallway. "I'm going to try some of their fancy skincare products."

The sink and most of the bathroom cupboards and shelves are overrun with the various makeup products and skincare kits they've tried over the years. Lucky you gets a single top shelf, which they can't reach without dragging a stool into the bathroom, and which they graciously offered for your shaving cream and razor. Obviously, you're their favourite.

You busy yourself with setting the table, the plated filet mignon looking straight out of a cookbook. You're pleased with the results. You pick a few subtle candles and snap your fingers – with a precise pop of cursed energy, the candles light aflame.

You turn down the ceiling lights and observe your handiwork, proud of what you've accomplished. You nod to yourself.

Warm arms wrap around your middle. Suguru presses his lips to your neck. "Hello. I feel a little underdressed for the occasion."

You turn, and your eyes widen slightly. Despite having his own full wardrobe, he's dressed in your clothes: boxy t-shirt, grey sweatpants. You're not much better in jeans. "Um – I – wow."

Suguru lifts an eyebrow, stepping in front of you with a teasing smile. His skin is slightly glossy, plump with whatever moisturiser he'd stolen and patted on. "Is it because of the hair? You're so easy to impress, baby. It's almost embarrassing."

"You're in my clothes," you huff, pressing the backs of your hands to your hot cheeks. "That's cheating. You look great."

He grins, taking your chin and tilting your head towards him to land a kiss on your lips. He's affectionate today. "Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Now come sit down. I'm starving."

You dart in before he can pull out his chair and do it for him. He giggles softly and accepts, fingertips brushing your chest as he does. He flips his low ponytail over his shoulder and gazes at you with half-lidded eyes as you take a seat opposite him.

"So," he purrs, leaning forward and linking his fingers, "what are you presenting to us today, chef?"

"Filet mignon with butter and rosemary," you list off, popping the wine cork. "Next is a potato and leek soup, and butterscotch pudding for dessert. Not too sweet, just as you like it. Um – that's it."

Suguru laughs like you've said a great joke as you pour him a glass of wine. "And you made that all yourself? I'm so lucky." He hums. "Did you really use nothing else for this steak? It looks and smells divine."

"Salt, pepper, olive oil. I was supposed to add garlic, but Nanako decided she would use it without telling me and I was already searing the meat when I realised," you sigh, then smile sheepishly. "Forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive, darling, don't be silly," Suguru chuckles, turning his plate slowly to really enjoy your creation. Perfectly juicy, done to perfection just how he likes it. "You could put this in a magazine."

"A-Ah, it's just a steak, nothing too fancy. Please, eat. I didn't make it just for you to stare at it."

"You're so cute when you get shy. I love it," Suguru purrs, though he picks up his knife and fork and begins to slice into the steak. "Take the compliment, darling. You should be used to it by now."

Your face is on fire. "Okay..."

Smile widening playfully, Suguru leans over and cuts a bite-sized piece off of your steak. He lifts it to your lips, giggling when you almost flinch. "Where'd all your confidence go? Wasn't too long ago you were copping a feel and laughing when I hit you. Emotional intimacy too hard for you, hm?"

"No, it's not. I literally set up a candlelit dinner for us." You glare at him without any heat, leaning forward and accepting the bite he offers. He laughs at the sight of you, chewing and glaring at the same time at him like a huffy child.

"Alright... So you like being praised? You've been a good boy for me," he teases, eyes crinkling when you bang your knees against the underside of the table. The candles flicker. He covers his mouth while he laughs, loud and bright. "Baby!"

Hastily, you smooth your palms down your jeans and fix your shirt, grabbing the utensils and digging into your meal with more gusto than necessary. "I'm fine. I'm fine. Let's eat and we can watch a movie and cuddle. Good plan."

Suguru beams, unable to hide his shaking shoulders even as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth and sits back in his chair. He shakes his head, his heart so full it might burst.

If only he could have this every night, he thinks wistfully, meeting your eyes from under his lashes. He smiles behind his wine glass, savouring the rich taste of the meal you've made for him. No fears of poison, no worries about someone who might be watching. It's just you and him in your shared home, dressed far too casually for a three-course meal, smiling and sneaking glances at each other like you're on your first date. He'll carry these memories forever, like a soldier tucking a perfume-scented letter from his darling by his heart.

The two of you aren't much better during clean-up, either. You wash, he dries, and he exploits your inability to move by bumping your hip with his every time he passes behind you, teasing the front of his sweatpants against your thigh. When he's caught up on drying everything, he rests his cheek against your shoulder blades, his eyes closed and his hands on your waist. He hums softly and leans up to kiss the nape of your neck, a feathery little thing that makes goosebumps ripple down your arms.

"You really have to stand so close?" you say drily, though your eyes twinkle. "I'm scared I'm going to elbow you."

"Don't worry," he sighs gently, slipping his hands beneath your shirt. One pushes your waistband down just enough to reveal a sliver of your Apollo's belt, and the other traces the bone back and forth. "I'm a big boy. I can handle a little pain."

Your gaze snaps back and he meets your eyes, his grin sharp and satisfied. He tilts his head. "Something the matter, darling? Do you disagree?"

You huff, turning back to the dishes in the sink. There are only a few left. "You're such a tease."

"Mm, you like that."

"Not when I'm trying to do important things – like not dropping our pots and plates."

He taps his lips, pouting softly as he ponders your statement. "That's true. You might chip our tiles."

His hands are no longer dipping into your jeans. You can breathe again. "That's right, Suguru. You wouldn't want to ruin our home, right?"

"Ruin our home? No. But ruin you? Yes." With a titter, he kisses your neck, peeling himself from your back to stand by your side. He leans against your arm, watching as you rinse off a pan and place it on the dishrack. "Once we're done, I've got something to show you."

"Is it a dinosaur?" you ask playfully, and his smile widens, fond, as he reaches for the pan. He glides the towel over the handle before lifting it.

"Better than a dinosaur, if you can believe it," he replies, nudging your shoulder with his and gazing at you with soft, sweet eyes. "I think so, anyway."

"That's a pretty high bar. Now I'm curious. Can't you show me now?"

"Definitely not," Suguru laughs, setting the pan in a drawer behind you. "Hurry up. The quicker you're done, the quicker I'll show you."

You obey. After you wash your hands in the kitchen, Suguru emerges from the bathroom with his hair down. It's almost waist-length these days, thick and glossy. Replacing the plain hair tie from earlier is a silver clip at the back of his head.

You lean against the kitchen counter and wolf-whistle, crossing your arms with a lopsided grin. "Hair down? Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this, aren't I?"

Suguru smiles as he approaches, pretty feline features coy and playful. "One day I'm going to cut it all off and that'll be your surprise."

You pout, wrapping him in an arm as he notches himself against you. You run a hand through the loose silky locks reverently. "Nooo... I think I'd actually cry."

He rolls his eyes, placing a kiss on your lips. "Crybaby. You just like it long because you can pull on it during sex."

"And you look like a gorgeous princess with it."

He gives you a look.

"What?" you say defensively. "I can have two opinions at once."

He presses a finger to his lips, playing at disappointment. He looks away, casting his eyes high over your head. "You know, I did have a heavy workload today, and I could do with some sleep... Maybe I'll show you your present next time."

"Wait!" You grab his waist and tug him back towards you, caging him in against the kitchen counter in your desperation. He squeaks and laughs, eyes crinkling as he grasps your forearm loosely. "What do I have to do to make you show it to me? You said it was a present. You know I love your presents."

"Well..." he begins thoughtfully. "You could kiss me."

You plant a kiss on his lips, and one on his cheek for good measure.

"You could tell me that you love me."

"I love you."

"With more feeling."

"I love you so much that when I see you without your clothes on, I want to throw myself off a cliff."

He barks a laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Is that all you love me for? My body?"

"I love you so much that when I wake up next to you and realise I'm the lucky one you chose to hold you in their arms, I want to throw myself off a cliff."

He coos, turning in your arms to face you and cupping the back of your neck. He gazes up at you through his dark lashes. "No throwing ourselves off of cliffs," he murmurs, stroking your cheek. "You'd be leaving me all alone, wouldn't you?"

Your expression softens and you lean into his touch, cupping the back of his hand. "I won't," you say. "Not ever."

You keep your promises.

"Good," says Suguru, and tilts his face up to kiss you deeply.

His breath hitches as your teeth nick his lower lip, and you lick gently at the tender skin in apology. His lips are warm and plump, bitter but sweet with the lingering taste of red wine. He plays with the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, not so much guiding as pulling you in for a deeper kiss – the way he likes it. He lets it linger, soft and kind.

"You're dangerous, you know," he whispers, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against yours. "Spoiling me like this, cooking for me... It's nice."

You squeeze his hips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Really nice." He sighs softly, linking his fingers at the nape of your neck. His palms are warm, the calluses soft with moisturiser. It's almost enough to forget about them. "I wish I could do more for you. Take you places."

You just hum quietly, stroking his hips with your thumbs with an unreadable expression. He notices it. He didn't mean to sour your mood. He knows it in the way you refuse to look him in the eye.

At least you've accepted the fact that he won't come back. That he can't come back. You have stopped asking him to leave his grand ideals behind.

But that's okay. Suguru can have both. He'll make it so.

Suguru takes one of your hands and guides it downwards, letting it cup his ass. A distraction, perhaps, but you let yourself fall for it anyway. He leans up to kiss the corner of your mouth before pulling away to turn around and push down his sweatpants, tugging the waistband below the generous curve of his ass. He hears your breath catch and a pleased smile crosses his face.

"Like it?" he asks, collecting his hair and brushing it over his shoulder. The silver hair clip shines under the kitchen lights. "It's new."

He arches his spine, widening his knees slightly and bracing against the stone kitchen counter as he rocks back into your bulge. His smile grows catlike, marked by coyness and secrecy.

You palm his hips – the strappy black jocks cup his ass and thighs perfectly. It leaves his asshole wonderfully accessible, and you have to steady yourself by gripping him tighter when you spot the purple gemstone peeking out between his cheeks.

You spread him wider, swallowing roughly at the sight of a silver plug nestled in his plump ass. He chuckles softly, nibbling on his lower lip to hide his smile, as you play with it, gently pressing it in and out as if testing him. Just for you, he lets out a teasing, feathery moan, pushing back into your touch, though the gasp he lets out when you tug it free from his hole is a little more real – a little more embarrassing.

"I'm guessing you like your surprise," he says, smile widening as you pull him up to slip off his oversized t-shirt. You toss both things onto the nearest bar stool and Suguru steps out of his sweatpants with a flirty little sway of his hips, emphasising the curve of his waist and hips. He laughs when you pepper grateful kisses along his neck and jawline, his dark eyes crinkling as you pull him back towards you, not letting him squirm away.

"Oh, you have no idea," you breathe, smiling against his skin at the sound of his laughter rumbling through his chest. Meat and blood, flesh and bone. So very human. How could anyone blame you for loving him?

"This is in the way," he murmurs, tugging the hem of your shirt. You allow him to pull it off you and it joins the pile of clothes on the bar stool. He sighs at the sight before him, palms running warm and soft down your chest and stomach, tracing every curve and dip of muscle, scarred or not. His cock twitches in his jocks.

Your hands move towards your belt, thumbs hooking into your waistband, but Suguru, with an impatient look on his face, shakes his head. He smacks your hands away, ignoring your huff, and expertly undoes your belt and zipper, pulling the sides open just enough to fish you out of your underwear.

He's playful with it – glossy lips parting into a theatrical 'O', measuring the size of your girth with a thumb and forefinger and getting all moony because it's bigger than his own, even just half-chubbed. You roll your eyes through the heat in your cheeks, burying your face in his shoulder. He tilts his head to give your teeth better access to his soft, unmarred neck.

"You've got such a pretty cock," he hums, gasping softly as you nip and suck bruises into his skin. One of your hands ventures down from his hip to cup his bulge, warm and hardening by the second. "I – ah, I want it in me. Now."

The demand almost quivers – something like hesitation makes his gaze flutter away briefly. You meet his eyes with silence and a raised brow. Then he doubles down, rubbing his cock against your palm, and he moans as you squeeze roughly, the cloth cup of his jocks growing wet and slick on the inside.

"Need you to fuck me right now," he puffs, pulling you against him by your fucking cock. You grunt, eyes narrowing reflexively into a glare, but he doesn't back off, meeting your gaze unabashedly. You press your thumb into where you know his tip is, and he has the audacity to moan sweetly because of it. He smooths his palm over your cockhead, smearing precome down your shaft with every quick stroke. "Yeah, keep glaring, darling. I know you want this, too."

"Right here?" you hiss, as if it's a secret. "Do you know how unhygienic—"

"Oh my god," he groans, head tilting back briefly, "as if that fucking matters. Cursed energy, wet wipes and a black light – we have options. It'll be fine, worrywart. Don't you have a sense of adventure?"

"I get too much adventure with you," you sigh. His hand feels really good around you, twisting and rubbing in all the right ways, and the warm front of his jocks are growing damp, sticking to his skin. He ruts into your palm, eyes hungry with a sly smile flitting across his features. He rolls his hips the way he does when he rides you, and you let out a gruff moan, shoving your thigh between his legs. He grasps your shoulder for balance. "You're disgusting sometimes, Suguru."

You watch his tan skin flush, high on his cheekbones, as the rough texture of your jeans scratches and rubs his clothed cock. You can feel the heat of him through the denim.

He smiles, airy, and dips his thumb into the slit of your tip. It widens when your hips jerk into the wet ring of his hand. "Am I? Maybe you should fuck me at the temple. Sometimes I miss you and think about you in my office," he breathes, his hard cock poking out of his jocks, up along his hip. The tip is a lovely dusky colour, shiny and slick. "I wonder how you'd fuck me over my desk, make me tip over all my pens, or if you'd sit beneath it and suck me off." His eyes glitter as he runs a thumb over your lower lip, staring at them and biting his lip as if he's imagining it right then. Your cock throbs in his grasp. "Maybe both, if I'm missing you particularly hard."

"Suguru," you hiss between your teeth.

He has the gall to look surprised, to look innocent, to tilt his head in the way that makes his bangs frame his face so well. "What? You don't miss me while you're at work, too?"

You shove your hands into his underwear, wrapping your fingers around his pretty cock. He gasps, eyes widening slightly at the heat that shocks up his spine, and his grip loosens slightly around your length. You wrap your hand around his, reminding him, and he hurriedly returns to his previous pace, a little more haphazard now.

"Don't say things like that," you murmur, jerking him off as you press him into the kitchen counter, leaving him nowhere to run – not that he'd ever want to. You click your tongue. "Damn it. Now I can't stop thinking about how you'd look all fucked out in your robes, with your skirts pulled up around your hips and your legs around my waist – shit, Suguru, the things you do to me..."

He almost whines, but manages to backtrack it into a breathy moan at the last second. He tries to buck up into your hand but you press him back down, your fingers wrapped stubbornly around his tip – and only his tip. Your strokes are quick and shallow.

He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, his ass clenching around nothing. Without the plug, he feels so terribly empty, his hole leaking excess lube down his taint so nasty-dirty-good. Your precome leaks down his palm and wrist in clear rivulets, and the slick sticky sound is enough to make the arousal bubbling in his stomach grow dangerously close to popping. He presses the curve of his nose against your throat like some possessive animal, drowning himself in your scent – clean, light, slightly sweet. Like fresh linens that he falls into at the end of a tiring journey.

"S-Sorry," he gasps, chuckling when he can between pants. He nips a hickey below your ear, far too high to hide with a collar, and hums, pleased, at the sight. "It's also not a skirt."

"Well, fuck me for not knowing."

"What do you think I'm doing?" He squeezes your cock, nails dragging lightly against the veins. He moans as you press deeper into his space, chests pressed together like you're trying to get inside his skin. You let go of his cock and spread his cheek with one hand, the other dipping into his slick hole. It's warm, swollen already from his prep. "Hey. Hands off the merchandise, darling."

Your eyes narrow as he slaps your hand away, handling you like a misbehaving child. He puts your hand back around his cock, guiding your hand up and down at a pace he likes. You mutter, "By that measure, I shouldn't be allowed to do this, either. It's merchandise, too, right?"

You flick your wrist roughly, tugging his cock back and forth. His hips jerk forward, a sweet whimper spilling from his lips, and he glances up at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry. You tilt your head briefly, smug and mocking.

Suguru pouts slightly, still looking up at you through his dark lashes. He knows he looks good, baring his neck and flicking his silky hair over his shoulder to make his neck seem even longer, elegant and swanlike. "Careful. Annoy me too much and you won't get off tonight."

"And how are you going to enforce that? Will you cut off my hands – the hands you seem to love so much?" you taunt, stroking him faster. He moans freely, fucking into your fist.

"If I need to. Hm, fuck—" He inhales sharply, his cock twitching fiercely in the hot, sticky tunnel of your hand. "Fingers. Put your fingers in me – quickly."

Despite his uncharacteristic lack of manners, you obey, swapping your hand from his cock to his ass. He moans in relief, one leg naturally hiking up the outside of your thigh. He hooks an arm around your shoulders, nails digging into your skin for balance.

"Thought you said I wasn't allowed to touch you," you murmur. "Changed your mind that fast?"

"Remember, it's a privilege I can rescind."

His ass is warm and slick, his walls impossibly soft, and he clenches hungrily around your two fingers, taking them in to the knuckle with ease. His hole squelches quietly, lube making things wet and easy. He spends his time gazing at you, memorising your features, those dark eyes and long lashes fluttering as you push your fingers deeper, making him arch flush against you with a keening whine. His cock throbs against your thigh, rubbing your hip.

"Another," he whispers, grinding back into your palm. "I can take another, baby."

Slipping a third finger in offers the first taste of resistance. He is tight, his walls fluttering around you. His eyes squeeze shut and his nails dig into your bicep as he grips you for stability.

"Too quick?" you ask, watching him carefully.

Immediately, he shakes his head, opening his eyes and tipping his head back. His eyes flick from the ceiling to you, and he attempts a smile. "No. No, don't stop. I can handle it."

"Are you sure? I can grab more lube—"

"You'll do no such thing," he snaps, grabbing your wrist to keep you from pulling out of him. His eyes are narrowed, intense. "I've been dreaming about your cock all week, and if you make me wait even a second longer, I will actually electrocute you."

You suck in a breath between your teeth, gently thrusting your fingers in and out of him until he's reassured that you're not running away. "Okay, okay... Sorry for trying to be nice to you, Suguru. I wanted you to be able to walk straight in the morning."

"I don't want to walk straight tomorrow." He's starting to relax around your fingers, and his expression isn't so tight anymore. "I want you to make me ache, baby. I want to press on your bruises when I shower, want to get annoyed because you always put your hickeys far too high on my neck. If I can't have your cock every night, I want to be reminded of it every day – until I can get what I really want all over again."

He continues, tracing shapes into your shoulder: "Cycles, circles, Ouroboros. You're the one beautiful habit I never want to break. Funny, isn't it? That I remember your love through pain."

Suguru takes your silence as acceptance. He pats your arm and you gently slide your fingers out of him. He turns around and aligns your thick, glossy cockhead with his hole. He lowers himself carefully, letting out a low moan as it breaches his hole and sinks inside, inch by excruciating inch.

"Fuck," he hisses, lifting his hips higher. "Fuck, I – hnn. You're always so fucking thick."

"Sorry."

"You're not." His hole clamps around you as he rocks shallowly back and forth, spreading his knees slightly wider to accommodate. "Don't lie, or I'll have to punish you, you know."

"Punish me? Really?" You hum, resting your hands on his hips and allowing him to adjust at his own pace. "How would you do that?"

"Oh, I can think of all sorts of things," he replies breezily, taking a slow breath in. He pushes back against you, harder, and manages another couple of inches – the sight's heavenly, watching your cock slowly vanish into your beautiful Suguru. Your beautiful husband, in another life. He always seemed suited to the picket-fence life.

The squeeze is almost unbearable. If you look down at the skin-to-skin join between your bodies, watch him gradually take inch by inch until you're settled nice and deep in his tummy, you might come early. His soft, ample ass seems almost at odds with the rest of him – broad, tall, elegantly lean in that historical-romance way. You press your fingers into the meat of his ass and the amount of give that dips in is almost obscene.

The jock strap digging into his thighs doesn't help your case. Your cock throbs and you can feel every ridge of him, every vein of your dick scraping against his slick, hot walls.

With his ass pressed flush against your hips, Suguru glances over his shoulder, eyes lidded and smile halfway to drunk. His cheeks are pink, and he arches his back further, as if to entice you.

"Look at me, baby," he pants, palms pressed against the counter. "See how deep you are inside me? See how you ruin me?"

You place your hands on the shelf of his hips – gentle, caressing. With a thumb, you spread his ass, revealing his puffy hole wrapped tight around your cock. It clenches as you stare, like it's winking at you, and Suguru leans down against the kitchen counter and pushes his ass up, trying to take more of your length.

"You're beautiful," you murmur, voice soft and reverent like a prayer. You stroke his thigh up his hip, his waist, across the smooth expanse of his back. He shivers under your touch, arching into it. "I don't want to ruin beautiful things."

"Well, this beautiful thing is asking you to," he says, peering over his shoulder at you with a flippant smile. "Demanding, actually. So get on with it."

You tease him with a slow rocking of your hips, gliding against his swollen prostate with each thrust. "Whatever you want."

A displeased downward turn of his mouth has you swallowing a laugh. He stares at you, brows furrowed, and grabs your hip, attempting to set the pace himself – you don't let him, pushing him forward until he's flush with the counter, the edge digging into his bulge painfully. He winces, a throb of pleasure running up his spine.

"Not like that," Suguru breathes, a frustrated pout gracing his lips. "Harder."

"What if I wanted to take care of you, make you feel good?"

"You'll take care of me by fucking me harder," he orders, and his eyes glint with a challenge. "Remember, this is a present. I can take it back."

"Yeah? Then what'll you do? Go hide in our bathroom and fuck yourself with your modest little toys, maybe two at a time because they're not big enough to stretch you like I can?" you taunt, abruptly snapping your hips forward. He gasps and moans, nodding breathlessly as he clamps around you.

"You can sit between my legs, if you want," he huffs, grinning at the irritated click of the tongue he receives. "Or maybe I'll tie you down. I like it when you watch."

"Brat," you mutter, yanking his hips against yours with a wet slap. He jerks and moans, soft and feathery. He shakes his hair out over his shoulder as a velvet waterfall, watching you slyly from the corner of his eye.

He's too pretty for his own good. He knows you melt when it comes to him, and now he's using it against you, giving you sweet puppy eyes and arching his spine adorably hopefully.

"If you don't tease, I won't either," he promises, rolling his hips. He blinks back at you, his seductive half-bitten smile turning as sweet as strawberry clouds as you nibble at the crook of his shoulder. He shivers and curls up with a soft giggle, ticklish. His eyes crinkle. "Baby..."

"Mm, Suguru?" You sweep his hair to one side, nipping and sucking at his soft skin. As usual, you pepper your love bites far too high – he'll be tucking his hair forward for days. At least it'll be easy to press on the bruises with a subtle hand raise, letting him relive the pleasure of receiving them – the heat of your breath, the sound of your groans – whenever his mind starts to wander.

"I'm trying to be sexy. Don't make me laugh," he whispers, looping his arm loosely around the back of your neck and twisting his fingers in your hair.

Lazily, you thrust deep into him, tip to root, making his breath catch in his throat. The veins of your cock drag against his impossibly soft, warm walls – his insides ripple around you and he shudders, tightening further and pulling a groan from deep within your chest.

"What do you mean? You're sexy when you laugh," you object, your fingers gliding over his bulge, the cloth damp and hot. His hips jolt as you hook a finger into them and tug them down, freeing his wet, twitching length. "Don't you think so?"

He gasps sharply as your touch glides over his tip and your index finger rubs his leaky slit. His hole clamps around you. "I—fuck..."

You keep your pace unhurried, uneven, and mouth at the red bruises blooming across his skin. He's warm and pliant in your arms despite his earlier bravado – you smooth your thumb across the base of his neck, soothing and possessive all at once. He gnaws on his lower lip to suppress a whine – it was too early for that. He wasn't one to be ruined so easily, and he was determined to make you work for it.

"I love you," you murmur, tilting his face towards you and landing a kiss under his pierced ear. "So answer me, Suguru. If you don't, I'll finish with my hand and leave you to the toys you seem to like so much. Is that what you want, angel?"

He nearly bites straight through his lip. The pet name is so terrifyingly domestic, so affectionate, something he can imagine you saying when he greets you after work at the front door. He'd wear an apron and a sweater, soup bubbling on the stove, and you'd kiss him breathless as if you hadn't seen him just that morning. He licks his lips and his head twitches 'no' – barely there, embarrassed at his own fantasies.

"I..." He lets out a shaky breath as your cock throbs, hot and thick, in his deepest parts. "That wouldn't be so bad. At least I'd actually be able to come."

He grins then, breathless and playful, and there's an edge in his gaze as sharp as a blade. Your grip tightens on his hips. "Is that right?"

Suguru hums in assent, sighing in pleasure as you tease him with the pace he wants – just a few moments of it and he's already achingly hard, his cock arcing up towards his stomach. "Or I could... head down to the nearest bar. Find some more obedient company."

Behind him, you go deathly still, and he knows he's got you hook, line, and sinker.

"No."

"No?"

"No," you repeat, firmer, leaning into his warmth and burying your face in his shoulder. Cursed energy swirls beneath his skin, dancing between his cells with a tangy sweetness that fills your skull like a heavy, rich cologne. Your arms tighten around him. "You're mine, Suguru. You've always been mine." You kiss a darker hickey on his neck and he shudders at the twinge of pain that electrifies his spine. He grips your wrist, fingers fluttering nervously over the bones and tendons. "You want a reminder? Well, anything for my angel."

You press him into the countertop and snap your hips forward, skin clapping with the impact. He gasps, jolting forward, and when his mouth opens – to talk back or demand a kiss – all that tumbles out is a shaky, whiny moan.

You keep the pace deep and rough, hands sliding down his toned chest and stomach to rest on the shelf of his hips – two dainty handholds just made for you to drag him back on your cock, to keep him with you. His hair bounces, strands slowly coming loose to frame his blown-out pupils and dark, sinful blush. He flicks his head to toss it over his shoulder and gazes back at you, pink lips glossy and parted into a perfect 'O'. He reaches for your hand, cupping your knuckles – it's like you're holding hands – and grins, biting back cries that come out instead as short, ragged gasps.

"Now, that wasn't so hard, w-was it?" he moans, body jerking and weight shifting forward. He compensates by balancing on the balls of his feet, and it arches his back in a gorgeously tempting way. His cock digs into the edge of the counter and his expression tightens, a choked whimper escaping through his teeth. His nails dig into the cool white stone. "A-All it took – hah – was a little jealousy."

The thick head of your cock crushes his swollen, sensitive prostate. A tremor wracks his body as liquid fire rushes through his dick, making him yelp like a wounded little bunny. Traitor that it is, his cock throbs and leaks faster, precome shining messily on his firm stomach.

"I'd say possessive, not jealous," you respond, watching his tight hole swallow your whole length with pornographic ease. He's impossibly warm and soft, gummy insides tender and uber-sensitive from sitting on the plug for so long. It makes you wonder. All that squirming during dinner – was he fantasising about how you'd fuck him? Wishing the weight of the plug was from your cock instead? "Jealousy implies a desire for something I don't have. But I do have you – I have you all spread out and eager for me, eager for a cock too big to fit in you."

You emphasise your point with a pointed thrust, crushing your hips against his ass and making him choke. His hand flies down to his stomach, pressing on the smooth bump gliding against his walls. His thighs tremble. "You belong to me. The outside—" you kiss his hickeys "—and the inside—" you cup the bulge in his stomach "—is all mine."

Suguru shivers despite the heat burning beneath his skin. He gasps out your name, his heart stuttering as you press a chaste but lingering kiss to the nape of his neck. All of this – it's the same song and dance he plays out when he's haunted by what could have been, his side empty and cold where you should be. Perhaps it comforts him to have control – to know that within these four walls, you would do anything for him.

He's made peace with your choice to stay, but that doesn't mean he loves it. When he was younger, he was bitter. Didn't want to see you. It reminded him of who you'd chosen over him – people like Satoru, who hadn't known you for half as long as he did, nor as deeply. Your experiences were his experiences, and naively, he'd believed that you'd spend your whole lives doing just that: sharing, being together. He thought it was pathetic how shattered he was when you broke that dream.

Now, though – older, a little bit wiser – he appreciates the rest of it that much more. Despite your unwavering loyalties, your strongest beliefs, you made him your only exception – someone you couldn't live without, even if it risked the loss of everything you'd worked to keep.

You'd be exiled. Hunted down. Slaughtered like a feral dog. And still, you reached for him. That meant something.

As you pick up the pace, hips smacking against Suguru's plump ass, so do his pretty sounds. His sighs turn into sharp, drawled moans, punched-out while his mouth falls open, your pace making it hard to breathe. His nails dig into the stone counter top.

"Yes," he breathes, eyes fluttering shut. "Yes. My holes are the only ones you're allowed to fuck. They're yours. I'm yours. I only want you."

It's almost sweet. His voice is soft with gasps and sighs, his usual purring tone sharpened with pleasure. He's behaving now, so you'll let him have what he wants. You slide a finger beneath the strap of his jocks, gliding against his smooth skin, and snap it back against him – his breath hitches and his hole clamps tightly around you. You groan, deep and hungry, at the feeling. He shivers against your chest, his skin prickling with gooseflesh.

"Mm... I never tire of hearing that," you huff against the hickeys on his neck. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes obscenely in your apartment and Suguru's heart knocks up a little bit higher on each thrust, each breath coming shorter and sharper than the last. You grab his arms and twist them behind his back – he stumbles slightly, stomach pressing flat against the cool countertop, and his body seizes at the cold shock. You let out another low rumble, the sound rolling pleasingly into Suguru's warm, sticky skin.

Your grip tightens on his wrists and his slender fingers flex, his index finger brushing against the side of your wrist in the ghost of a hand-hold. He chokes on a cry as you snap your hips into his ass, rough and starved. His knees buckle and you tut softly as you yank him back up and set him on the counter again, burying his weeping cock beneath his own weight. He whimpers softly and tries to lift his hips to alleviate the discomfort, but all that does is slam your cock directly into his soft swollen prostate, forcing it even deeper than before.

He comes.

The world goes white. The pressure of his arms pinned back. His cheek pressed to the hard countertop. The cold stone slick with his hot, creamy release. It all explodes forth in a searing hot burst.

"Wait," he gasps, his tongue thick and rubbery in his mouth. His eyes roll back as you fuck him through it, not slowing down for a second. Moans spill past his red, bitten lips, bouncing off the tiled kitchen walls. "Wait—! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, no – more – more, more, feels so good, baby, you feel so good—"

"Speak clearly, angel," you hum, pumping your cock into his tight, wet hole. "Stop? Go? Slower? Faster? How deep do you want me inside your pretty belly?"

He whimpers at the slew of choices, his body working too fast for his thoughts to keep up. You were teasing him just a while ago, but now? He came so quickly after you put it in. He flushes hotly, embarrassment flaring in his chest. He feels like a teenager again: small, vulnerable. Loved.

"Don't stop," he pants, eyes fluttering shut as his cock pulses and spurts, smearing his stomach and the counter below him in glossy white streaks. "Don't stop, don't go slow, please—"

So you don't. You fuck him until his cock softens, until his hole becomes creamy and sticky with your seed. Then you keep going.

You're certain Suguru was made to take your cock. His ass ripples as you slam into him, his taut hole swallowing your dick and milking it with every thrust. Gummy and tender-warm with your precome, his insides flex and quiver, squelching crudely every time your hips clap against his ass.

He doesn't complain when you sink your teeth high into his neck, his mouth falling open as his body jolts with melting pain and pleasure. His spine arches, ass clenching around you, as he tips over the precipice and paints his stomach white.

Time passes. How much exactly, Suguru doesn't know – his balls ache with countless orgasms while his legs tremble and struggle to keep him up. He nearly collapses at one point, thighs shaking so badly he's practically bouncing on your thick cock. His moans are loud, unrestrained, and desperate, as if he belongs nowhere better but here.

Somehow, despite his foggy, clouded thoughts, he notices when your breathing quickens and your thrusts grow erratic. He cries out in anguish. "No! No, don't, hah, don't c-come yet, don't stop fucking me, come with me," he mewls, his throbbing cock so hot it feels like it's going to melt right through the stone counter. "'M close, 'm so close, wanna keep coming on your perfect cock – please," he moans, delirious and teetering on the edge. "Ah, ah, ah—! I love your big cock! I love you so much—!"

You hips stutter. Suguru has never been one to say 'I love you' like that – never so spontaneously, and never so clearly. Perhaps part of him was afraid you'd be taken from him if he said it too loudly – if he would lose you if he loved you to a fault.

"Suguru," you whisper, voice so soft and tender and fragile that it makes him unravel on the spot.

He goes first. He will always go first.

But you can't hold back any longer. Not when he's covered in your marks and teary with bliss you imposed onto him. You slam in, excess lube rolling down his thighs in thick creamy teardrops, and he gasps and scrabbles at anything within reach, trying helplessly to release his crushed, aching cock, wet in its filthy little puddle of sticky come.

He manages to hook his knee over the countertop. His dark, heavy, pulsing cock swings and smacks against the counter, sending shocks of hard pleasure rocketing up his spine. The position makes his eyes roll back into his skull. You hiss, releasing his wrists with one hand to spread his asscheek and drive your cock even deeper into him. He quivers violently. His tight hole scrapes the throbbing veins of your cock and he moans your name in a whiny drawl, hot cheek pressed into the cool stone.

"Feel so good in me," he whispers, mouth lax as he pants, the whites of his eyes showing as you shove right up against his prostate. His spine arches, sweat gathering in the small of his back, and you roll your hand down the curve of his hip, pressing the smooth bulge distending his stomach. With each thrust he unravels a little more, body jolting roughly. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"I know, angel," you rasp, not missing the way he clenches at the pretty name. "Fucking dripping for me, aren't you?" You slap his ass with a meaty smack, making him jerk and mewl. His jockstrap digs into his thighs. "Shit, jus' look at you, darling. Drooling for my cock, dressing up all pretty f'me... Can't get enough of my attention, can you?"

Suguru shakes his head dumbly, panting like a dog as his hair constantly brushes the countertop, slipping free from his clip to stick to his damp, flushed face. "Have to – h-hafta make sure I'm the best fuck you've ever h-had – hahh! – s-so you only ever give your cock to – mmn – me." His dark, lidded gaze flicks to yours over his shoulder, his swollen lips parting and sticking at the corners. "S'mine. Don't forget it."

He's beginning to sound a little worn out, chest heaving and breath shaky and uneven. His numbers must be up there by now – six, maybe. You're not far behind. He starts to babble, sharp moans and cries interjected between how full he feels, how perfect your cock is, how he could orgasm from the feeling of your come alone.

It's filling your head. Suguru's praise, the sweet sound of his moans, the adoration thick in his voice each time he whimpers your name... anyone would give it up for him. Anyone would beg at his feet for a sliver of his attention yet here you are, the lucky one drowning in something he gives to you freely. Your cock throbs dangerously, heavy inside him, and he presses back desperately as best he can.

His messy, come-sticky hole gulps you down to the root. With a hungry, desperate growl, you slam into him, his ass rippling with the impact, and he screams your name as your cock stuffs a thick bulge in his stomach.

His head tilts back. His toes curl. His mouth falls open.

He comes violently. Beautifully. It feels even better because you do it together. The overbearing warmth spills into him, thick and creamy, and he gawps as you pin him down on your cock, forcing him to take every heavy spurt and feel every pulse. You hold him protectively, groans deep and pleased and puffing hotly against his sweaty neck.

You stay connected for a while as you fuck him through his high. Yours lasts longer than his – courtesy of his several earlier climaxes – and he lies limp and sated in your grasp as you lazily thrust into his wet hole. Frothy white come dribbles down his taint as you draw back slowly, his puffy taut hole gaping and clenching around you when you eventually slide out. He lifts and wiggles his hips, still calming down from the aftershocks.

You let out a shaky sigh as you lean back and admire his abused hole, fucked wide open. You hook a thumb into his entrance and tug slightly – he trembles, toes curling and thighs flexing, as a thick rush of come dribbles forth down his balls and shaft. He digs his fingers against the counter and you rub your come into his skin, using it like lube to pump his softened, messy cock. He jerks involuntarily into the creamy hole of your fist, hot velvety balls pressing against the edge of your palm, and the loud, sticky wet sounds emanating from between his legs make him quiver with filthy pleasure.

You let go once his body sags against you, thoroughly fucked out with nothing left to give. He lets you lead him into a deep, over-the-shoulder kiss, his gasps and soft moans sleepy and content as your lips smack and mould together, warm and plump. His eyes are closed, his hand resting over yours and curled gently around it.

Finally, you part, both gasping for air. His eyes flutter open, admiring you, and he steals another kiss, moaning lazily as you press your cock between his asscheeks and grind against him. He rocks back into you.

He spends a while just like that, kissing you and grinding against your length as he gathers himself and figures out how to use his legs again. It shouldn't be that hard, but his brain feels foggy, clouded, and the way you kiss him so desperately makes him feel like he's the only one in the world worth knowing.

"I love you, you know," he whispers eventually, blinking slowly up at you like a cat. "Really. I don't want to live without you. I don't think I could live without you."

You turn him over gently, letting him sink into your embrace as he buries his face in your neck, the scent of your musk and cologne tangling his thoughts. His body aches pleasurably.

"It's okay, Suguru," you murmur into his soft dark hair; it smells like coconut. You stare, unseeingly, at one of the many bright mineral dots baked into the white stone. Despite having him warm and breathing in your arms, he feels terrifyingly far away, like brushing fingers over a cliff edge. You wonder if you'll be fast enough to catch him before he falls. "You'll never have to."

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llamagoddessofficial · 2 months ago

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bad sanses… as girls!????? 😳

BAD GIRLS???

Horror appears less unstable. She's a little taller than regular Horror. She comes across as calmer, a touch more aware and alert, you can clearly tell she's taking in everything around her. She snaps far less often - she lets slide things our Horror would never let slide. But this false 'calm' is because this Horror only attacks when she 100% means to kill. She doesn't bluff. She silently waits, watching until someone crosses the final line... and when they do, she's far more aggressive, going for the kill. Our Horror snaps more often, but is easier to sway out of his rage... this Horror? Once she's decided she wants to kill there's nothing that can get in her way.

She's not quite as cuddly, but she fixates much faster on people she loves. It doesn't take her long to decide whether you're one of 'her people' or not. And if you are, you're not going anywhere.

Dust really has no visible difference. Dust is so disconnected from herself, thanks to her overwhelming LV, that there's not really much of a person left. Her friendship with Horror is the same, her tolerance of Killer's antics is the same, her dislike of her current position is the same - and her feelings for you are the same. If our Dust and this Dust met, you honestly wouldn't be able to tell them apart at a glance.

The only real difference is that she prefers menthol cigarettes. It gives her a strange scent, bitter and light, and a dry mintiness to her kisses.

Killer is a girl's girl. And more flirty, if that's somehow even possible. She's very touchy, always leaning on you, nudging you for attention, coming up behind you and resting her arms on your shoulders. She wants to do your makeup, swap outfits, paint your nails... if you're not careful you'll find yourself sitting between her legs while she does your hair. For someone with no hair, she's surprisingly good at hairstyles, and you may even find yourself coming back to her asking her to recreate something.

She's more openly jealous than our Killer, getting visibly irritated far faster by people taking up your time. She's also more open about her possessiveness - she's quick to drag you over to her when her spot in your heart feels threatened. But honestly? The toxicity might be worth it. She makes your hair look so good.

Nightmare enjoys using humans as chew toys. She thinks it's hilarious that she can get such easy access to someone's mind just by virtue of looking 'feminine' - though she wouldn't actually touch most humans with a ten foot pole she very much enjoys the process of invading someone's sleep and watching their terror as what they thought would be a very pleasant dream turns into a nightmare. Bit of female spider imagery going on.

She's just as proud, just as cold and arrogant, just as determined to be treated like a God. Hates her 'dear sister' just as much. Her major difference is that she's much weaker to flattery. She wants to be feared, but she also wants to be worshipped; she spares those who grovel deep enough, or address her appropriately reverent names. She loves being compared favourably to Dream.

Who knows. If you've got a silver tongue she particularly likes, she might just take you with her to hear more.

#llamagines #bad sanses #bad.... girls 😳#dust gets concerned about how quiet its been for a few hours #(usually means killer is up to something)#she goes to killer's room to check #only to walk in on killer sitting behind you doing your hair while you play video games #youre both wearing skincare face masks #killer's like 🤨 ''girlie stop looming. either join us or fuck off''#later. horror also realises its a bit quiet #and by the time nightmare notices how quiet its gotten and goes to check on killer #she finds all four of you sitting together in face masks

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angelx · 2 months ago

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saw ur recent post and ow, it got me thinking. what about *bakugo* ogling male reader who has a happy trail

I WAS HOPING SOMEONE WOULD REQUEST THIS 😭😭 thank you for requesting this yummy hc 😋 i'll try my best to write a katsuki x male!reader content, this is my first time 😓

warnings: nsfw! bf!katsuki x male!reader with a happy trail, blow job, bottom katsuki, dirty talk, katsuki and reader are freaks, masc-male!reader, if you squint there's brat katsuki, yaoi

Katsuki swears he’s not staring.

(Not really. Not in a pervy way. Not in a goddamn-I’d-get-on-my-knees-for-him kind of way.)

...Okay, maybe a little bit like that.

You’re standing in front of the open fridge in nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, broad back on full display, hair still damp from the shower, and Katsuki can’t look away. Your abs? Sharp. Your chest? Built. But it’s that stupid, unfair happy trail that’s really got him clenching the throw pillow in his lap like it’s a stress toy.

The way it disappears under the waistband of your sweats—dark and soft and leading straight to trouble? He’s not proud of the sound he almost made when you stretched just now.

“You gonna keep starin’ or say something?” you ask, not even turning around, just cool and casual and smug in a way that makes Katsuki want to chew drywall.

His mouth opens. Closes. Reboots like a fucking Windows update.

“Not starin’. Jus’… zonin’ out.”

“On my ass?”

“No,” he snaps—too fast.

You finally turn and lean back against the counter, arms crossed, happy trail front and center like some kind of cruel invitation. And Katsuki’s eyes? They drop again. Immediately.

“...Dude,” you chuckle, cocking a brow. “You’ve been ogling my stomach for, like, five minutes.”

Katsuki’s ears go bright red.

“Well maybe if you weren’t walkin’ around lookin’ like a fuckin’ lumberjack thirst trap—”

“Lumberjack thirst trap?” you repeat, amused.

“Shut up.”

You cross the kitchen slowly, barefoot and calm, all thick muscle and easy confidence—and Katsuki feels like prey. The way you move, the size difference, the stupid trail of hair leading his eyes right to your dick—he’s practically vibrating with how hard he’s trying not to act desperate.

You lean down, close enough to kiss, and murmur,

“You like it that much, huh?” “Wanna follow it and see where it goes?”

And Katsuki?

He looks you dead in the eye, ears red, breath shallow, and growls:

“If you don’t shut up and take your fuckin’ pants off, I will.”

You don’t say a word. Just hook your thumbs into the waistband of your sweats and drag them down slow—so slow Katsuki practically salivates. His eyes flicker down the second your cock sprung free, gaze hungry and hazy, locked onto that same trail of dark hair that drove him insane in the first place.

He’s already on his knees. You didn’t even have to ask.

“So fuckin’ unfair,” he mutters, voice hoarse, calloused hands sliding up the outsides of your thighs. “I’m the damn pro hero and you’re the one makin’ me feel like some horny fuckin’ intern—”

“That why you’re already down there?” you cut in, one brow raised. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Katsuki glares up at you, flushed and tense. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t argue. Just drags his nose up the trail from your pelvis to your navel, breathing you in like he’s starving.

“This shit’s been drivin’ me crazy all week,” he admits, mouth brushing your skin, tongue slipping out to taste. “You walk around smellin’ like heat and sweat and fuckin’ cedarwood—‘course I’m gonna lose my shit.”

Your hand settles on the back of his head, fingers threading through those messy blond spikes.

“Then stop talkin’, Katsuki.”

You guide him forward.

He groans, deep and low, one hand bracing your hip while the other wraps around the base of your cock. He presses a kiss to the head, then another just beneath, warm tongue teasing under the curve.

But he doesn’t rush it.

No, Katsuki wants to savor this.

His mouth is hot, slick, obsessed, moving slow like he’s trying to memorize how it feels on his tongue. His nose brushes your happy trail again and again, and each time, he shivers like it does something to him.

“Could get drunk off this,” he mutters against your skin. “Fuckin’ smells like you. Feels like you. Tastes like—”

You tug his hair gently, cutting him off.

“You’re such a mess for it. You're basically acting like a slut.”

“So what?” he snaps up at you, lips glossy, face flushed. “You like watchin’ me get on my knees for you? Like makin’ me this fuckin’ needy?”

You lean down, grip his jaw, and smirk.

“I like making you mine.”

That does it. He groans, desperate, and takes you deeper. No more teasing. No more pretending he’s not into it. His hands are gripping your thighs like a lifeline, mouth working like he’s got something to prove—and maybe he does.

Because right now?

Katsuki Bakugou? He’s yours.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

LMAO BYE I FRIED MY BRAIN TO WRITE THIS .·°՞(˃ ᗝ ˂)՞°·.

please let me know what you guys think about this, since it's my first time writing chara x male!reader. and let me know if i should continue writing it ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

#katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou smut #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x you #katsuki x male reader #male reader #mha headcanons #mha smut #mha scenarios #mha bakugou #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha x reader #yaoi #yaoi smut

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wanderingelvis · 3 months ago

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I can’t get enough of your writing! I love it so much! 💖

Could you maybe do something where one of the Memphis mafia guys girlfriend or something is mean to little reader when they’re alone, but is nice when others are around. Reader doesn’t say anything because she doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble because she’s so sweet but one day it gets too much and she tells Elvis and he gets protective.

Sorry it’s so long I hope you have a nice day! 🎀💝

eeeeek! i'm back after a lil while away and thank you for requesting

my masterlist of all my elvis writing request an elvis fic here, i'm always lookin' for inspo

wc - 2.9k

warnings - ddlg dynamic, if u don't like that i would advise not reading

You knock softly at Elvis' office door, waiting patiently until Elvis calls you in.

You're Elvis' long term girlfriend and you're just the sweetest little thing. You're so polite and you're as quiet as a mouse, even with Elvis still, you're just naturally very timid.

But Elvis loves you all the more for it. He likes having someone to control, to protect, to use. It's the innocent and timid nature that he adores the most, that he wants to preserve at all costs.

It wasn't too long ago that he'd introduced you to the Little lifestyle, now, you were certainly apprehensive about it, you were just a little bundle of nerves, weren't you? Elvis made sure to take it slowly, but Elvis kept you at Graceland, living under his rules so it was easy for him to help you succumb to the lifestyle when he made the whole environment push you further and further into a smaller headspace.

There were things he put in place that would help you slip.

He would give you warm milk before bed every night.

He bought you toys that would help clear your head and allow you to be Little, such as coloring books, or the most beautiful dolls house that you'd ever seen that you just couldn't resist playing with it as the Memphis Mafia would stand above you and watch as they sipped their beer with Elvis and you played with your toys on the floor.

He instructed anyone that looked after you to treat you as if you were only a little thing, whether it was the cook, one of the Memphis Mafia, their girlfriends or the gardener.

But not everyone had always been that nice to you, including Ramona, Red's girlfriend. She was a relatively new girlfriend, and unbeknownst to you, she was simply dating Red to try to get to Elvis, so she utterly despised you.

She, like all the other girlfriends, had been told about the way in which you were to be treated -- gently and softly, not to treat you like an adult whether you liked it or not.

But she used this to her advantage and would constantly make your life miserable. She'd pinched you, pulled your hair when brushing it, called you all sorts of horrible names, broken a few of your toys and ripped up some of your drawings that you'd made. She didn't try to hide it from you, she knew you wouldn't say anything, she knew you were too timid and shy and that whatever warped lifestyle Elvis had submitted you to, had too much of a hold over you to tell anyone what she was doing.

You were scared of Ramona, and you'd watch from your play area as she'd make Elvis laugh during parties, and you'd chew your lip nervously, realising that you couldn't say anything.

But she was coming over yet again, for a cook-out in the yard with all of the Memphis Mafia and their girlfriends and wives and you could feel the nerves growing in your tummy as you walked into Elvis' office.

Elvis looked up from the paperwork he was working on and offered you a smile, you were just so precious.

"Hey honey, y'okay baby?" Elvis said cooly, getting up from his desk and walking over to you as you stood nervously at the entrance of the office, looking around at his desk, noticing all the work.

"Did I disturb you?" You asked softly, picking at your fingers.

Elvis chuckled softly, "No honey, just finishing up some work s'all. What's on your mind Little One?" Elvis cooed gently, rubbing your shoulders and upper arms.

"Um, um," You say softly and quietly, avoiding the gaze of Elvis. "The party is nearly starting, um..." You say gently, not really being all that sure what you're even trying to say, which Elvis understands.

Elvis nods, he can tell that you're feeling smaller but resisting it. But that's what he's there for, to help you.

"And don't you look pretty huh baby?" Elvis smirks, taking in the pretty pink babydoll dress you have on and the ribbon in your hair that he had laid out for you earlier that the maid, Miriam, had put in for you. You can't help but blush at the comment and begin to chew on your lip. Despite being with Elvis for a couple of years, you're still such a reserved little baby. "How's about you go pick some of them flowers in the garden for the party huh? Y'know the ones you grew with Miriam's help and you were such a good girl, takin' such good care of 'em?" Elvis suggested, referring to your flower bed in the garden.

You'd become such a little green thumb recently, you loved flowers, you thought they were just so pretty, and you loved wildlife and nature. You'd always potter around the garden with the little tools that Elvis had bought you with your little sun hat on, showing Elvis all the pretty flowers you'd carefully planted.

You nod softly. "Flowers..." You repeat softly with a nod, processing the request.

"That sound good, Little One?" Elvis said, gauging your headspace, he can tell you're slipping.

You nod again, quietly listening and responding as the big man that you call Daddy kisses the top of your head. "Good girl, go get some pretty flowers f'me, 'kay?" Elvis said and you nod and set off to the lavish garden to your flower bed.

You love all your flowers so dearly, you're proud of every single one like the good little baby that you are, you make sure you water all of them at the right time, and you giggle softly every time Elvis compliments your hard work when he looks at them with you.

You have lots of flowers and it's a little overwhelming for you to decide which ones might be best to pick, but you're worried that you might pick the wrong ones. You always want to do a good job for your Daddy, he works so hard and he takes such good care of you that you just want to do a good job in return at whatever he asks for you. You absolutely hate the idea of ever being a bother to him.

You chew on your lip nervously as you sit on the grass and look at all your flowers, it's only when a shadow appears above you that you turn around and see Ramona.

You instantly become a little shelf of yourself, quiet as anything and a little fidgety, looking away from her stare and trying to concentrate on your flowers.

"Elvis said you were here pickin' flowers you've grown..." Ramona said, her tone less than friendly which made you feel tense, but you tried as hard as you possibly could to ignore that feeling.

All you can manage is a gentle nod, you're so shy around Ramona, you can't help it, she terrifies you.

"You grew these?" She asked, smoking her cigarette as she stood above you.

All you do is nod yet again but you can't help but think that maybe she likes them, maybe she's impressed and she finally likes something you've done.

"Let me help you pick some then huh?" She says sharply before pulling at all the flowers in the flowerbed, tearing them harshly and breaking their stems, pulling out so many so quickly that you don't know what to do.

"N-No, no, my flowers-" You say, trying to be loud but failing miserably, you just sound so timid and soft and little, but distraught nevertheless.

"Honey, m'just helpin' ya get the weeds out." She laughed, ruining your entire flowerbed before your eyes, the flowerbed you worked so hard on for so long. "Looks much better, dontcha think, Y/N?" She scoffed, trying her cigarette on one of the crushed peonies before walking away.

You can't help but feel tears coming to your eyes, you crawl to the flowerbed, practically getting in it to try and salvage some of the flowers and plants you'd so lovingly grown.

You don't know why she's so mean to you, why she would do this to your pretty flowers, everything from the roses to the tulips completely ruined and muddied.

Tears begin to trickle down your cheeks as you desperately try to fix what Ramona had done, your knees, legs, dress, hands, everything getting muddy and your hands getting cut from thorns as you tearfully try to make all the flowers better but to no avail.

"Oh no? Did the baby fall in her flowerbed huh?" Ramona feigns concern looking at you, getting Reds attention who immediately hollers at Elvis to come outside.

"Baby, hey baby, hey, hey, it's okay..." Red hushes as he reaches you first, crouching down on the grass next to you.

You immediately look to your lap as you sit in the flowerbed, ashamed and embarrassed that you look all tearful and muddy at the big garden party. "Daddy..." You say ever so quietly but enough for Red to hear it.

"Oh honey, Daddy's comin', here is, see? He's coming darlin', easy now, don't want you to get hurt on them thorns anymore baby." Red says gently, as you continue to avoid eye contact.

"What the hell happened?" You can hear your Daddy's voice say to Red as he observes the scene of his little baby girl, surrounded by destroyed flowers and covered in dirt.

"Ramona said she fell in her flowerbed, EP." Red says and you don't dare to correct him, you're far too shy of a baby for that.

Elvis can't really believe what he's seeing, even when you're in a Little headspace, you're never this clumsy - and you're so careful with your flowers all the time, he knows just how much you love them.

"Red, give us some damn space." Elvis muttered, gesturing for Red to return back to the house before Elvis crouched by you. "Baby, what's happened here, princess?" Elvis asked calmly.

"My flowers..." You sniffled, tears falling from your cheeks and hitting your pink dress.

"Did yer take a tumble huh?" Elvis asked gently.

You sniffle but you don't move or say anything and that's instantly a signal to Elvis that something has gone on, but it's clear you're not saying anything now and you're still sat in the flowerbed.

"Okay baby, m'gon getchu outta this flowerbed, 'kay? Just let Daddy take control 'kay? Don't want you makin' no sudden movements or nothin' and getting scratched again baby." Elvis said calmly, before grabbing you from under your arms and easily lifting you out of the flower bed and onto his hip.

You've always been smaller than him, easily pliable and manhandled. You continue to cry weepily, instantly resting your head on his shoulder and cuddling into him closely.

"There we go, that's it baby, s'okay, Daddy's gotchu." Elvis soothed, rocking you in his arms and hushing you. "Let's go put you in the tub and get y'all clean again baby, how's about that?" Elvis said softly kissing your forehead before taking you inside.

The pair of you walk past everyone and you instantly bury your face in Elvis' shoulder, determined not to be seen by anybody and Elvis can't help but find it just damn adorable. But you particularly don't want to see Ramona, you're too shy and too embarrassed to face anyone but your Daddy and even that's a challenge.

Elvis praises every small thing you do once you both reach the master bathroom alone, from letting him take off your dress, to accepting the pacifier that Elvis offered you to help you calm down and soothe you whilst you were in the tub.

"Good girl, you look so sweet with that pacifier, ain't that right honey?" Elvis chuckled, wiping the dirt away from your naked body as he lets you soak in all the bubbles. "Y'know y'being such a good little girl for Daddy huh? Lettin' Daddy wash you and clean you up."

"I messed my dress Daddy." You say softly around your pacifier, feeling bad for ruining the pretty pink dress had arranged for you to wear today.

Elvis clicked his tongue, tsking at you. "Uh-uh baby, it's just a dress sweetheart. Y'not in trouble baby." Elvis assures you, knowing there's something you're not telling him, he can read you like a book, he knows every cue, every emotion every expression of yours.

Once you were all clean, Elvis took you out of the tub and dried you, being careful not to be too harsh on the little cuts and scrapes you had acquired. He let you snuggle in the big kingsize bed that the two of you shared in your fluffy baby dressing gown as he picked out some clothes for you to wear for the rest of the day, settling on a soft cotton cream long sleeve top, a pretty pink tulle skirt and white tights.

You were just the softest and sweetest little baby he could ever dream for. Always so polite, kind and gentle.

"Ready to go back to our guests pretty girl?" Elvis asked gently, gauging your reaction.

"Please, um, please, um," You stumbled on your words, still feeling overwhelmed and nervous, but Elvis never rushes you - never. He always lets you take your time when you're overwhelmed, he knows you'll get there, you just take a little longer than most people. "Please, um, wanna, um, stay with you only Daddy." You said gently. "If that's okay..." You say quietly.

Elvis' expression softens at your vulnerable requests. "Oh darlin', you ain't gon' leave my side, baby." Elvis says gently, picking you up again to take you downstairs.

You're well into your smaller headspace now, and you instinctively pop your fingers into your mouth to chew on anxiously as you rested your head on Elvis' shoulder.

You stayed nestled by Elvis' side throughout the rest of the day, barely speaking, avoiding looking at anyone and becoming noticeably clingier than usual, something Elvis took note of.

Once everyone had finally departed, you were exhausted, you just wanted to sleep and Elvis knew you should've had a nap, you're too little to be up at this time, but he was too concerned about what had happened earlier, it was too out of character.

"Someone's sleepy, huh?" Elvis softly said, stroking your hair as you nestled into his side, your face resting on his chest.

You nodded sweetly, blinking heavily as the weariness took you over, which Elvis knew was his cue to push your limits and take advantage of your sleepy state.

"Baby, you gotta tell me somethin' before you start havin' your sweet dreams, huh Little One?" Elvis said gently, tracing circles into your shoulder as he wrapped his arm around you.

All you could manage was a soft hum. "Okay, I need'ta know what happened with all your lil flowers, baby girl. Daddy knows you ain't that clumsy Dolly, you're such a careful little girl, I know somethin' else happened, and when you tell me, you know you gotta be honest, you know Daddy ain't gon' tolerate any lyin'." Elvis said sternly and you wearily pushed yourself up from resting on your Daddy's body to sit up straight on the couch.

You began to chew on your lip again, puffing it up and rubbed your eyes.

"I'll get in trouble Daddy..." You said softly, looking down at your lap.

Elvis frowned, concerned at what you'd just said. He couldn't imagine a scenario where you'd be in trouble, you're too obedient for that.

"You ain't gettin' in no trouble baby, as long as y'tell Daddy the truth."

There's a long pause, Elvis letting the thick tension add pressure to you before you weakly say, "It's Ramona."

"Ramona? Red's Ramona?" Elvis said with confusion in his tone.

All you do is nod, leading Elvis to probe further. "What about Ramona, huh kid?" Elvis says tenderly.

"She, she, um, she-" You falter but Elvis just listens intently. "She ruined all the flowers, she ripped them Daddy and hurt them... she hurts me Daddy." You confessed, your nerves sky high, your eyes trained firmly on your lap.

Elvis immediately feels anger boil up inside of him. You're the most honest little girl he's ever known, he knows that you wouldn't lie - you can't lie in fact. To hear that someone has been hurting you, well, that just sets something off inside the big, bad man.

You end up telling your Daddy everything as he cradles you like his little baby, reassuring you that you're being such a good little girl for telling him. Reassuring you that Ramona ain't ever going to be near you ever again. Reassuring you that your beloved flowerbed is going to be alright.

"Darlin', you been such a good girl, tellin' Daddy what's been goin' on. You know that baby?" Elvis says, holding your chin so he can look at you and you nod softly. "You gon' tell Daddy if anyone ever hurts my little girl ever again, straight away, y'hear me baby?" Elvis says firmly and you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"Good." Elvis said before kissing your forehead. "Let's get this sleepy baby to her bed, hm? Gon' get your pacifier and your teddy and get y'all soft and sleepy ain't we?" Elvis hushed.

You nodded gently, still just as timid as the day you both first met and Elvis carried you upstairs to your bedroom but you fell asleep in his arms before you even got tucked in by your Daddy, all your worries gone, all thanks to Elvis, who swore to never let anyone touch you ever again.

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themeraldee · 24 days ago

Text

The Lucky Winner - Part 4

[Masterlist] | [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 6.8k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Insecurity. Jealousy. Implied shower sex. Phone sex. Mild voice kink. Homelander is being a sex pest again. Or just a pest.

Summary: Homelander insists on taking your relationship to the next level.

Author’s Note: I don't know why I decided that Part 4 is when I should include somewhat of a plot but it happened so the voice kink fic continues😂 Major shoutout to @anotherhomelanderblog for all the editing help and keeping me sane throughout the process 💗

“And you live like this?” Homelander asks incredulously, drying himself off. He hands you the damp towel and you promptly hang it up to dry, wrapped in a fluffy towel yourself.

“Most people live like this! Also most people are smart enough to not waste all their hot water on making out,” you say with a laugh and a playful eye roll.

“Ohoho, that was a lot more than making out.” Homelander’s brazenly parading around naked and you can’t help but follow the line of his slender body. It always feels special to see him without the suit. Although he still clearly prefers to keep it on, he’s not feeling particularly worried about swapping his superhero suit for the birthday one around you.

“Well still—it’s no wonder we ran out.”

Your lazy morning rolling around in bed quickly turned into messing around under the spray of the hot shower water. And while Homelander’s right and it was more than making out, you didn’t get to experience more than a few thrusts before the water turned cold, rudely interrupting you both.

Homelander has never been one for giving up. He held you in place, keeping you nice and warm as he thrusted into you. All the way to the finish line. Needless to say, the morning couldn’t have started better.

It could have been warmer though.

He finally finds his underwear somewhere in between the pile of his thick suit. You mentally wince at him reusing the same underwear he had on before he slept over last night. He may neither exert himself nor sweat, but it still catches you off guard. Many times you’ve offered him the space to store his spare clothes, but he denies the offer every time, saying it’s just as easy for him to fly back.

This behaviour is equally as perplexing as him never changing into something you’d deem more comfortable. It’s always been the full suit or fully naked. You don’t think there has ever been a third option. The cartoonish nature of his persona comes through vividly in moments like these. While you haven’t rummaged through his portion of the wardrobe back in his place, you wouldn’t be surprised to see multiple versions of the same superhero suit.

And yet, along with the rehearsed lines he can’t always help but avoid, this makes him seem larger than life. Unfamiliar. Untouchable. Unattainable.

Thoughts like these frequent your mind each time you see yet another headline speculating about his love life come across your newsfeed. Whenever someone mentions the dreaded topic out loud, your gut clenches, your heart drops and you get shaken by the idea that you’ve somehow stolen America's golden boy.

Homelander, on the other hand, has been nothing but eager to celebrate your relationship. You haven’t shared your concerns with him yet. You don’t think he would quite understand your worry about stealing him from his devoted fans. He’s been constantly coaxing you into uprooting your life and moving in with him, officially being with him. His little nudges like today are just the tip of the iceberg.

The idea of being offered to the media vultures as their new chew toy fills you with dread just thinking about it.

You turn away from watching Homelander redress. You unwrap the towel you’ve tucked in around your chest, bunching it up in your hands and bending over to wipe leftover water droplets off your legs.

You don’t get very far before you hear a whistle. “Don't you look good enough to eat? Well, again.”

You automatically straighten up, covering what you can with your towel. Pointless, really. Homelander can easily see through whatever he wishes. Still one of his stranger powers, if you do say so yourself. You can never quite tell whether he’s staring at your tits or your heart—both options feeling equally voyeuristic.

You shake your head at his silly flirting. While he can be obnoxious and overly cheesy, there’s something to be said about being so blatantly flirted with. Knowing you’re desired so… carnally—as cliche as that feels to say in your head—feels reaffirming. Confidence boosting, even.

This alone allows you to think that maybe having a public relationship wouldn’t change anything between the two of you.

You hear the familiar creak of leather as he puts his gloves on, stretching his fingers and squeezing his fists to get them comfortable.

“In fact, if you moved in with me—like I keep telling you to—we wouldn’t be having this problem at all.”

Or not. The slightly pushy tone brings the recurring anxiety back up.

During the storm of your internal thoughts, you dig out a fresh pair of underwear. You’ve gotten into the habit of actively wearing the pretty pieces Homelander can’t seem to stop himself from sending to your home address—amongst the other obscenely expensive gifts. Ever since you’ve once dressed up for him, he made it his mission to dress you in lingerie of all the colours of the rainbow and more. Feigning scientific interest in seeing what colour matches your skin tone the best—though he still favours the Homelander panties that started it all.

However, knowing how perverse he can be with his penetrative vision, helps with not feeling underdressed at any given time.

Homelander takes no note of your internal struggle, instead focusing on his fantasy of what life is meant to look like for the two of you while you start getting dressed.

“Then I could fuck you in the shower for as many hours as my lady wishes, hm?” He gives you a cheeky smile as he passes by, walking out of the bedroom and into the living room.

You laugh heartily at his comment while you pick out your clothes. Normally, you’d keep it cosy and comfortable enough. At least, before Homelander. Now you pick something a little more put together, knowing you’ll be stopping by the Vought tower as part of his plan for the day.

“Hours seems a bit much. I don’t know if looking like a wet prune is a good look on me.” While you put your clothes on, you look up to see what he’s up to through the open bedroom door. While any other person would entertain themselves by turning the TV on or scrolling on their phone, Homelander just walks around. As if he hasn’t seen this space a thousand times over.

At your response, he turns to you. A bewildered look crosses his face before he lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Funny.” He readjusts a photo on the wall, making sure it’s perfectly straight. It’s a selfie you took of the two of you on the couch. Not the best quality, but Homelander insisted you make it the centerpiece of the photo wall. “Don’t know about the prune part but wet is easily the best look on you.” He waggles his eyebrows at you.

“It’s a little silly of you to think otherwise, don’t you think? I know you’re smarter than that.” While some might get easily offended at his words, you’re used to his crass words.

You watch as he points his gloved finger at you while he steps further backwards.

Finally dressed, you come out of the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door. Homelander walks to the kitchen with you following.

“I just thought you liked it here.” You lean against the small breakfast bar as you watch him open the fridge and take out the jug of whole milk you keep stocked at all times for his sake only.

He doesn’t bother pouring it out into a glass and neither does he close the fridge while he takes a big gulp, closing his eyes in the moment. Putting the jug down, he licks his lips clean as he opens his eyes. It’s bizarre how strangely erotic he manages to make the whole ritual seem.

“I do,” he says once his eyes are less glazed over and focused back on you. Properly snapping to attention, he acts offended. “Of course I do.” As if you suggested something so horrifying it insulted his very being. “But it would make things a lot easier.”

He takes another indulgent big gulp before closing the jug and putting it back in the fridge, shutting the door with a nudge of his elbow as he walks past.

He makes his way around while you’re still leaning against the breakfast bar. His lips trace the shell of your ear as he settles himself riiight behind you. “Imagine all the fun we’d have, huh?” He tilts his head to place a little kiss on your cheek, very close to your ear.

The timbre of his voice vibrating through your ear just warms you to your core. He still knows how to disarm you so thoroughly. If anything, he happily abuses this little quirk of yours.

“We wouldn’t have to settle for a fucking quickie in the morning.” His arms settle on your hips as he, excruciatingly slowly, drags his hips against your ass. “You know, I very much enjoy a good old breakfast in bed. What do you say? As soon as you move in, I’ll be waking you up with my tongue between your thighs. Now try saying no to that.”

“Nice try. You’ve done that here before.” You try to remain calm and collected but your voice betrays you, coming out in a stutter. While his voice—the sexy, slow tone he abuses anytime he wants to get his way—along with the visuals, is already wetting your fresh panties through and through.

“Hm, but there I wouldn’t have to think about flying back just to make it to a stupid meeting. I’d get plenty more time with you. Think about it. Every break in my schedule I could come back for a kiss and a cuddle. Maybe a little romp with my best girl.”

“Oh so suddenly we’re happy with quickies?” You chuckle breathlessly.

“Well y’know, I’m a busy guy. Gotta work with what I’ve got.”

“Speaking of—shouldn’t you be heading out? You’ve got a busy schedule ahead of you.”

“Alright, okay. I got the message. Think about it though, babe, will you?” Homelander finally allows you to gather yourself as he steps back, not so discreetly adjusting his dick after all that teasing. You constantly wonder where he gets this sky-high sex drive from.

“Sure. I’ll think about it.” You take the moment to walk around the breakfast bar, reaching for a coffee pod to pop into your machine for a quick pick-me-up. With a twist of your wrist you notice the time. “Oh, you should head out now if you don’t want to be late.”

He slots behind you again, unable to stay away for even a moment. “Let me take you with me?” His arms wrap around your stomach, squeezing softly as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you in between little kisses.

The coffee machine finishes whirring, and with the smell of fresh coffee it breaks you out of the daze.

“Mhmm, then you’ll definitely be late. And I want my coffee. And some breakfast. You go have your meeting, I’ll be there in time for your interview.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Kiss goodbye?” You ask for it before he does. Immediately, he turns you around in his arms, trapping you in his hold so he can deliver what he deems an acceptable goodbye kiss. It’s long and deep and were you in public you’d be blushing to the tips of your ears. So much for the little goodbye peck you imagined.

Once Homelander leaves, you take the time to have a quick breakfast before preparing your overnight bag. While Homelander can’t take you to the set of the talk show he’s getting interviewed about his new movie at, he insists you come to his place to watch it live. Afterwards, he’ll be eager to fly back home to spend more time with you, listening to everything you’ve got to say about his appearance.

Entering the Vought tower always leaves you with a level of anxiety in your gut. This isn’t your territory, you don’t feel safe here. Each camera feels like the watchful eye of every stakeholder, observing you walk around freely as if you’ve not been greedily devaluing their best asset.

You feel like the mistress everyone but the wife knows about. The overseeing eye of Vought management is already unhappy with you as is—Homelander said so himself, unaware or uncaring of the effect that information would have on you. It’s why you’ve started dressing better, trying to appear smart and classy. Worthy. Defending your position by his side.

You like to pretend like you belong. But everyone knows you’d be lost without him in tow.

This isn’t your world.

And it never will be.

Arriving at the penthouse allows you to release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. While Homelander’s space is odd at best and downright unliveable at worst, it’s part of you now. With its impersonal portraits of historical figures or perfect marble statues that make you feel self-conscious each time you undress, the decor leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Who is Vought to not ever allow him peace and quiet from this persona they’ve built for him? It really feels like he only gets to be himself when he’s around you. At home with you.

So why he constantly insists on the idea of you moving into this hellscape permanently confuses you to no end. Sure, your home isn’t luxurious by any means. It’s small and cluttered—less so now you’ve gotten rid of some of the Homelander memorabilia—but it’s comforting, warm, and inviting.

You’ve already gone through the effort of adding some warmth and home to this… space. Blankets and throws, pillows and trinkets that made you think of him. Anything that takes away from the sterile museum-like feel of the place.

Today you have brought a little picture frame. It’s the same photo you saw Homelander adjusting just an hour or so earlier. The print isn’t of great quality and neither is the photo, but he seems particularly fond of it, so you’ve gone ahead to frame this one for him too.

Dropping off your bag on the living room couch, you walk over to the bedroom, swapping out an existing impersonal historical portrait of Abraham Lincoln for the silly selfie of the two of you. You fret around with the positioning until it feels right, running your hand over the frame with an absent smile. The photo lets you forget about the madness of your life; it lets you instead think of the love you share with each other. However fragile it may feel at times.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You fumble around, like you’ve been caught doing something vulnerable and intimate.

You swipe without looking at the screen properly, pressing the screen to your ear.

“There she is.”

Something about the way he purrs into the phone melts your anxieties of the day into nothing. While grounding is what you need, his voice goes beyond that. You’re not grounded. Not with him. It feels like you’re flying instead. Lightheaded and full of excited nerves, you can’t escape the heartfelt bright smile lighting up your face.

“Hey baby. Ready for your interview?”

“Am I ever not? You’ll be watching, right?” He knows you will. The question is rhetorical at best.

“Are you kidding? Of course I am.” You chuckle breathlessly into the phone. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You make your way to the couch, sprawling across the leather, your phone still against your ear. Something about this makes you so giddy. Here you are in Homelander’s apartment, sitting on his couch with his voice in your ear. It feels like a fairytale.

It doesn’t feel real.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Ever since Homelander’s discovered your little quirk—which admittedly was clear to him from day one—he’s been more than happy to ramble on and on and on. No matter what it’s about. He likes to have you listen.

“Is she already there?” You change the topic, not wanting to dwell on your inner discomfort for too long.

“Who? My co-star?” he asks with an innocent enough tone.

“Yeah. Her.” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying more.

“Careful there, you’re sounding a liiittle jealous.”

This talk show interview centres around Homelander’s new movie, Homelander: Hero’s Heart. The first one in his range that gave him a tangible love interest. His previous movies focused on action, patriotism and Homelander ultimately being the hero that saves the day. Vought are still on a mission to boost numbers in certain demographics—your demographic—so saving the damsel in distress was the logical next step for them.

It wasn’t too obnoxious. Just one on-screen kiss by the end of the movie. But you can’t shake the enormous pit of insecurity at the bottom of your gut anytime you think about them going through all those scenes together. Just how many takes was it really?

Okay, maybe you are a little jealous.

“I’m not. I’m just curious.”

No. You’re being unreasonable. Throughout all of the shooting Homelander came home to you, seeking solace. Seeking familiar and comforting touch. Complaining to you endlessly about the other actors’ poor skills.

Homelander clocked your jealousy early on. With a cheeky grin he prodded and poked, making you lash out and admit to your unsavoury feelings. The verbal conversation usually ended there. Instead, you got your frustration out physically. Night after night, he fucked you into the mattress, proving just where you stand. Until you couldn’t even stand anymore.

Those nights, he’d sit you in his lap, pushing his thick cock inside you as he held you close. Face to face, chest to chest, he’d grunt and mewl in between kisses. Homelander would revel in your possessiveness of him, getting you to repeat ‘you’re mine’ over and over again. You’d rarely do any of the moving. Homelander liked taking it in his own hands in these moments. He’d wrap his hands around your hips, squeezing where he could reach, bouncing you with deliberate movements down onto his lap.

Logically, you know Homelander wouldn’t cheat on you with a random actress. But it’s hard not to compare yourself to her. She’s another gorgeous face amongst the constant stream of supes, actresses, models or celebrities he has instant access to. And you’re… well, you. The fact that he chose you out of the mix should leave you with some sense of relief, but it doesn’t.

“Mhm, sure you are. As luck would have it, she couldn’t make it. Real shame, huh?” Homelander can be surprisingly sweet sometimes. To his credit, it was never his actions that made you jealous. Your own insecurity latched onto rotten ideas, spreading like mold across your healthy mind.

Homelander plays into your possessiveness of him, more than eager to hear how much you love and want him. Only him.

It makes you wonder if he had something to do with his co-star’s absence.

“You know women are gonna go crazy over you after this. I’m sure they’re all waiting for you to spill some crazy stories about being a romantic on and off set.”

“Are they now? You know, I really don’t fucking care what they want to hear. I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

There's a desperation to his response that catches you off guard. It's impossible to deny him the adoration he wordlessly requests.

“Oh. That’s—Ahah—I care about you too. You know I always love to watch you.”

“Good. Good. I want you to watch. I want you to listen... You’ll do that right? You’ll listen—”

“—to every word. To every single word.” The breathless quality to your tone shocks you.

It makes Homelander moan.

When did you both get so worked up over this?

“Good—fuck. Always such a good girl, aren't you? My biggest fan.”

“Not just a fan.” You huff out. You’re not offended per se, but after seeing what other so-called-fans say about him online or how little love they share with him, it would be an insult to label you as one of them.

“Pfft—of course you're not.” He scoffs in disbelief. Even he doesn’t believe his own words. “You are everything. You're everything to me.”

Your eyes widen. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. The unashamed proclamation said so clearly by the strongest man in the world makes you pulse and clench.

You're not worthy of being his all.

It leaves you speechless. Over the past few weeks your mind has started waging war with your heart. Oddly, today feels like the final battle of which will win.

Your body is nearly shaking. The palm holding your phone feels clammy. You try to get comfortable, but you’d only achieve that by clawing out of your own skin. Something feels different—wrong—about today.

“Helloooo, don't go quiet on me now.” There's a new, dangerous tilt to his already deliciously rumbling voice that makes you soak your underwear.

“Sorry… I just—you’re so—I just… I love you so much.” You trip over your words. Something you’ve said so many times feels oddly loaded.

“D’aww, how cute. That’s better.” With an audible swallow, you slide your hand down your body. Pressing into your flesh through your clothes as you go, trying to pretend it isn't your hand exploring your own body.

You imagine it’s his. Following the route it has done so many times before.

You ache with the need to be touched and filled and worshipped. Your cunt throbs painfully under your layers, soaked and weeping. Even the slight press of your fingers feels electric. Too little and too much at the same time.

You swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue. You scrunch your eyebrows when you roll your hips into your hand, a gasp coming out involuntarily.

“I can hear you. Do it.”

“Y-you can?!”

This brings you back to the first phone call that kick started this whole relationship. Back then, you had some courtesy to not touch yourself to the sound of his voice. You’ve lost all that courtesy by now, but the reveal that he could hear you all along makes you embarrassed for your past self.

You undo the fastening on your bottoms with a shaky hand. Your hand immediately slides under your layers, into your panties, with your fingers already forming a familiar shape. Your eyes roll back when your fingers glide along your inner lips, gathering slick and bumping your clit where your fingers meet. You repeat this motion a few times, thoroughly wetting your pussy, letting your head hit the armrest like a deadweight, your phone still loosely tucked against your ear.

“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. Might have to move into the bathtub before you flood my couch, you know.”

“Not like you actually care.” You huff out half a laugh, barely coherent with your slurred speech.

“No you’re right, I don’t. Now spread your legs for me, gorgeous, I want you to put your fingers in.”

You nod as if he could see you—though for all you know, maybe he can.

You push your bottoms down far enough that they won’t be in the way. Adjusting yourself on the couch, you curl your fingertips inside yourself with a little wiggle, letting out a sigh. Like this, you’re definitely gonna make the couch wet.

“Feel good?” While he purrs low, you hear the sharp grin in his tone.

You hum softly as you focus on moving your fingers in and out. “Not as good as when you do it. Actually, hah, it doesn’t compare at all.” You’re not even trying to butter up his ego before his live appearance. He’s just that good to you.

“That’s the sp—fuck—spirit.”

Having been with your lover many times, the familiarity of that stifled whimper leaves you gasping. You don’t need super hearing to know that Homelander’s wrapped his own hand around his cock. You’ve come to memorise and categorise all the pretty little sounds he makes.

You don’t even remember hearing him unclasp his belt, too lost in your own pleasure.

“Are you…?”

Through the phone comes a clipped exhale. “—Yes.” The rough, rhythmic stroking now becomes audible to even your human ears. Your cheeks feel hot. The sensation climbs up all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Oh. That’s really sexy.” You whimper, melting into the sofa as you spread your legs as far as the garment you pushed down allows. “Aren’t—aren’t you worried about someone walking in?” You alternate between rubbing your clit and fingering yourself as a way to make your body tingle all over.

The response you get is a barely restrained moan straight in your ear. His voice trails off into a sweet rumbly groan that has your fingers rubbing faster.

“Don’t care. You make me feel fucking crazy.”

How is it that you have such an effect on him? From morning till night, he never seems to have enough. Before Homelander you were racking up two—three at most, really—self-love sessions a week. These days you’re lucky if you only end up with two a day. The resolve in his proclamation brings back some of the confidence today has been slowly chipping away at.

Plus, his absurd words make you snicker.

“I make you feel crazy?” Your voice is all breathy. With each moan in your ear, your own touch feels electric. Your fingers stick to rubbing your clit: circles that started slow, teasing and loose are now tight and fast, nearing on too strong a stimulation.

“Uh-huh.” He’s barely responding at this point, but you don’t mind.

“Mhm, really? You’re so good to me, you know that?” Knowing Homelander is there in his guest dressing room of the host’s set, fisting his sensitive cock raw because of you, makes your head spin. The gratification that fills you with is intoxicating. Drunk on the power you have in your hands, you change up the pace, rubbing your clit more languidly, taking your time to instead sweet talk your boyfriend into blowing his load into his underwear right before his interview.

“They don't deserve you.”

“You do so much for the world.”

“They never appreciate how much of an honour it is to have you serve them.”

“You’re so perfect.”

The combination of Homelander’s signature stuttered groan and the rustling of fabrics tells you your words are all it’s taken for him to finish.

“Wow, what a show, superstar on and off the stage,” you tease him a little. You hear the familiar click of a belt come through the phone.

“Smartass. Speaking of, I gotta be on set in a few. But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I left you hanging like that. Need to hear my best girl cum her brains out on the other side.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got to go live in a few.”

“Then you better hurry up.” He laughs airily. The orgasmic high makes him exude even more of this strange energy. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you going pretty crazy over there. Doubt it’s gonna take you long anyway. Never does when I’m talking to you, hm?”

“Oh my god.” You exhale, your hand back at full speed. You dig your feet into the couch, pushing against it as you stroke your clit faster, your hips meeting your hand firmly, accelerating your climb to ecstasy.

“Mhm, that’s right. That what I am to you, honey? Your god?”

“Y-yes… yes, you are.” Your lips are shut tight when you’re not talking, breathing heavily through your nose as you feel the warmth spread throughout your body. From your core, to your chest, to your limbs. You start to feel the tips of your toes tingle with the electric sensation.

Somehow, he always manages to make your body feel sensitive all over. Even indirectly.

“Gonna listen to me live like it’s gospel, aren’t you? Listen to eeevery word I say. Wouldn’t be surprised if you used to constantly fuck your brains out while watching me. What’s that, got nothing to say?”

You really have nothing to say. While he clearly knows it, it's embarrassing to admit to something you may have occasionally indulged in before he became a tangible part of your life.

It doesn’t stop you from whimpering as you feel the tethers loosen.

“Come on baby, time’s ticking. You better come for me now—”

You hear barely audible knocking at his door. The line picks up a foreign muted tone, but you’re not really processing it. Your orgasm takes over and you stutter out a choked gasp, heels pushing into the couch before they fully relax into the leather, the tingling waves of your orgasm spreading to all your limbs.

“Mhm, I’ll be a minute.” His voice sounds further away, like he’s covered the phone and moved it away from his ear while he talks back.

In retrospect, the shame of orgasming on the phone to him while he’s talking to someone else should’ve stopped you from getting there, but it’s him you’re talking about. It’s hard to restrain yourself.

“See, I knew you could do it. Now go put yourself together, missy. I want you to pay attention.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I will… Just—hah—gotta catch my breath a little bit. I will, I’m excited to see you.”

“Good girl. I love you, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.” You smile fondly.

Homelander ends the phone call and you take a moment to gather yourself. You breathe in deeply. The first big exhale lets you release some of the muscle tension you’ve gained as you hurriedly brought yourself to orgasm.

As you pull your now uncomfortably soaked underwear and bottoms back on, the next inhale brings the tension back in a different way.

All your nagging thoughts return like a flood, crashing through you. Your gut churns, the anxious feeling of it all souring your post-orgasmic high. Is there even more you bring to this “relationship” besides sex?

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you get up off the couch to clean up and make yourself presentable in the bathroom. While nobody is here to see you, you feel dirty sitting in your wet and cooled underwear. You swap it for a fresh pair from your overnight bag, tossing the old ones in the laundry hamper.

Sitting comfortably on the couch in your den of pillows and blankets is a familiar enough routine. Due to your secretive relationship status, Homelander can’t take you with him. You watch from the safety of yours or his home, watching your favourite hero live on TV.

You click the remote to the channel Homelander’s talk show appearance will be broadcasted on and wait until the time they’re live with some pointless scrolling on your phone. You can’t help but gravitate towards the Homelander-centric gossip pages, Instagram fan accounts or Reddit forums. Each time relieved that there’s still no information on you. Nobody is none the wiser.

The TV speakers burst with the audience’s roar of applause, tearing your eyes up and away from your phone. You smile at the support he gets. Though it turns ugly and cracks very quickly. Some possessive part of you wishes you were there backstage cheering him on as he walks on set in front of all these people.

Homelander oozes confidence with every sure step. This is his element. Big bright smiles and a quick broad wave to the audience you don’t see. He looks handsome. Hair parted slightly, loose and charming, just like his smile. He’s calm and collected. Definitely not like someone who was just getting his rocks off a few minutes ago.

He brings the smile back all the way to your eyes. All sour thoughts dissipate when you see him like this. It’s not fair to feel awful when it’s time for him to have his moment. You know better than that.

While there’s hardly a need for it, he’s introduced to the audience.

“Homelander, welcome, thank you for joining us.”

“Always good to be here, thank you for having me.”

Homelander’s seated and the interview begins. So unlike any of the other usual guests he takes up the majority of the space with his larger-than-life quality. So much more suited for something better than this.

“I’m sure all the ladies are very excited for the movie’s opening weekend.”

“Great start.” You roll your eyes as the audience cheers and whistles again. Nothing like objectifying him the moment he walks into the room.

“It’s what I’m—well, what we’re all hoping for, it’s a wild ride. I can promise you that much.” While your lover is a little snarkier behind the scenes, he’s a class act in front of the cameras. You’re always proud to see him do so well.

“Well that’s a glowing review if I’ve ever heard one! We all enjoy a love story. Let’s not be modest here, you’ve been voted The superhero heartthrob. It’s no wonder this movie is already pulling record sales at the box office.” The interviewer speaks into the side of her palm, acting secretive as if each word wasn’t clearly picked up by the lav mic.

“Oh stop it, that silly thing.” He brushes the compliment off, shrugging his shoulders boyishly.

“No seriously, I think this is exactly what the audience wanted. We all love a superhero flick, don’t we, folks? But the little touch of spice and romance? Instant crowd pleaser. Tickets are selling like hotcakes!”

“Insipid cow.” You can’t help yourself but comment on the over the top vapid glazing happening right before your eyes. Muttering obscenities to yourself you miss Homelander’s response and only vaguely take in the following mindless chatter in its entirety.

They treat him like a circus animal.

“Who’s your favourite cast member to do scenes with?”

“What is it like to juggle acting with protecting the city?”

“What’s your guilty pleasure when you’re off duty?”

One mundane—pointless—question after another makes you wonder how he puts up with the pomp and phoniness of it all. You know you couldn’t. You even imagine yourself sitting next to him. You see the difference. You see how differently the world would see you.

As soon as you started thinking of the labels the world would describe you with, you couldn’t help yourself but compare the two. Him; popular, handsome, loveable, patriotic. A true ray of sunshine. You on the other hand? You already envision the headlines. Nobody. Golddigger. Leech. Attention seeker. Maybe even a thief?

You’ve stolen America’s perfect poster boy and the penalty for said crime is the heaviest guilty conscience.

There he is talking about his latest save of the week. His movie premiere and his day to day crime fighting activities. You can’t help but compare yourself to the woman interviewing him. She looks well presented, put together, classy. You never feel that way. Do thieves and criminals even get to feel classy?

It’s clear to you now that you don’t belong. It’s clear to everyone. Is it not? He must see it too. It’s only a matter of time until he realises that he’s trying to force you into a mold you were simply not born to fit into.

You often wonder how long until Homelander decides to move on.

The next line of questioning that catches you out of your doom spiral.

“Let’s circle back to the start. It’s a shame your co-star couldn’t make it today. What was it like to work with her as your love interest?”

Your ears perk up. Until now Homelander has never squashed the rumours of their supposed fling. You’re not entirely sure if it was due to Vought’s ruling or his own sick enjoyment derived from your jealousy.

“Oh well, she’s lovely. Things were kept very professional. She’s a very talented young woman, it was a pleasure to work alongside her. She got on well with everyone on the team, a real star. The main cast is usually made up of our superhero line-up, so she exceeded my expectations. Especially since I was a little wary myself of the change.”

You can’t sit still, fidgeting in your spot, you run your tongue in between your teeth when you’re not nervously biting the inside of your cheek.

“Sooo all the rumours we’ve heard about a little behind the scenes romance are not true?”

“No. Definitely not. Sorry. We all got on very well, but not that well if you catch my drift.” The mic catches the sound of the audience’s synchronized ‘ooh’ and you clench your fists.

He’s yours. You hate how they all think of him.

“Well you can’t blame the rumours. People are eager to see their favourite hero in love. It’s the first time Vought has released a love interest-themed movie. Why the change?”

“Well you tend to see us saving your homes and neighbourhoods. I think Vought wanted to show everyone that at the end of the day we go home and hang up the capes. We’re people too.”

You remember the evening he was whining to you about his premiere talking points. This one sounds awfully familiar.

“Do you? Hang up the cape?” The interviewer has a twinkle in her eyes like she hasn’t before. She clearly thinks that she’s getting the scoop of the year.

“Sometimes, when the time’s right. The city’s protection comes as the utmost priority but I have some downtime.”

He does.

With you.

Something that’s always felt exhilarating about this was the secrecy to it all. Knowing Homelander comes home to you. You’re the one you know he’s making hints to. You’re the one who’s going to praise him for a job well done once he’s back.

That has always felt good. Right?

So when did this excitement turn to dread?

“Could you share what you do in your spare time?”

“Well then you’d know where to look for me. Some things are better kept quiet.”

“Ooh a secret! Don’t we love a mysterious man, ladies?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, shut up already.” You groan hitting the couch cushion with the back of your head in frustration. This crowd flirting is getting old real fast.

“You make it sound a whole lot more exciting than it is. I just like to find my peace.”

“That begs the next question. It’s been a few years since your last relationship. So after this movie everyone’s asking, are you looking to find your peace with a certain lucky someone? And what can the ladies do to get your attention?”

You straighten up from your lazy lounging. Feet on the ground with your elbows on your knees you intertwine your fingers and lean forward. You don’t remember him preparing for this conversation.

“First of all I’d like to say thank you to all the lovely ladies who have reached out to me or those who have written me a very sweet letter—I have read them all, don’t worry.” Homelander sends the camera a cheeky wink. Even in your tension you can’t help but chuckle at the blatant lie.

“But unfortunately for them, I am already in love. There’s a scoop for you.” He tilts his head towards the interviewer with a knowing smirk. There’s a mix of ‘ooh’ and gasps in the audience followed by applause.

Your eyes widen, jaw dropping and you barely get a gasp out. What the fuck is going on?

“Oh? Well isn’t that exciting! Who’s the lucky lady?” Scoop indeed. The interviewer is grinning ear to ear, knowing her live viewership is skyrocketing. Like it’s all a game. Like this isn’t your fucking life.

“I can’t say yet. But I know deep in my heart that she’s the one.”

“The one! Well well ladies, it’s time to pack your bags. Sounds like we’ll be seeing a massive rise in the sales of the vanilla Homelander-approved ice cream to soothe all the heartbreak you’ve just caused.”

You can’t focus on anything they’re saying. Your heart is racing. The panic is quickly trying to take over. But you take a deep breath. Maybe he’s messing around. Maybe it’s some Vought initiative. Maybe it’s another fake PR relationship he hasn’t told you about? However much that would hurt.

“So tell us everything you can. How long have you known each other? How did you meet?”

“We met a little under a year ago. One crazy encounter sprinkled with pure luck brought us together. But some details I will keep for myself. We’ve been keeping out of the public eye. My sweet love bunny is a little camera shy. And I get it, I’m a famous guy. Our love wouldn’t have had the privacy and time to bloom if we were public from the get go.”

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

“I think I just heard the entire country go ‘aww’. How romantic! Will you be coming public now?”

“Yes. It’s about time I shared her with the world. I’ve been selfishly keeping her to myself. But I really can’t wait for you all to meet her.”

Homelander winks at the camera and you know damn well it’s not meant for the audience.

“Fuck.”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new Homelander fic)

@ker0senebunny @itsvaleriesucka @thychuvaluswife

@nervoussystemss @littlegaaby @natliecole @sing1art

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade

@nommingonfood @jokesonyoupup @chaimshelii @gingeraleluke

#ITS DONE AND ITS HERE!#AHHHHHHH #i've been writing this for so long holy shit #when i first planned my first fic phone sex was always something i wanted to cover but it didn't fit in the first 3 sooooo a part 4 was bor #but then im like wow NOW is the time to inject plot into this. obviously #I think i have 2 more parts to go? maybe 3?#but who knows if i focus on this or my other 1 billion projects #ANYHOO i hope you like 💗#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander smut #homelander fanfiction #my writing #the boys fanfiction

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heartsiebyul · 2 months ago

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wait im back and have an actual request of my own lolls, can i geeettt

Twst characters with an s/o who likes to have things in their mouth, not in a sexual way but just to keep them occupied and "neutral" i guess... for example (🤓☝️) s/o having some chewable necklaces, pencils with alot of bite marks, and even if their dating Character they ask if they can chew on their fingers (I would also specially like Kalim but any other characters are up to you!) heh thats it :3 ☀️

Twisted Wonderland characters when their lover always needs to chew on something to stay calm and occupied.

(Featuring: Kalim, Ruggie, Jade, Ace, and Silver)

Kalim Al-Asim

“Huh? You wanna chew on my fingers?” Kalim asks, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and excitement. “That’s so funny—okay!”

He’s super into it. Not in a fetish way—he just loves that you’re being vulnerable and honest with him.

Starts ordering cute chewable jewelry for you in your favorite colors. “(name), I found this one shaped like a little sun! Isn’t it perfect for you?”

If you're sitting next to him, he’ll absentmindedly offer his hand. “Need something?” he whispers with a grin.

His fingers are always warm and soft because he wears so much jewelry. Sometimes he wiggles them just to make you laugh while they’re in your mouth.

Ruggie Bucchi

“Wait… you chew stuff? Like, on purpose?”

At first, Ruggie thinks it’s a nervous habit, but once he realizes it calms you, he kinda shrugs. “Eh, whatever works.”

He starts keeping spare straws, pencil toppers, or even gums in his bag for you. “Don’t be chewing up your expensive pens, (name). Chew this instead.”

If you ask to chew on his fingers, he goes bright red. “Wha—?! I mean… sure, I guess?? Just don’t bite me, jeez.”

Lowkey finds it endearing and starts offering his hand when he notices you getting antsy. “You want the usual? Go ahead. Just be gentle.”

Jade Leech

Jade’s eyes twinkle with that signature mischief. “How fascinating… So oral fixation helps you stay neutral?”

He’s more than happy to indulge you, but he’s going to analyze it like a biologist with a new creature.

“I suppose this gives ‘finger food’ a new meaning,” he teases, slipping his glove off slowly.

He experiments with giving you different textures to chew on, coral-inspired chew toys, smooth sea glass necklaces, even salted licorice from the Coral Sea.

If you get shy about the habit, he tilts your chin and says, “There’s nothing strange about it, (name). I rather enjoy being part of your comfort.”

Ace Trappola

“Hold on. You’re telling me… you asked to chew on my fingers?”

Cue blushing, flustered Ace short-circuiting. “That’s so weird. You’re weird. I like you anyway, though.”

Once he gets over the shock, he actually finds it funny and adorable. “Alright, come here, weirdo. Which one do you want today—pointer or pinkie?”

Starts leaving chewed-up pencil stubs in your bag just to mess with you. “Figured you’d need a fresh one.”

If you’re anxious or unfocused, he’ll just casually stick a lollipop in your mouth. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”

Silver

You: “Can I chew on your fingers for a bit?”

Silver: blinks slowly “…Sure.”

Doesn’t even question it. He accepts your habits like they’re part of your breathing pattern.

He has that soft, calm energy that makes it easy for you to relax. His hands are strong and clean, and he just lets you do your thing while he reads or rests.

Once he falls asleep, his hand might still be in your lap—and if you quietly start chewing again, he doesn’t even stir.

Later, “I had a dream you were chewing on my hand… Oh, it wasn’t a dream?” gentle chuckle

I hope I did good with this request 😭

#twst fluff #twst #twst disney #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland x male reader #twisted wonderland #headcanon #male reader #ace trappola #gn reader #twisted wonderland x reader #kalim al asim #ruggie bucchi #jade leech #silver twst

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blckbrrybasket · 9 months ago

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23. “Show and I’ll Learn”

Robin Buckley x Fem!Reader

꒰Sex Toys꒱ - 1.1k

• sharing sex toys, first use of a vibrator, friends to lovers

kinktober m.list

“Have you ever used sex toys?”

The question made your eyes widen, not expecting that at all. It was out of nowhere, like most of Robin’s questions were. “Uh no, not really. Have you?” Chewing her bottom lip, Robin responded carefully, “Mhm. I have one.” Unbeknownst to you the reason she asked the question was because she had gone to a sex shop recently.

“Really?” You never thought Robin was a prude, but it was still a bit shocking. Not many people around here openly spoke about sex toys. That didn’t mean you were turned off from the conversation, looking at Robin with a curious smile. “Want to see it?” Of course you said yes, why wouldn't you?

She hopped off her bed, opening her bedside table, pulling out the device. It looked like a cloudy purple dildo with a rabbit that split off from the side of it. A cord was attached at the bottom, leading to a remote with a slider to determine the mode and speed.

Robin’s fingers were curled around the bottom, turning it over for you to curiously inspect it. “And what does this part do?” You pointed to the two little ‘ears’ of the rabbit finger angling down as you looked at the rabbit part. She tilted her head to look at what you pointed to. “It’s for your clit.” “Huh.” you commented, having a hard time imagining how it worked.

Your confused expression was easy to pick up on. “Do you want to try it?” You looked up at Robin curiously, “Is that okay?” She smiled brightly at your question, happy to share. “Yeah!” She held onto it while she disappeared into the bathroom to wash it for safe measure. While waiting you picked at your nails, imagining what would happen.

Would Robin touch you too? You hoped so. Before you knew it, Robin had reentered her bedroom, locking the door for extra measure even though nobody was home. “Okay first things first, I use some lube to help.” You watched her dig in her dresser, tossing underwear from her drawer to find it. You knew what lube was, but you were unsure why you needed it for the toy.

“Aha!” Robin exclaimed triumphantly, holding the bottle up. “Why don’t you just use it when you’re wet?” You shuffled your shorts off, underwear following them as you asked her. “It makes it easier since it’s different from a real dick.” Fair enough. Robin sat back on the bed, “Come here.”

Following her instructions, you sit in her lap and between her legs. “Next I usually touch myself for a bit.” You looked down, fingers hesitating. She was way closer than before, pressed against you with her chin on your shoulder. Saying fuck you to the nerves, you reach down and press your fingers to your clit.

Robin watched you play with yourself, fingers moving up and down back and forth. Her nose slid across the top of your shoulder, watching you closely. She was entranced by you, snapping out of it when you whined. “That...that should be good.” She reached around, holding the toy.

She was so focused she didn’t realize she could ask if you wanted to control it. Yet she didn’t want you to. She wanted to control, the same way you wanted her to have the power.

The tip of it slid down through your warm folds, spinning it to coat it with your wetness. Her other hand brought the lube to it as she held the toy up again. You couldn’t look away as she poured the liquid on it, watching as it rolled down. Robin placed the bottle beside her, smearing the lube around to cover the rabbit.

“It may be a bit of a stretch,” she warned, lining it up to your entrance. Getting the gist, you slid your body down an inch or so, opening your legs to bend them over on either side of hers. Robin drew the tip up and around your clit, sliding it back down. The material was cool from the lube, making you shiver when Robin gently thrust it in.

“Sorry,” she mumbles against your shoulder when you shiver. Robin settled it properly, your clit pressed against the rabbit. “And then you turn it on…ready?” Once you muttered a soft yeah, Robin grabbed the remote, making sure not to tug on the cord. She slowly moved the dial up to turn the speed on low, your lips parting. “O..oh!” you gasped, hips jolting.

Not wanting you to accidentally run away from the feeling, Robin held your hips down with an arm across them. The dildo inside moved in a circle, swirling inside you. It was impossible to keep your head up, letting it fall back as you became accustomed to the feeling, sticky arousal sliding down the toy. “Oh shit, robin..” She smiled and nodded, “I know.”

Your arms moved to the side as you held onto the sheets “I want more,” you panted. Listening, Robin turned it up as you moaned, thighs clamping around it. She laughed, knowing she had the same reaction the first time she used it. Her hand left your hips to pry your thighs open, the rabbit vibrating over your clit.

She bit her lip as your hips bucked, trying to meet the vibrations deeper, crying out when it flicked over your clit. “Oh my god!” You mewled, Robin shifting to keep your writhing legs open. She settled your back to her chest, body leaning forward to meet your arching back, her arms hooked under your legs.

The toy continued moving, sliding around the walls of your needy pussy. You had previously thought the vibrations would numb your cunt, but it did the opposite, all of your nerves feeling like they were sparked like fireworks. “Shit robin I’m-” “I know, come on. Come for me,” she whispered in your ear, your pussy clenching at her words.

At her insistence, your walls constricted as you came, eyes rolling back. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” you moaned, unable to stop your reaction. Robin let go of your thighs, letting you shut them instinctively as she reached under to grab the remote and stop the toy.

You panted, shaky hands leaving her bed to push your messy hair back. “Holy shit,” you breathed, chuckling. “I love the future.” Robin snorted at your words, coaxing your legs open to pull it out of you. She pecked your cheek, “If you ever want to use it let me know” “I will,” you answered almost immediately, giggling as you curled into her lap, completely relaxed after your orgasm.

tags: @babybatlover, @starrgurl46, @wowzers-07, @nenukkjhj, @morgan0lw21, @kinokomoonshine, @slut4ddn, @marirxse, @chx-rrryc0la, @adventures-of-impala, @shesadilema13, @dreamerjj

#robin buckley #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley x you #robin buckley x female reader #robin buckley smut #robin buckley fanfic #robin buckley stranger things #robin buckley oneshot #kinktober 2024 #kinktober

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chlerc · 2 months ago

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the art of noticing ; charles leclerc

pairing charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

every passing conversations, every casual interaction, you might think he never really remembered it. but as they say, to be loved is to be seen. he sees every part of you when you think he doesn’t.

word count 6648.

content 6 times charles showed you that love doesn’t always shout. sometimes, it can just whisper “I’m thinking about you” “you mentioned it before” + some insta stories snippets into their life!

author’s note if you can’t already tell, i think i’m the biggest acts of service person ever. this might be my favourite piece i’ve ever written

song recs for this fic you are in love

— I.

It was the sort of detail that would have escaped most — a minor oversight, inconsequential to anyone else, invisible even to the well-meaning. But not to Charles. Never to Charles.

The evening sun had just begun its slow descent behind the low rooftops, casting a gilded glow over the terrace of the little café they often frequented. Their table was nestled beneath a canopy of rustling ivy, where laughter mingled with the clink of cutlery and the amber hum of street lamps flickering to life. Glasses glistened with condensation, cradled in idle hands, catching light with the easy sparkle of summer. Their friends, an ensemble of familiar voices, were already settled, drinks ordered in advance, good-natured teasing passed across the table like bread.

Charles arrived a touch later, having been caught in traffic on his way from a sponsor meeting. He approached the table just in time to see her lean forward with a soft laugh, lifting her glass — a tall one, rim beaded with droplets and garnished with a curl of citrus, and drink. But not with a straw. And in that single, fleeting moment, something in him paused.

It was such a small thing. A negligible detail. But she always drank with a straw. Not out of necessity, but fondness, an affection for the sensation. The soft draw of liquid through narrow plastic, the idle way she would chew the end as she listened intently or toyed with it while thinking. He remembered the way she used to tuck the straw between her fingers, twirl it absentmindedly, press her lips to it as though the world might slow down just a touch if she did.

Once, he’d asked her why, half-mocking, wholly curious, and she had simply smiled, that lopsided, sunlit sort of smile that softened every part of her face. “Feels nicer,” she’d said with a quiet shrug. “I know it’s silly. I just like it. It makes things feel a little gentler.”

And she’d laughed, then, nibbling at the bendy part of the straw with a grin like moonlight skipping over still water. A laugh that, even now, echoed somewhere in his chest like an afterthought he never quite let go.

So when he saw her now, sipping directly from the glass, without complaint, without hesitation — something curled within him, quietly and insistently. She hadn’t asked. She never would. She adapted so easily it almost hurt. He saw it in the way she tucked discomfort away like loose threads, how she made do with what was in front of her, never demanding more, never even flinching when something was missing.

Even now, surrounded by friends and the gentle cadence of conversation, she said nothing and merely smiled, her fingers cradling the glass as though it had always been enough. But he knew better. He knew her.

So, without a word, Charles rose from his chair, offering a murmured excuse that went largely unnoticed, something about needing the loo, said softly enough to drift into the night air. No one questioned it. He walked briskly through the open terrace doors and into the softly lit interior of the café, his eyes scanning behind the bar until he spotted them, a small glass jar of plastic straws, almost forgotten, nestled beside the napkins.

He reached for one, black, slim, bendable and turned it between his fingers once, thoughtfully. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And perhaps that was what mattered. When he returned to the table, no one looked up, still mid-conversation, caught in the gentle swell of evening mirth. She sat with her chin tilted slightly towards the sky, her eyes gleaming as she listened to one of the others recount something foolish and likely exaggerated. The curl of her hair framed her cheeks, touched by the honeyed light of dusk, and her drink, still half-full, rested at her elbow, untouched since that first sip.

He did not speak. He didn’t need to. With the same quiet deliberation with which one might place a cherished relic on an altar, Charles leaned forward and gently slipped the straw into her glass. It slid between ice cubes with a soft clink, the citrus bobbing in its wake, and then he eased back into his seat with the poise of someone for whom this was entirely ordinary. She looked down and then, slowly, up.

Her smile, when it came, was not performative. It was not polite or surprising or reflexive. It bloomed. Her eyes crinkled into crescents, luminous with unspoken gratitude, and for a heartbeat, she simply stared at him as if committing the moment to memory, as though something in her had softened. The kind of smile that made everything else, the noise, the laughter, the summer breeze, fall away, leaving only the space between them, tender and charged with something wordless.

Her fingers curled instinctively around the straw, lifting it to her lips with a soft sip, and immediately, she began to nibble at the edge in that old, familiar way, the way that told him, without a single syllable, I’m at ease now. You saw me.

He offered a light shrug in return, feigning indifference, his expression unreadable save for the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Forgot you’re intolerable without a straw,” he murmured, his voice so dry it might’ve passed for teasing, were it not for the warmth flickering behind his gaze.

She let out a breath of laughter, low and fond, her shoulders lifting slightly in a gesture that betrayed her embarrassment and her joy all at once. “Shut up,” she whispered, not looking away, her eyes still tethered to him as though the rest of the world had blurred into the periphery. And in that moment, in the simplicity of a plastic straw offered without fanfare, Charles knew what most never would: that love, when it is quiet, when it is observant and enduring, often speaks not in grand gestures, but in these infinitesimal acts of memory. Of knowing. Of seeing someone as they are, and responding without request.

He hoped she understood what he could not yet voice, that he remembered every little thing about her, not out of obligation, but out of reverence. That he noticed when something wasn’t right, even if she would never say so. That her comfort mattered more than conversation, more than appearances, more than anything else that moment had to offer.

That this, this one small straw, was not just about a drink. It was about her. Always her.

And she smiled, with that gentle, grateful radiance he knew he’d carry with him far longer than anything else the evening had to give.

The terrace had emptied gradually, chairs scraped back, goodbyes exchanged with the lingering warmth of familiarity. One by one, their friends had peeled away into the night, swallowed by car doors and street corners and the inevitable pull of Monday morning. But Charles, as always, had remained.

They walked in silence now, side by side, their footsteps soft against the pavement slick with the sheen of evening humidity. The city breathed around them — not loud, not intrusive, but alive. Distant music drifted from an open window above a bakery, the faint scent of pastry still clinging to the air. Her arms were folded lightly across her chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her sleeve, while Charles walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait unhurried, deliberate.

They weren’t speaking, and yet nothing felt unsaid. Her thoughts, however, had not left the café. More precisely, they had not left the straw. It had been such a small thing. Insignificant to the world. But to her, it was everything. Because he had noticed. He remembered.

She hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him in any particular way. Hadn’t sighed or hinted or pouted or reached for something she knew wasn’t there. She had simply adapted, taken the glass as it was handed to her and drank without pause. And yet, within minutes of arriving, he had noticed the absence of a thin piece of plastic. And went out of his way to make it right.

And it wasn’t just about the straw. It was never just about the straw.

It was about how much of her he still carried quietly with him. The subtle things, the gentlest of preferences, things she herself sometimes forgot to mention aloud, but which he held onto as though they were sacred. She hadn’t spoken about her odd fondness for drinking through straws in months. And yet he remembered. Not because she reminded him. But because he wanted to.

The thought made something soft unfurl within her, something fragile and aching all at once. She glanced at him now, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft glow of a passing streetlight. There was a faint line between his brows, not from worry, but from thought. As though his mind was elsewhere, tracing the shape of some silent burden he never spoke of. His jaw was faintly tensed, the vein in his temple visible when he turned his head. And yet, when he looked at her, when their eyes met for the briefest beat, there was something quiet there. Gentle. Steady. The kind of softness that made her throat tighten with something unnameable.

“Charles,” she said, her voice a murmur in the hush of the evening, barely above the rustling of leaves in the wind. He looked over at her, one brow arching faintly. “Hmm?” She hesitated, not for lack of words, but because the feeling sat so deeply in her chest, she feared it might splinter if she let it out too carelessly. So instead, she offered a smile, quiet and full of meaning, her gaze resting on his face the way one might rest their fingers on something precious.

“Thank you. For the straw.” His brow furrowed, not out of confusion, but in that way he often did when receiving gratitude for something he considered too obvious to deserve it. His lips curved faintly, and he exhaled through his nose, amused. “Hardly worth a medal, is it?”

But she stopped walking. He turned back to her, and in the pause between footfalls, something shifted. Her eyes were glassy with a sheen of emotion she didn’t quite trust herself to name. “It is,” she said, her voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges. “You remembered. And I didn’t even ask. I didn’t hint. I didn’t even think of it myself until you brought it to me. But you remembered.”

Her hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked down, smiling faintly to herself before meeting his gaze again. “That’s the thing about you. You remember the little things, the soft things. The things no one else thinks to keep.” Charles was still, and in the golden light spilling from a nearby window, she saw it, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his lips parted just slightly, as though he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he could.

She stepped a little closer. “You always say you’re not good with words. That you’re not the sentimental one. But you are,” she said softly, the words tumbling out now, fragile but insistent. “You don’t make a show of it, but you see me. Even when I think I’m fading into the background, you still see me. And you do these quiet, thoughtful things that no one ever asks for. That I never ask for. But you do them anyway.”

She laughed, self-conscious, shaking her head. “It was just a straw, right? But it felt like... I don’t know. Like you reached into a part of my heart I didn’t even realise was waiting to be touched.” Charles blinked, and for a moment, all the usual retorts seemed to fail him. He looked down, exhaling slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of his palm, a gesture she recognised, the way he often steadied himself when emotion crept too close to the surface.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “I notice you,” he said. “Even when you think I don’t. I always have.” And with that, they fell into step once more, the silence between them no longer hollow, but full, thick with feeling, steeped in the quiet knowledge that sometimes, love does not arrive with trumpets or declarations.

Sometimes, it’s a straw in a glass. Sometimes, it’s a man who remembers how you like to drink, even when you forget to ask. And sometimes, that’s how you know. You are loved.

— II.

Breakfasts with Charles were never grand affairs. Not the way one might imagine in the fantasy of hotel mornings, no ostentatious silver platters beneath cloche lids, no chilled flutes of mimosa or extravagant towers of French patisserie. No, theirs were quieter rituals. Softer. Built not of spectacle, but of knowing, the sort that could only be cultivated over time and tenderness.

The hotel buffet, as ever, offered the usual suspects: lukewarm eggs in wide metal pans, wilted greens, triangle slices of pale toast barely brushed with butter, and a cruel abundance of strawberry-flavoured atrocities masquerading as yoghurts, jams, and jellies.

She had always loathed that particular brand of cloying sweetness, that artificial tang of strawberry-flavoured nonsense that seemed to follow her everywhere. It wasn’t the fruit itself, no, she rather liked that, the way the seeds crackled faintly between her teeth and the juices stained her fingertips. But the manufactured version, bright pink and plastic-tasting, reminded her of childhood medicine and cheap lollipops left too long in the sun.

And yet, even before she reached the table, before the first sip of coffee passed her lips or the sleepy fog had lifted from her thoughts — Charles always knew. He was already seated when she arrived that morning, a page of Le Monde folded neatly beside his plate, his cutlery arranged with the sort of casual precision she’d come to associate with him. His hair was damp, fresh from the shower, and he wore that vaguely rumpled Oxford shirt he never quite bothered to button all the way. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with a faint tan, and there was a small ink smudge on his thumb, always, somehow, there was ink.

As she slid into the seat opposite him, the plate already waiting for her told her everything. He’d done it again. Her toast sat unassumingly on its plate, two slices stacked slightly askew, but without a trace of tomato. Not even a smear of pulp or a rogue seed to betray its absence. They were gone, of course, spirited away onto his plate, nestled beside his eggs. She could see them now, glistening under the morning light, sliced thinly and stacked in that way he did, not for presentation, but for ease.

She didn’t even have to look at him. She knew. He had eaten them for her. Not out of obligation, not because she asked, but simply because he remembered.

She picked up her fork, her gaze flicking to the small fruit bowl beside her napkin, and there, too, was the quiet curation of his affection. No strawberry yoghurt. No pink-tinted jam. Only the fresh strawberries remained, halved neatly, their bright red flesh exposed, untouched. Just the way she liked.

And just beside it, on a tiny plate he’d nudged to her side without ceremony, was his croissant, golden and still warm, along with half a hard-boiled egg and a small wedge of brie he’d quietly abandoned from his own tray. His own breakfast, modest and picked apart, as though it had been negotiated and reassembled with her preferences in mind, not his.

“You know,” she said after a long silence, her voice still a little hoarse from sleep, “you always eat the tomatoes off my toast.” Charles didn’t look up from his coffee. He gave a faint shrug, as if this fact was hardly worth remarking on. “They’re better on mine.” She smiled. “You don’t even like them that much.”

He finally glanced at her then, his eyes soft but unreadable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I don’t dislike them either.” A beat passed, quiet but full. “And the yoghurts?” she asked, nodding at the abandoned strawberry pot still on the serving tray behind him, untouched. “Didn’t fancy those this morning either?”

Charles lifted his coffee cup, the steam curling around his knuckles, and took a slow sip. “They taste like regret and sugar-free chewing gum,” he said dryly. “Wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all you.” She let out a laugh, the kind that escaped before she could smooth it down, unexpectedly genuine. “But you used to eat them.”

“I used to do a lot of things,” he replied, setting the cup down with care, his voice dropping just slightly. “Then I realised how much you hated them.” There was something unspoken in the air between them then. Something that wasn’t quite said, but pressed in from the edges like morning mist creeping across a windowpane.

It wasn’t just about the tomatoes. Or the yoghurt. Or the reshuffled breakfast plates. It was about noticing. It was about care. It was about the way he saw her, not only in the big declarations, but in the minutiae most others missed. The way she peeled her fruit but left the seeds. The way she pushed the tomatoes to the side without fanfare. The way her nose crinkled at artificial scents, her disdain for strawberry-flavoured things nearly as strong as her fondness for the real fruit itself.

And Charles — reticent, observant Charles, had made it his quiet mission to preserve her comfort without ever calling attention to it. “You remember everything,” she murmured, almost to herself. Charles didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any easy reply. Instead, he simply met her gaze across the narrow table, his eyes steady and impossibly gentle. “No,” he said, after a moment. “Just the things that matter.”

She looked down then, cheeks warm, her fork idly cutting into the yolk of the egg he’d given her. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full, thick with memory and unspoken affection, like a well-worn book whose pages still smelled faintly of ink and the past.

In that moment, she realised, as she chewed the toast that no longer bore the sting of tomato, drank the coffee he always sweetened to her taste, and watched him quietly refill her glass without a word — that love didn’t always need to shout. It didn’t have to be grand or performative.

Sometimes, it was breakfast. Sometimes, it was the tomatoes he ate so she didn’t have to, the yoghurts he left untouched, the fruit bowls he edited in silence. And sometimes, that was more than enough.

— III.

The paddock was a cacophony of movement and sound — a restless tapestry of camera shutters, overlapping voices, glinting flashes, and the low thrum of engines idling in the distance. Reporters swarmed like bees, each vying for a slice of attention, microphone cords tangled at their feet and press passes flapping in the breeze like fragile flags of entitlement. It was an environment of barely restrained chaos — all gloss and noise and performance.

And she hated it. Not the sport, nor the spectacle, but this part. The part that demanded visibility. The part that left little room for silence. She stood just to the side of Charles, her figure half-shielded by his taller frame, a step behind but tethered to him by presence alone. She didn’t speak, she rarely did when cameras were involved, but her smile, soft and hesitant, held steady for the sake of politeness. She was good at that: presenting a composed exterior, even when her nerves fluttered like moths beneath her skin.

Yet her hands betrayed her. They always did. When there was nothing to hold, nothing to occupy the anxious energy that simmered beneath the surface of her stillness, her fingers defaulted to the familiar ritual of picking at her nails. The edges of her thumbnails were already raw from the morning, tiny crescents of skin peeled back in quiet punishment, and now her index finger circled the corner of her nail with obsessive precision, over and over and over again.

Charles was speaking — something about race strategy and track conditions — his voice low and measured, the cadence effortless, as if the words came from muscle memory alone. But even as he faced the journalist and nodded thoughtfully at their questions, his eyes flicked sideways. Just once. Just enough. He saw her hands. Of course he did. He always saw.

Without a break in conversation, without so much as a change in his tone, he reached down and unhooked the silver bracelet from his wrist, the one she had once described absentmindedly as fidget-worthy during a quiet moment in the back of a hotel shuttle, when she’d spun it between her fingers for an entire hour without realising.

He slipped it from beneath the cuff of his fireproof undershirt, fingers deft despite the constraints of the suit, and turned slightly, subtly, towards her. His voice didn’t falter. His words continued to flow into the press microphone, eloquent and precise, as if he weren’t doing something else entirely with his hands. Then, low enough for her ears only, he murmured, “Here. Play with this instead.”

His voice was a balm — even, warm, without judgement. As though this, too, was simply part of the routine. As natural as breathing. She glanced up at him, startled at first by the bracelet being pressed gently into her palm, the cool metal coiling like a snake across her skin. Her fingers closed around it instinctively, grateful beyond words, and her lips parted, as if to protest, or perhaps to thank him but no sound emerged.

There was only the look he gave her then, fleeting, almost imperceptible, but anchored in a softness that undid her. And so she stayed quiet, as she always did. Smiled politely at the camera. Let the storm pass around her. But this time, her fingers twisted the bracelet between them instead of worrying the edge of her cuticles to blood.

Later, someone would post the clip online, a zoomed-in snippet from the live interview, barely ten seconds long. You could see her, half-hidden behind him, shifting her weight from foot to foot. You could see her hand start to rise towards her mouth before being gently intercepted by his. You could see the bracelet passed between them like a secret. And then, as clear as sunlight, the way her shoulders lowered, her thumb idly tracing the ridged pattern of the chain links, the storm in her spine slowly dissolving.

And Charles? He didn’t look at her again. He simply went on answering questions about tyre degradation and sector times as if he hadn’t just pulled her out of the spiral and placed her firmly back into the world. It was never loud, the way he cared.

Never performative, never dramatic. But always, always present. In gestures small enough to be missed by anyone who wasn’t paying attention. In the accessories he wore, not for style or sponsorship, but for her. In the way he carried her needs like second nature, quietly, without ceremony, without needing to be thanked.

She stood beside him, her fingers wrapped gently around the bracelet that now warmed in her palm from the heat of her own skin, a talisman, a lifeline, a reminder that someone saw her even when she didn’t speak. And for the rest of the interview, while the cameras flashed and the journalists jostled and Charles slipped easily from one polished reply to the next, she didn’t touch her fingernails once.

— IV.

The room was steeped in that peculiar kind of silence that only arrives in the early hours, not emptiness, but a hush thick enough to hear the passing of time itself. Moonlight poured like melted pewter through the gauzy curtains, brushing silver over the bed linens, over the slope of the duvet where Charles lay half-curled on his side, one arm instinctively reaching out, seeking warmth where hers should’ve been. Only to find air.

His hand met the cool, undisturbed hollow of her pillow, the sheets untouched. No warmth lingered. No trace of her sleep-heavy breath or the weight of her limbs tucked close. His brow furrowed in the dark, a slight crease between his brows as he blinked himself more fully awake. There was no sound, no movement, only that unsettling stillness which made the absence of her even louder.

He sat up, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight. His bare feet found the floorboards with a muted sigh, and he reached for the dressing gown slung across the armchair. The air was cooler than expected as he padded quietly through the hallway, passing the soft spill of lamplight under the kitchen door.

There, in the quiet glow of the refrigerator’s faint light and the soft amber cast of the counter lamp, she stood in silence. Her frame, small and pale in one of his old T-shirts, was silhouetted against the darkened kitchen like a figure carved from sleep and shadow. She was cradling a glass of water between both hands, fingers wrapped tightly around it as if drawing heat, though the liquid was cold.

Her gaze was far-off, fixed somewhere beyond the windowpane above the sink, where nothing stirred but the occasional drifting wisp of cloud. He leaned against the doorframe, his voice barely a whisper. “Couldn’t sleep again?” She turned, almost guiltily, her expression softening at the sight of him. Her smile was faint, apologetic, though he needed no apology, he’d long known her sleepless habits, her restlessness once the world went quiet and the thoughts grew loud.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse with fatigue, the barest crack threading her words. Charles crossed the room in a few quiet strides. He didn’t speak again until he reached her, until he’d taken the glass from her hands with a tenderness that made her breath catch. He placed it gently on the counter, then reached for her wrist, fingers warm and sure as they circled it.

“Come back to bed,” he said, not a suggestion, but a quiet, unwavering promise. “I’ll read to you.” She blinked up at him, her expression half amused, half disbelieving. “A bedtime story?” He offered a lopsided smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened his usually composed features into something achingly fond. “If it helps, I’ll even do the voices.”

She huffed a breath of laughter, barely a sound, really, but it melted the frost clinging to her bones, enough for her to nod, allowing him to lead her back down the hall with one arm loosely around her shoulders, his thumb brushing absent circles against the curve of her arm.

Back in the dim sanctuary of their bedroom, he tucked her in first — carefully, like something sacred — smoothing the duvet over her legs, brushing a stray wisp of hair away from her temple before retreating momentarily to the bookshelf tucked into the alcove across the room.

When he returned, he held a small, well-thumbed book in his hand. The cover was faded, the corners worn soft by time and use, one of those children’s storybooks she had once confessed brought her comfort, the kind with more whimsy than structure, tales about forest creatures in waistcoats and teacups that could talk.

He settled beside her with the ease of familiarity, one arm behind her head, the other holding the book open against his thigh. She turned towards him, head resting on his chest, and he began to read, softly, deliberately, with a cadence shaped not for theatrics, but for soothing. His voice, though deeper than the tales demanded, wrapped around each sentence with a kind of reverence, unhurried, as though willing each word to guide her gently out of her wakefulness.

“And so the hedgehog, with his scarf trailing behind him like the tail of a comet, tiptoed into the clearing where the moon had woven silver through the grass…” She didn’t respond, but her breathing slowed, gradually, like a tide beginning to recede. Her fingers, which had been nervously twisting the edge of the duvet, stilled, then curled into the fabric of his shirt. He continued reading even as her eyelids fluttered shut, even as her body grew heavier against him, her tension dissolving into the warmth of his presence.

By the time he turned the page, she was asleep, her expression soft now, no longer pinched by exhaustion, the crease between her brows smoothed as though sleep had finally offered her something close to peace.

Charles didn’t stop reading. Not immediately. He read on for a few more pages, his voice a low hum against the quiet, not for her benefit now, but simply to fill the silence with something gentle, something kind.

Eventually, he placed the book down on the bedside table and turned the lamp off with a gentle click. The darkness folded around them once more, but this time, it was not empty. He gathered her closer in his arms, pressing a kiss to her crown, and whispered into the space between them, “Sleep well, amore.”

She didn’t stir. But he stayed awake a while longer, just to listen to the rhythm of her breath, and to marvel at how something as simple as a storybook could coax sleep from the jaws of her insomnia, not because of the words themselves, but because it was him reading them.

Because sometimes, love was not in grand declarations, but in the quiet conviction of a man who would sit in the stillness of 3 in the morning, reading stories aloud just to help her find peace even when he lacked the sleep from his race schedule.

— V.

There were, perhaps, a hundred louder things one could observe in the paddock on a race weekend — the purr and growl of machinery fine-tuned to the edge of performance, the subtle orchestra of radios crackling commands, the thrum of soles against tarmac, and the easy camaraderie threaded through half-spoken jokes and short bursts of laughter.

Yet, amidst it all, Charles sat cross-legged on a bench just outside of hospitality, the sunshine glazing the shoulders of his black hoodie, his head bowed in quiet concentration over a humble collection of brightly coloured sweets.

Scattered across the small table in front of him lay three opened packets of Skittles, their glossy little forms glinting in the sunlight like enamelled jewels. He was sorting through them with a precision that bordered on the methodical, fingertips deftly flicking away the reds, oranges, yellows and greens, setting aside the coveted purples into a separate paper cup with all the seriousness of a jeweller sifting for amethysts.

To the untrained eye, it might have looked absurd — a Formula One driver, whose fingers gripped a steering wheel at 300 km/h with surgical control, now carefully hunched over sugar-coated confections like he was performing some sacred ritual. But there was something ineffably tender in the way he did it. Something unspoken and warm.

The interruption came, inevitably, in the form of laughter. “Mate, what the hell are you doing?” Max’s voice was bright with amusement as he strolled past, his cap pulled low over his brow, eyes crinkled in curiosity.

Charles didn’t even look up, merely plucked another red Skittle and dropped it unceremoniously into the discard pile. “Sorting them,” he said simply, his tone nonchalant. “She likes the purple ones.”

There was a pause. Then, the echo of laughter again — not mocking, but affectionate — as Max was joined by Carlos and Lewis, the three of them forming an impromptu audience for the quiet absurdity.

“That’s commitment,” Carlos grinned, nudging Max with his elbow. “You’re mad, you know that?” Lewis arched a brow, arms folded, a teasing glint in his gaze. “She said that, like, once?”

Charles finally glanced up then, his expression unbothered, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of his mouth. “She mentioned it once, yes,” he replied, brushing a few more Skittles into the growing collection of purples. “But to be loved is to be seen, non?”

The words weren’t said with fanfare or boast. They were simply there, quiet and sincere, spoken in that lilting Monegasque accent of his, and yet they landed like poetry. The kind of sentence that hung in the air long after the speaker had gone back to sorting sweets.

The trio exchanged glances, that same fond amusement flickering in their expressions, before they moved on down the paddock, chuckling to themselves. But Charles remained, undisturbed, content with the small but purposeful task before him. The sun had risen higher by the time she arrived.

There was always something quieter about her presence — not shy, necessarily, but composed, inward. She moved like someone who didn’t need to fill every silence, whose stillness spoke volumes where words might fall short. Dressed in a simple sundress and trainers, her accreditation swinging gently from her lanyard, she smiled as she approached him, her eyes lifting slightly in surprise at the small paper cup he held out in her direction.

“What’s this?” she asked, her fingers brushing his as she took it from him. “Purple Skittles,” he said, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other with an easy air. “You said you liked them, that they’re your favourites.” Her lips parted, not quite in speech, more in that tender astonishment of being remembered. Really remembered.

Not in the grand gestures, not in declarations painted across sky banners or diamond-studded gifts, but in this, in purple sweets sorted by hand on a sunlit morning, because she had once mentioned, offhandedly, that she liked them best. She looked down at the cup in her hands, the colours all the same, her favourites, and then back up at him, her gaze warm, slightly glassy, as though her heart had swelled so quietly it pressed against the edges of her chest.

“You really remembered.” He shrugged, feigning indifference, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth, gentle and unmistakably proud. “Of course I did.” There it was again, that unshakeable sense of being seen. Of being watched with care, of her passing remarks held like rare treasures in the corners of his mind. She sank onto the bench beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and offered him one of the purple Skittles in turn.

“You’re getting soft,” she teased lightly. “No,” he murmured, bumping her knee with his. “Just attentive.” And for a moment, as the bustle of the paddock carried on around them, the clatter of trolleys, the murmurs of engineers, the flash of cameras, they sat in their little orbit of stillness. Just two people, elbows brushing, sharing sugar sweets beneath a springtime sun.

Because to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be remembered in the quietest, smallest ways — even in the sorting of purple Skittles at half past ten in the paddock.

— VI.

There was nothing particularly offensive about spring onions. To most, they were innocuous, the sort of garnish sprinkled with habitual flourish by chefs who sought only to add colour, not controversy, to their plates. A final dusting of green, delicate and insistent, perched atop steaming bowls and glistening noodles like the feather in a cap, largely decorative and often overlooked.

But not by her. She never made a fuss. Not the kind to push her preferences loudly into the centre of a room or send plates back with disdain. Instead, her disapproval was always quiet, a subtle wrinkle of her nose, a pause just long enough before the first bite.

And then, with a kind of resigned patience, she would begin the delicate process of removing them herself, picking at the chopped spring onions with the tip of a spoon or the corner of a serviette, collecting the flecks of green into a tiny pile at the edge of her plate as though they were unwelcome thoughts she was trying to quietly set aside.

Charles had noticed, of course. Not at once, not with any grand revelation, but with the sort of slow-burning attentiveness that came from watching someone you loved simply exist.

He had seen the way she did it every time, never complaining, always careful not to appear troublesome, and something about that unspoken discomfort had stirred something in him. A quiet sort of ache, almost imperceptible, nestled beneath his ribs.

It happened first in Shanghai, in the modest, low-lit restaurant tucked behind the circuit, the kind of place frequented by locals and drivers alike, with steam fogging the windows and the scent of sesame and broth heavy in the air.

She had ordered a simple bowl of rice porridge, and he had watched as she began the routine once again, that tiny, precise extraction of spring onions from the silky surface.

He reached across the table without a word. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, fingers already reaching for her spoon. She blinked, a little startled, as he gently angled the bowl toward himself.

He worked deftly, silently — spooning the offending garnish out with the focus of someone performing a task far weightier than it appeared. It was almost comical, how seriously he took it, how meticulously he gathered every green sliver and flicked it onto a side plate as though defusing a bomb.

When he returned the dish to her, his expression was matter-of-fact. “There. All clear.” She gave him a look — soft, amused, a little disbelieving. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” The way he said it, without bravado, without ceremony, made her chest pull painfully tight. There was something infinitely more romantic in that than in flowers or fireworks. This quiet removal of what she disliked. This small, wordless protection of her comfort.

And so it became a ritual, unspoken but unmissable. In every city, every continent, whether in posh post-race dinners with crystal glassware or street-side cafés with mismatched crockery, he would check her plate first. His eyes would scan for the telltale greens, and if they were there, he would intercept her dish with a casual, “Wait, let me get rid of those for you.”

Sometimes, he would do it even before the server had fully retreated, already lifting his fork to sweep aside the spring onions before she had a chance to touch her napkin. No one else paid much mind to it, perhaps dismissing it as habit or fussiness, but for her, each gesture felt like a quiet sonnet sung beneath breath.

Once, she had asked, her voice hushed beneath the noise of clinking cutlery and background music, “You remember every time. Why?” Charles had glanced up from her plate, his eyes meeting hers with that same unassuming warmth that always made her feel like her heart was caught between its beats.

“Because you don’t like them,” he said simply, as though it required no further explanation. And perhaps it didn’t.

To be loved, truly loved, was not always in the grand gestures. It was not in serenades or showy declarations. It was in the gentle hand that remembered what you quietly endured, and removed it before you had to ask. It was in the bowl of porridge, stripped of its garnish. In the way he handed it back with a soft smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to safeguard someone’s comfort, one tiny green sliver at a time.

Because, after all, to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be known, not in the loudness of who we are, but in the quietest corners of what we avoid.

#🕷⋆⭒˚｡⋆ chloe’s drivers #chlerc #charles #charles leclerc #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #cl16 #charles leclerc au #charles leclerc fic #cl 16

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yerkyokuler · 3 months ago

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“Can You Step Out?”

Jude Bellingham x Reader

Warnings: postpartum, insecurity

Genre: angst and fluff, obviously

Word Count: over 3k , sorry 🥲

Thank you so much for the like on my first post, it means the world! Let me know if you want a part 2!

⸻

The living room was filled with the low hum of a lullaby toy, something soft and twinkly that looped endlessly as Percy kicked his chubby legs in the playpen. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, golden light across the floorboards. You’d opened the windows earlier to let in the late afternoon air, and now a gentle breeze fluttered the sheer curtains. The house smelled faintly of baby lotion and Jude’s cologne—woody, musky, warm. Safe.

He was crouched down by the playpen in his white T-shirt—simple, fitted, sleeves rolled a little to show the muscle along his arms, black trousers hugging him just right. He was laughing at something Percy had done, something so small you probably would’ve missed it—a wrinkle of the nose, a gurgle of joy—but Jude looked at him like he’d just invented the moon.

You were in the bedroom, rifling through your side of the closet, trying to find something—anything—that still felt like you.

Tonight was supposed to be nice. Your first real evening out alone since Percy was born seven and a half months ago. You had a reservation. You had a sitter. You had Jude, so excited about it he’d played music while ironing his own shirt like it was prom night.

But now, standing in your bra and jeans, you were holding a dress you used to love and staring at it like it belonged to someone else.

Your body wasn’t the same. You knew that. You’d carried life, delivered him, fed him. But the way your hips had shifted, the way your skin stretched, the way your stomach now had a softness it never used to—it made the idea of this dress suddenly unbearable.

It felt like pretending. Like you were squeezing yourself into a version of yourself Jude hadn’t signed up for.

You heard him coming down the hall, his steps familiar. You quickly clutched the dress to your chest and called out, voice more brittle than you meant it to be.

“Can you—um… can you step out? I just wanna change.”

He stopped in the doorway. Confused at first. You saw the hesitation cross his face.

“Oh—yeah, of course,” he said, voice light. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… I’m good. Just gimme a sec.”

He lingered a moment. Then nodded, flashing you a quick smile. “Alright. Shout if you need help with the zip, yeah?”

You shut the door gently after he turned away and leaned back against it. That smile of his—it always made things worse when you were holding onto feelings you didn’t want to share. It was too kind. Too easy to believe in.

⸻

Down the hall, Jude walked back to the living room slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. You’d never asked him to step out like that before. Not even once. You’d always been pretty open, even when you weren’t feeling your best. Which meant…

Something was off.

He knelt back down beside Percy, who was now gnawing on a rubber giraffe like it owed him money. “What’s up with Mummy, hmm?” he asked softly.

Percy blinked up at him with those wide brown eyes—the same ones Jude saw in the mirror every morning—and let out a happy sigh that sounded like a whistle. Jude ruffled his dark curls, but he kept glancing toward the bedroom.

He thought about the dress you were holding. The one he loved seeing you in—the way it made your eyes look even brighter. But maybe you didn’t love it anymore. Maybe it didn’t feel the same.

He sat back, resting on his hands, and looked at the wall for a while. Listening. Thinking. Trying to remember the last time you talked about how you felt—about your body, about all the changes. He’d been so wrapped up in loving Percy, in making sure you had help and rest and food and warmth… but had he stopped looking? Had he stopped seeing you?

⸻

You gave up on the dress. It was too tight around the ribs anyway. Everything felt too snug. Like your body didn’t belong to you.

You pulled on a different outfit—looser, easier. Still nice, but safer. You paused in front of the mirror and adjusted the top, your fingertips brushing your soft stomach. Your chest. The stretch marks that traced your hips now like rivers.

The words came out in a whisper before you even meant them to.

“Doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

And when you turned to grab your earrings, there was a knock at the door.

Soft.

Gentle.

“Babe?”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“…Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Then sighed. “Yeah. Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and Jude stepped in, careful, like he knew he was walking into a place that felt delicate.

His eyes fell on you, and they softened instantly. But not out of pity. Not sadness. Just love.

“Hey,” he said.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hey.”

He didn’t rush to touch you, didn’t barrel in with solutions. Just stood there, watching you with a kind of patient quiet. “You don’t like it?”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. I just… I thought I did. I don’t know.”

His brow furrowed gently. “Is it the dress or… something else?”

You tried to brush it off. “It’s dumb. Doesn’t matter.”

His voice didn’t waver. “Matters to me.”

You looked away, your throat tightening. “It’s just… I don’t feel like myself. Not really. And I don’t know what you see when you look at me, but it’s not what I see anymore. And I didn’t want you to see me standing there like that—looking weird and stretched and just… not me.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Jude’s eyes didn’t leave you once. He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of you.

“Can I say something?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, blinking quickly.

He touched your arm gently. “You say you’re not you… but all I see when I look at you is exactly who you are. The woman I love. The mother of my son. The person who carried him and loved him before I even knew what he’d look like.”

He paused, reaching for your hand. “You look at yourself and see stretch marks and softness and changes. I look at you and see the person who gave me the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You made him. You made Percy. Every bit of you that changed… it changed because of love. Because of life. And that’s not something I’ll ever want to unsee.”

Your eyes burned. “You say that, but—”

“I say that because I mean it,” he interrupted gently. “And I see you. Still. Always.”

You sniffled, laughing once, watery. “You’re making it really hard to be mad at my own body right now.”

He grinned. “Good. Your body deserves better than your anger.”

You leaned into him then, and his arms wrapped around you instantly. Strong. Familiar. Warm.

He kissed your temple. “You smell like my shampoo.”

“I used it ‘cause I ran out of mine.”

He pulled back to look at you, eyes playful. “You sure you didn’t use it just so I’d spend the whole evening trying not to climb over the dinner table?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Jude.”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “You’re my wife. I can’t be a little obsessed?”

He leaned in, nosing at your jaw. “You have to know you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Like this. Right now. Exactly as you are.”

You melted under his words, forehead resting against his. “Thank you. I needed that more than I knew.”

“You’re allowed to not love everything right away,” he murmured. “But just know—I love it. I love you. And I want you to feel like you again. Whatever that looks like. Even if it means trying on every outfit in the closet until we’re late.”

You smiled, and this time it reached your eyes. “You’re not even mad?”

He raised a brow. “You kidding? You could wear your old dressing gown from uni and I’d still be staring.”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “Now that’s a lie.”

He stepped back, eyes running down your figure with a smirk. “Nope. But this?” he added, pointing to your current outfit. “This is doing things to me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the way he looked at you—like you were something holy—it stayed with you. From the playpen, Percy let out a squeal. You both turned, and Jude’s face lit up again.

“I think he’s cheering for you,” Jude said, grabbing your hand and pulling you gently toward the door. “Or maybe for himself.

He did get your good looks, after all.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder as you walked.

“He has your eyes,” you whispered. “And your smile.”

Jude laughed. “Good. He’ll need ‘em. Especially with the way I plan on embarrassing him in front of his future dates.” You both paused at the doorway, watching Percy roll over with determination.

Jude’s arm slipped around your waist.

“You ready to go?” he asked.

You looked up at him, then down at your son, then back at yourself in the hallway mirror.

Maybe you weren’t exactly who you used to be. Maybe that was okay.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I am.”

And as Jude leaned down to kiss you again—slow, certain, grateful—you finally let yourself believe him.

#footballer imagines #football imagines #football scenarios #jude bellingham #Jude Bellingham x reader #Jude Bellingham imagines #Jude Bellingham scenarios

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vandme12 · 5 months ago

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Hi! I love your writing! I don’t know if you’re accepting requests but if you are could you do Ronin with a person who has little care for their safety? If you could put some hurt/comfort I would love that! I hope you Have amazing day/night and also if you don’t want to do this that is or you are uncomfortable with this request then you can ignore this!

Ronin’s never really gotten the whole self-preservation thing. Not for himself—God, no—but you?

You’re supposed to care. About your body, your breath, your precious blood still swirling warm in your veins. You’re supposed to flinch when the knife grazes too close, supposed to kick and scream when the world gets ugly. Normal people do.

But you?

You walk into Purgatory like you’re untouchable. Like nothing in this broken city can chew you up and spit you out. And maybe that’s why he can’t stop watching—because you’re too fragile for this world, too reckless to survive it, and yet here you are. Still breathing. Still standing. Still his.

Tonight, though, you’ve pushed it.

“You fuckin’ crazy?” His voice is sharp, jagged, cracking through the damp alley air. “Who the hell told ya t’pull a stunt like that?”

Your lip curls into that little smile—the one that’s gonna kill him someday. “I handled it, didn’t I?”

Yeah. Barely.

The blood on your temple is drying, flaking against your skin. Someone—some thing—in Purgatory got their hands on you. Not enough to break you, but enough to leave marks. And Ronin’s seen enough broken toys to know how fast it happens. One crack, then another. Until there’s nothing left to save.

You don’t get to crack. Not on his watch.

“Handled it,” he echoes, soft and venomous. “You ‘bout two seconds from being a corpse and ya wanna act tough?”

“I’m still here.”

His laugh is ugly—raw and bitter, too sharp to be real amusement. “For now. Don’t mean ya always will be, baby.”

You roll your eyes, like he’s being dramatic. Like you didn’t almost die. And that—that—does something awful to his chest. Makes his hands twitch for violence, not at you but at the world that dared to touch you. His darling. His one good thing.

“Y’don’t get it,” he mutters, stepping closer, and his voice dips—low, low, low, until it’s slithering down your spine. “Ain’t no do-overs if someone breaks ya. No reset button. No ‘oopsie-daisy, lemme try again.’ You’re fragile, sweetheart. Flesh an’ blood an’—”

His hand snakes around the back of your neck, rough fingers brushing your pulse point. It’s still there, steady against his touch. But it could’ve stopped. That’s the part you don’t seem to fucking get.

“Don’t talk like I’m made of glass,” you murmur, but your voice is softer now. Quieter. As if you know you’ve pushed him too far.

Ronin scoffs, shaking his head. “Glass don’t bleed, baby.”

And you bleed so fucking pretty.

You shiver when his thumb strokes over the cut on your temple, half-tender, half-testing. Like he’s making sure you’re still here. That the world hasn’t stolen you out from under him.

“I’m fine,” you insist, but the waver in your voice betrays you.

“Yeah?” His smile is all teeth. All danger. “Then why’re ya shaking?”

You don’t answer—can’t, maybe—so he pulls you closer, his fingers curling tight against your nape. “Ain’t a game, darling,” he says, and the roughness in his voice breaks against the word. Darling. “Ain’t some cute little story where ya get t’walk away every time. You die here? That’s it. Curtains closed. No encore.”

You swallow, and that fragile little tremor in your throat—he could kill for it. Could kill the whole fucking city just to make sure it never comes back.

But instead, he softens. Just a little.

“Why don’tcha care?” he asks, quieter now. It’s almost a plea, if he were the type to beg. “Why’s it gotta be so easy for ya t’throw yourself into the fire?”

“I’m not scared,” you say, as if that explains anything.

And maybe—maybe—that’s the problem.

Ronin makes a noise, something caught between a laugh and a snarl. “Fuckin’ should be,” he growls, pressing his forehead against yours. “World’s a meat grinder, baby. Eats people like you for fun.”

“You’d stop it,” you whisper, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you believe in him.

And isn’t that the cruelest part? That you trust him to keep you breathing, when you won’t do it for yourself?

His breath hitches. Just for a second.

“Damn right, I would.”

Because if the world wants to hurt you, it’s gotta go through him first. And there ain’t a soul alive who’s ever done that and lived.

Ronin exhales slow, like he’s trying to bleed the anger out. It doesn’t work—never does—but he tries for you anyway. His other hand finds your waist, tugging you flush against him, and you go so easy. Like you belong there.

“You gotta stop,” he murmurs. “Stop makin’ me worry. Stop actin’ like you’re invincible.”

“And if I don’t?”

His grip tightens—not rough, but firm. Solid enough to ground you. “Then I’m gonna glue ya to my fuckin’ hip. Ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight.”

It’s a promise. A threat. And something softer, too—something he won’t say out loud.

(That he doesn’t want to lose you. That he can’t.)

For a long moment, you just stand there—close enough to taste his breath, feel his heart thrumming wild beneath his ribs. And when you speak again, your voice is small.

“You really worry that much?”

Ronin huffs a breathless laugh, brushing a blood-crusted curl from your cheek. “Course I do, dumbass.”

You let that hang in the air, heavy and sweet, before tipping your head against his shoulder. “Okay,” you murmur. “I’ll be more careful.”

It’s not a promise. But it’s close enough.

Ronin kisses the crown of your head, something raw catching in his throat. “Yeah, ya better be,” he says softly. “I ain’t done with you yet, baby. Not even close.”

#killer chat #killer chat x reader #kc #killerchat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #killer chat ronin x reader #ronin #ronin killer chat

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quarterlifekitty · 7 months ago

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a little continuation of SerialKiller!Ghost and Psychic!Reader

cw: obsessive behavior, kidnapping

You hear the splash of cooled black coffee against linoleum after the lights go out. It had been sitting on the corner of the table moments ago, just asking for mishap, while you faced borderline threats from the head investigator on the ghost case.

The gift had rarely ever been that. Scant were the times you could remember it having solved more problems than it created.

“Just stay here. Fucking breaker.” Shoes scuff against the tile. There’s a very faint beam of light from the reinforced window in the door— must be coming from the exit sign outside.

A gloved hand that smells like ash slides over your mouth, only for a moment, to suppress your instinctual urge to cry out. You’re just surprised, aren’t you? Didn’t expect prince charming to come save you so soon, yeah?

“Y’got no idea how difficult it was to keep from guttin’ ‘im like a fish, sweet’art. The way he spoke to you. But I ain’t ‘ere for that fuckworm. I’m ‘ere for my girl.” You feel his chuckle from the chest pressed to your back.

“Lotta trouble to get the princess away from ‘er royal guard. But I ain’t mad. Nothin’ that’s worth doin’ is ever easy.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Simon can tell from that line alone that you’re cooked. That your special little mind has gotten soft boiled from all the filth and love he’s been shoving into it. You’re more scared for him than scared of him, even if you don’t know it.

“Can’t stand to see you get used anymore, birdie. I know first ‘and what happens to used toys.”

“They’re not using me— it’s not like I’m doing this all for charity, they pay me—“

“That may be. But d’you really have a choice but to cooperate? Worked like a dog. Leashed like one. Punished like one.”

“And I’m supposed to think that the murderer who jacks off onto pictures of me would be better?” You ask, incredulous at the assertion. It takes you a moment to realize and regret the tone you’ve taken with a man who sees human life as something that can be chewed up and spit out for the momentary amusement of feeling it slide wetly against his gums.

“Darlin’— I’d let y’hold the knife to my throat. Let y’kill me, if that’s what you thought was best for us. But you’re like me. Deep down, y’got this big, selfish pit— and y’know I’m the only one who can fill it f’you. I’ve seen inside that pretty head.” And you’ve seen inside the rotting sickpit that’s his head. You’re caught in a bruising grip as he pulls you by the wrist through the darkened hall of the station, straight for the exit stairwell, but not before he knocks the phone from your hand and crushes it beneath his heel.

“I can’t– where are you taking me?! They’ll find me,” you say in an unsteady, pathetic facsimile of a threat.

“Don’t tell me they’ve got y’chipped, birdie. Jus’ gives me an excuse to go diggin’ through your skin with m’teeth,” he supplies, a perverse anticipation veiled thinly in his tone.

“I’ll scream–”

“If y’really meant that, you’d’ve done it soon as I took my hand away from that pretty, fuckable mouth.” A crack of setting, amber sunlight filters under the door just down another flight of stairs.

“When you’re back at mine, split and cryin’ on my cock, when you love me, you’ll see why I had to do this.”

#writing #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #psychic!reader #cw obsessive behavior #cw kidnapping

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ohbo-ohno · 2 years ago

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Perv Soap who lets his other teammates grope you as much as they want, as long as they make you cum so that he can condition you to like being treated like this.

perv soap who shares you with his friends oh i am. i am simply unwell

cw for dubcon/noncon and manipulation

you love your boyfriend soap so much, you never want to give him a reason to leave you! and that means that you let a lot of shit slide that you might not with another person. johnny's really pushy in bed (always wanting to do things you try to make clear you're not comfortable with) and he's really into PDA. but every time you ask him to back off he gives you one of two excuses - either something about how his love language is physical touch, or something about how nobody else is even looking and you're totally overreacting

but he's also really sweet, so it's easy to let most things slide. it's hard to remember how uncomfortable you were with his hands under your shirt at dinner when he cuddles up to you so tight in bed <3

johnny always likes to show you off. he'll buy you clothes you'd have never bought on your own, dress you up in little scraps of fabric that make you fidgety and uncomfortable all night :( mini skirts and crop tops, never gives you a bra or underwear to wear with it, wants as much of your skin on display possible

and his friends get this look when they see you. you tell yourself they wouldn't do anything to their friend's girlfriend, but they look at you the same way johnny does - hungry and predatory

ANYWAYS. set up done

johnny sits you on his lap during dinner, stands to go get another round of drinks and drops you onto ghost's lap before he leaves :( lifts you up by the hips, gives you a quick tap on the ass and says watch her, lt, yeah? then just struts off. your face goes hot and you try to move off of him, already muttering apologies, but ghost wraps an arm around your stomach and holds you close to his chest :( rumbles something like stay where your boy put you, love and holds a heavy hand over your bare thigh to keep you still. he's also the one you catch watching you and johnny the most, his gaze heavy and dark.

(johnny keeping you sat on ghost's lap, straddles you - both of you - and makes out with you. ghost's hands run up your sides, occasionally over to johnny, and you can feel him breathing against your neck, hot and heavy. johnny grinds against your stomach until he comes, smiles down at you and finally pulls away, dragging you into his lap for a cuddle)

making out and dancing with soap on the dance floor and you feel another body behind you. you don't think much of it until the person starts grinding, and then you jolt away from johnny to look over your shoulder. it's gaz - smiling down at you and working his hips against your ass in far too sexual ways. you think maybe johnny will scare him off, but he just turns you around and starts leaving hickeys along your neck with his hands keeping your hips moving, so you're stuck sandwiched between the two of them. gaz leans down and you're convinced he's going to kiss you too, go stiff and wide-eyed because you have no idea what you'll do, but instead he just leaves little kisses peppered around your face. and that's not so bad, gaz's lips are soft and the little touches are kinda nice, each one longer and a little wetter than the last. you hardly even notice when he finally kisses your lips, the slide of his tongue soft against yours.

price always scolding johnny for the way he treats you :/ sees all the bruises on your neck and goes you know she's not a chew toy, right son? but soap just smiles real big and hugs you tight to him, says she's whatever i want her to be and you don't really know how to feel about that. johnny gropes you and works you up at a dinner with everyone despite all your whispered complaints and begs that he stop, then leaves you just on the edge of coming. price rolls his eyes from across the table, snaps something about how it's rude to leave a lady wanting, johnny. go ahead and get her off, make it quick. and he does and you're all wiggly and teary in his lap, keep trying to hide your face because you can feel gaz and ghost and price all staring at you :( price calls johnny good boy when you've gone limp

#dating one person in the 141 and then they pressure you into dating all of them i am SICK over this #asks and answers #poly 141 #bo writes #pervy gross disgusting mean soap you will always be famous #do i have a favorites tag #favorites #here's hoping #poly 141 x reader

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fitsofgloom · 10 months ago

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Off To See The Wizard of O's! Recently, I was with my mom buying groceries, and she just marveled at all of the microwavable food and how easy food prep had become. It used to be that even TV dinners had to be cooked in an oven. When we got to the car, I asked her what she fed me when I was little. Macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches, spaghetti, and goulash all immediately came to mind, and then she paused for a second and said, "You really liked SpaghettiOs." My love of forgotten corporate mascots immediately had me thinking who or what might've been on the SpaghettiOs can label at the time. Some cursory research, and voila, enter The Wizard of O's, his hat and bow tie adorned with noodles. He was even a mail-away toy that I now have on my shelf, similar to a soft pet chew toy, also available as a cast-iron bank -- unusual for a mail-away premium -- and even appeared on a collectible mug as well as his own coloring/activity book. His colorization seemed to vary depending on the format (I'm personally partial to the white-haired style). It's fanciful, I know, but I like thinking that there's a magical otherworld where nothing good, true, and fun is ever really forgotten.

#spaghettios #the wizard of o's #vintage mascot #franco-american #1978

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barleyo · 2 years ago

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Love Machine.

Android! Leon Kennedy X Fem! Reader (smut)

A/N: I got this idea while listening to a song with the same title. This was my first time writing for Leon, I hope it isn't too clunky or too short! I am slowly coming out of my hiatus, so my writing skills are a bit rusty, I need you all to give me a little grace for the next few posts in case they aren't great LOL. Love you all so much, thanks for your support!

Part Two: Here

Wordcount: 2.4K

Tags: sex doll/living sex robot (?), sex toys, oral (fem receiving), reader is called things like "pretty girl", p in v, creampie (but not really because he's a sex doll??), unprotected sex, fingering, nipple play

“Welcome in, can I help you find anything?”

(Y/N) gave the cashier a polite smile and shook her head as she walked past him at the check-out desk, trying to be as non-awkward as possible, especially since she was the only customer in the small store at that time of night. It was an in and out trip, she tried to convince herself of that. She needed something small, just enough to get the job done.

Normally, she would’ve waited until the next day to run an errand like this, but days of stress had left her needy and frustrated, so when her trusty wand finally gave out on her mid-fun, she grabbed her car keys and headed out into the night.

Her eyes scanned the wall of toys in the back of the store. Pink and purple covered the shelves, vibrating toys and dildos being her main focus.

“Mini-vibe, bullet vibe,” she mumbled, squatting down to read the boxes on the lower shelves. “What’s even the difference–?”

She settled on a purple rabbit vibrator. Its packaging was the least indicative of its contents, and it was on the smaller side. Easy to hide.

“Will that be all?” the cashier asked, looking over the box.

“Yeah, that should be it.”

“You know,” he said, giving her a wide grin, “I can’t say I can suggest this one.” He held the box back out to her, waiting for her to take it. “We’ve gotten a lot of refunded purchases due to it.”

“Oh, shit, really?” (Y/N) took the box back, tucking it under her arm. “Okay, uh, I guess I should ask what the best option would be, then?”

The cashier gave a nod and waved her over, lifting the divider between behind the counter and the rest of the store. “Come with me to the back, we’ve got all the good stuff tucked away back there.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking about whether or not to follow him. She didn’t immediately catch any red flags in his behavior: he was polite enough, no major creep-vibes. (Y/N) finally walked past the open divider and followed him into the stock room.

“So, over here,” he said, waving his hand over a heavily stocked shelf, “is all the high-powered stuff. These over here have a high-customization level, lingerie over here, and over here ....”

The man continued to go over the ‘hidden’ options in the store, but (Y/N)’s eyes traveled over to a large, sheet-covered box.

“Hey, what’s that over there?” she asked, pointing at the box.

“Oh, that? That’s new, uhm, probably a little out of your comfort zone, though, he’s a little advanced.”

“He?”

The cashier sighed and stepped up to the box, gripping the corner of the sheet. “It’s—it’s a long story, but, here, have a look.”

He pulled the sheet down, dropping it to the cement floors of the room.

“What the fuck is that?!”

A blond man stood in the plain box, the only adornment on the cardboard being his name in bolded letters: Leon. His eyes were closed, his hands sat idly beside his sides, and his body stood bare before them both.

“His name is Leon, he’s a prototype for a new line of responsive sex dolls. I mean, most of the bugs are out of the system, he’s not faulty or anything.”

(Y/N) walked up to the box and scratched the cellophane covering, trying to get his attention. “Is he awake? Or on, I guess?”

“Nah, he has to be set up, there’s a manual in the box, I think,” the man replied, bending down to pick the sheet back up to throw over Leon’s box. Just as he began to shake the sheet off, clearing the residual dirt off of it, (Y/N) spoke again.

“How much for him?”

She mentally smacked herself for asking. There was no doubt he was expensive, hell, he probably wasn’t even up for sale.

“You want him?” He raised his eyebrow, looking the girl up and down, confusion painting his features.

“I– I don’t know, can I have him? How much?”

He crossed his arms for a moment, thinking. “He’s not for sale, per se, but– so, listen, okay?”

“Yeah?”

“You can have him for free, okay? But if you aren’t satisfied with him, you can’t bring him back here, you’re stuck with ‘em.” He held his hand out expectantly. “Deal?”

“Deal,” she said, taking his hand quickly, giving it a few affirming shakes.

The boxcutter in her hand worked quickly, slicing open the cellophane. (Y/N) bunched up the plastic and threw it to a random corner in her bedroom, turning back to face Leon. She gave him a testing poke, and when he didn’t respond she turned that poke into a gentle tapping on the side of his face.

“Leon?” The name felt like acid on her tongue, guilt already creeping through her. “Wake up.”

She dropped her hand from his face and guided it further down his chest. The synthetic skin felt real, almost in an uncanny way. He was warm to the touch, not plastic-y and cold like how she assumed other sex dolls felt.

“Come on, big boy.” she muttered, pulling Leon’s large, heavy body out of the box and placing him on his feet near her bed. “Where’s your–? Oh, got it.” (Y/N) snatched the instruction manual from the box. The print was foggy, and some words were horribly misspelled, but she flipped through the pages and located the directions page. She read the page to herself quietly. “I am Leon, your AI-powered male sex doll. The setup process of a Leon doll is extremely easy. To turn me on, just set my dial. After that, just sit back and let me love you for a little while!”

(Y/N) walked a small circle around him in search of his ‘on-switch.’ She found it right on the back of his neck, almost hidden by his swoop of blond hair. On the silver dial sat three options: Off, gentle, and rough. A hand rose and ticked the dial to gentle. She stepped away from him quickly after hitting the switch, nervous to see what would happen.

His eyes opened slowly, and a weak blue light beamed from them, scanning outwards before shutting off completely. A grin slowly spread across Leon’s all-too-real features as he powered on.

“Hey there, pretty girl,” he said, standing still in her room, only moving his head to face her. “Looks like you could use some company.”

“Uh, hello.” Her mouth was dry as she spoke, feeling like she made a bad decision the second he had snapped to life.

“Hm, why don’t you come closer to me? I don’t bite,” Leon paused before cheekily adding “unless you want me to.” He took her in his arms and let his eyes drift down her body. He eased her shirt over her head and tried to undo the clasps of her bra.

“What are you doing?” She tried to pull away but he held her in place.

“You have all your clothes, but I’m exposed over here. That’s not so fair, is it?” He looked down at his hardened length, ushering her to look down with him.

Her eyes widened a bit. “When did you even get hard–?”

“I’m always hard around pretty girls like you.” He slipped off her bra and groped her breasts with his large, somewhat calloused hands. “Look at these, baby. You have pretty tits, and a pretty face, huh?”

A hum left her throat as she felt his head dip down and take one of her swollen nipples into his mouth. He swirled his tongue over the bud, latching on to properly suck it after a few teasing moments. She ran her hands through his hair and gripped onto it tightly, whining at the feeling of his mouth popping off of her tit.

“Bet you’re getting wet from this, aren’t you?” His voice was airy and muffled while he spoke. He left open mouthed licks over her pebbled nipples, grazing over them with his tongue’s warmth.

She gave a weak nod in return.

“Mm, maybe I should take care of that,” he chuckled lightly and lowered himself to his knees. “Gonna let me take these off you?” He tugged at the waistband of her shorts.

“G’head,” (Y/N) said, feeling her thighs rub against each other impatiently.

He pulled them down to her ankles and she stepped out of them, leaving her in just her panties. She shuddered at the feeling of his tongue darting across the cotton covering her wet center. Again, Leon laughed a bit at her reaction and licked a heavier stripe against the fabric. When he was rewarded with a gasp from her open mouth, he pulled the panties to the side and pressed his tongue at her slit.

“F–Fuck, that feels good,” she whined, hand still messily buried in his hair.

Leon kept his eyes on her the whole time, not letting a moment pass where his blue irises weren’t piercing hers.

His tongue dipped out of her entrance and moved up to her clit. He fidgeted with it, trying to see which motion worked best on her, and settled on a circular movement. The longer he sat slotted between her thighs, her knees thrown over his shoulders, the more frequently he felt her cunt jump from pleasure. He placed his tongue hard on her clit, giving it rough, pressured licks.

“Almost there, I’m close,” (Y/N) said, feeling a coil form in her stomach. She had felt this with other toys, but by far, Leon was the best at the job. “Don’t stop,” she hummed, voice catching in her throat while he moved his head side to side, dragging his mouth sloppily over her cunt.

A string of profanities escaped her mouth when she felt her orgasm hit. A sputtering wave of warmth flushed through her body, her pussy clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, good job,” Leon cooed. He held his hand up to her face expectantly. “Spit.”

Her mind already felt melted, like it could’ve oozed out of her brain at any minute. She mindlessly complied with him, spitting onto his lengthy fingers.

“Ah–! S’too much, Leon.”

“No, no, you can take it. I’ll be gentle, I know you want another one,” he said with a slightly mocking tone. “Greedy girl needs something to fill her up.” Plunging his fingers into her pussy, he groaned at the feeling of her slick walls still fluttering. “Y’haven’t even recovered from the first one, but I’m gonna give you another one,” he said, curling his fingers, “gonna be twice as strong.”

“Fuck, it’s too much,” (Y/N) knew her sobs of pleasure were pathetic sounding, but she couldn’t muster anything else up as she tried to push his wrist down and away, not being able to stand the feeling of his two fingers prodding at her most sensitive spot.

“Don’t fight it,” he warned, “not when you’re so close. Yeah, I feel you getting all tight on me. Mm, you’re gonna love how it feels, it only gets better from here, pretty girl.”

Leon became more aggressive with his movement, moving his whole arm as his fingers jammed in and out of her. (Y/N) was lost in her ecstasy. Her hands shook and flew aimlessly before taking purchase of Leon’s shoulders and holding onto them, nails digging into the skin.

Her second release, as promised, was much stronger. Her legs clamped around him, her moans came out in long, shaky intervals, and her brain was mush. She couldn’t force herself to focus on anything but the cum dripping out of her cunt and down Leon’s fingers and forearm. She screwed her eyes shut, feeling even the dim light of her bedroom to be too much for her now fucked-out, slutty head to handle.

She hardly noticed when he had placed on her back in the bed with her legs spread. Not until he guided his cock across her folds, tapping the head of it against her swollen, abused clit.

“More?” she asked, voice breaking and weak. “Can’t take it ‘nymore.”

“C’mon, sweet thing, you can give me one more, can’t you? Just one more?” He whispered into her ear, slowly pushing into her, holding himself back.

“Jus’ one? No more after that?”

“Mhm, just one.” Leon bottomed out and stretched her walls with his girth. The tip of his cock gave sweet, shallow kisses to her cervix’s tip, gently pressing into it with each thrust. His hips rocked into her, but he felt his dick being forced out of her walls, pushed out of her heat. “Even after all that, still tight f’me.” He slid back in, rougher this time, trying to keep himself inside. “Need somethin’ to stretch you out, baby. Good thing y’got me now.”

His hands were placed under her knees, scooping and holding them apart while he fucked her. He slowly transitioned from fucking and burrying his cock into her, to bringing her body forward, bouncing her on his cock.

“Leon—”

“Hush, now, you’re okay. Mm,” he wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth, “look at how you take it. It’s like you were made to be used like this, sweet girl. Maybe you’d be better off as a toy.”

She moaned at this, feeling her cunt twitch at his words.

“Yeah? You like that?” Leon’s eyebrow raised at her a bit, teeth barring in smirk. “You like being a little toy. Being– oh, fuck, you’re enjoying this so much. Your pretty little face...”

(Y/N) threw her arms over his neck, pulling him closer to her body. Their chests pressed together, her sweat slick between them both. “God, Leon, please!”

Leon pressed his mouth on her to quiet her down, swallowing her moans as their tongues and teeth gnashed against each other. He winced as (Y/N) bit down on his lip, choking back her sobs when she clamped down on his cock. Taking this as a sign, Leon emptied his thick, synthetic cum into her.

Once he pulled out, a mixture of both of their cum pumped out, gushing and wetting in between her thighs.

“Good job, baby,” he said, stroking her face, grinning at the warmth of her cheek. “You did so well, getting all cockdrunk for me. To think I was being gentle. Wanna try my rough mode out for size?” He joked, letting his hand grip her hip.

“Goodnight, Leon,” she responded, unimpressed at his teasing and tired from what he had done to her. She brought her hand to the back of his neck and turned his dial to ‘off.'

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