#there are barely Protestants around here

[audiovisualrecall]

I'm just...resenting and then feeling guilty for resenting when I'm in such a privileged position but then feeling angry at that idea bc I'm luckier than I could be but it's so tenuous but other ppl make do but other ppl have made this work before me but---

[satrs]

Overdrive! ♡

✎A/N; here it is babes!! sowwryyy for the eternal waittt! CALEB'S IS SOOO LONG OMG IDK WHAT HAPPEND Y'ALL!!! Regardless, rlly hope ur enjoying it^^ xoxo

SYNOPSIS. Requested by anon ↳ ❝ [..."YOUR WRITING IS DELECTABLE OMG. I was wondering if you’d ever consider writing the lads men with a reader who is insatiable/has a high sex drive and/or ovulating and has her way with him until he’s completely worn out/begging to take a break 🫠" ] ¡! ❞

FEAT. RAFAYEL. CALEB. SYLUS. XAVIER. ZAYNE. xfem!reader

TAGS. NSFW CONTENT. MDNI! MARATHON S€X!!!! breeding. size k!nk unprotected intercourse. dirty talk. gripping their a$$, oh em gee dirty mouth zayne??!!. prone bone in Xav's. doggy. ur insatiable lmao, overstim, riding, begging. slight dumbification in sum. messyyy s€x. Caleb matching your freak(per usual). lotsss of spit and drool. oral (f & m receiving in caleb's), possessive guys. multiple positions.

ꪆৎ RAFAYEL

Your thighs are soaked and if you could, you'd feel embarrassed right now.

But that thought barely registers over the raw heat twisting in your belly. It's just the way Rafayel's broken moans and his hands trembling on your hips as you ride him that remind you just how much of a mess you are.

"Drippin' alllll over me, cutie," The wrecked gasp makes your pussy only embrace his cock in a snug hug, his grip on your hip tightening. "D-don't ya wanna take a lil break?— F-fuckkkk. M'—"

"N-nooooo, Raf'."

God, you're gonna be the death of him.

He's already at his wit's end, his spent cock barely holding onto the vicious grip of your greedy pussy. But once he heared your protesting whine over the obnonxious wet squelch squelch squelches of your sobbing cunt, he can feel his cock throbbing hard.

Your eyes meet the far back of your skull as you feel his girth swell, streeeetching your walls apart again so good.

"Don't wanna stop. Feels sooooo good, baby." The shy smile twitching up your plump lips is a stark contast to your ruthless hips slamming down onto his pelvis, and even though his dick is sweeling so angry he fears he might explode, he's still going to eat it up like he does every single time.

"Ohh-kay, cutie. G-gonna— gonna give my baby what she wants."

A strangled sound rips from his lungs as your walls clench around him again, cock twitching so frenzied inside you, glistening with your mixed juices, and so spent but still so ravenous to ram into you, deep.

He's flushed deep red now, your hands almost slipping from his sweat-slicked chest, coral locs sticking to his temple where he lies beneath you in a daze.

"Pretty." You spurt out, heat flooding your body as you take his face in hand, running your shaking flinger over his quivering, kiss-bitten lips. "You look so pretty Raf. Want— no need to—"

"F-fuck, baby, yer' gonna milk me dry," he chokes out, voice breaking on a whimper.

Oh, he's not lasting for long.

His eyes roll back as your walls clamp down on him again, fluttering so tight, so wet, it feels like your body's trying to wring every last drop out of him.

And you do.

Your hands slam down on his chest now, grinding down with reckless, mindless need. "Y-yes." you sweet growl, makes the hair on his neck stand up, teeth caging his lip. "Need you to fill me up, Raf. Need it sososo bad— hurts, it hurts!"

You bounce harder, thighs quivering, the obscene squelch of your slick echoing through the room with every punishing slam of your hips. His cock twitches inside you, overstimulated and swollen, flushed an angry red from how many times he's already shot his load into you, but your greedy cunt just won't let him go.

It’s damn near deafening—the relentless thwack, thwack, thwack of your ass slamming down onto his thighs.

The sound is soaked in slick, each impact wetter than the last. His spent, hot and thick cum already spilling out of you from your insatiable hunger, sticking messily to the insides of your thighs and the curve of your ass, smearing with every bounce, making everything sticky and so much worse.

“God, you're—fuck—you're making a mess of me, cutie," he gasps, clutching your waist like a lifeline, trying to slow you down, but your body has other plans. Your selfish walls tighten around him like a vice, milking his angry, flushed tip for every squirting spurt from his slit.

"I need you to cum again. Please," you cry out, grinding down deep, his cockhead kissing your cervix with each brutal drop of yours. "Wan' your cum, Raf! Need ya to fill me up again, wanna be stuffed, baby. Can't—nghhh!��can't stop until you breed me."

"Breed you?"

The sound he lets out is downright animalistic, his hips snapping up with brutal force, matching your pace with a ferocity that makes your eyes roll back. "Fuckin insatiable. Already dripping and it's still not enough, h-hahh?" He's fucking up into you now, ironclap grip on your hips surely leaving marks as your body jolts and falls ontop of his, your restless hips twisting and twitching against his brutal thrusts.

"G-gonna pump your greedy fucking pussy so full— o-ohhh, yeahhh."

You whimper is so high-pitched you barely recognize yourself anymore, body convulsing as your climax rips through you, and even in your haze you don't stop. You keep clenching, desperate to squeeze another load from his overstimulated, twitching cock.

He's babbling now, lost in it, eyes glazed and teeth clenched so tight he might break his jaw. "Ohhh, it's comin, m' cummin' take it take it take—"

"Mhmmm, give it ta me, Raf! Allll of it, one more, pleaseeee!"

At that, his slit spurts one last whispy load of cum into the depth of your pussy, and you grind happily down onto him to make it stay there, deep inside of you, humming in delight at the warmth flooding through you.

And as he feels your fluttering walls clench around him again, your hips slowly grinding down again, his head falls back against the sheets, a raw, desperate whimper escaping his throat.

Your walls clamp around him fiercely, squeezing so tight, demanding more.

He can't. He can't he can't he—

His hands dig into your ass, lifting you higher, up, up, up— until his cum seeps from your spent, dripping heat, a pleased sigh following suit.

But then your eyes meet his, wide and pleading, and your hands wrap around his slick, spent cock, fingers trembling as they stroke him, coated in his own mess.

Well, he can surely take—

"One more, please?"

Right?

ꪆৎ CALEB

Hot.

The only word to describe your feelings right now, because it has you wound up so tight, you're trembling. You think you might explode if you're sweet, teasing boyfriend won't fill you up this very moment.

But the way Caleb's looking at you in the mirror, he might beat you to it.

"You feel it too, don't you, Cay'?" you whisper, rocking your ass back against the bulge straining so painfully in his grey sweats.

They cling to him, snug and low on his hips, almost too tight. His bare chest is fully exposed, every cut of muscle gleaming under the low light of the room, your squirming shadow dancing over his skin and reflecting off the mirror.

His grin is sharp, eyes burning with hunger, preying over you through the mirror, a palm pressing to your lower belly, just below the waistband of your panties.

"Feel it? Baby, I smell it."

His voice is a growl against your skin, lips dragging slow and wet down the curve of your neck. He breathes you in, tongue flicking out to lick a long stripe from your neck all the way to the shell of your ear. "You're soaked."

You whimper as he rolls his hips, grinding his aching cock into you, still hidden beneath the fabric of his boxers. His other hand cups your throat from behind, guiding your gaze back to the mirror.

"Look."

You do.

"O-oh."

It's fucking obscene.

Your panties are halfway down your thighs, your legs shaking as you brace yourself against the dresser, your boyfriend's bare chest pressed to your back, hand tightening against your throat, almost daring you to look away.

Burning. Every fieber of your being is burning up, screaming at every slight touch of him. The faintest brush of his fingers against your skin sends you twitching.

A needy whimper slips out as you feel the thick press of his bulge grinding against your ass. You arch and roll your hips back into him, shamelessly, pleading without words, silently begging him to do something— anything, to ease this ache between your thighs before you actually go insane.

"In all these years together," he murmurs against your ear, voice low and dangerous. "I've never seen you like this, pips'. What's got you so hot and bothered tonight?"

You meet his eyes in the mirror before tearing them down to his fingers tugging at the hem of your panties.

"It's y-your fault. All because of—"

"Me?" His grip tightens, voice a whisper against your ear in surprise.

"Mhmmm."

"Hm. Can't have my baby all pouty now, can I?"

He whirls you around in one fluid motion, effortlessly scooping you up and tossing you onto the bed

Fuck that damned mirror, he wants the real thing.

He rips your panties the rest of the way off, strong biceps pushing your legs apart, groaning low in his throat at the sight of your weeping cunny, screaming for his attention.

"Oh fuckkk," he mutters, eyes wild and flickering between your glisterning pussy up to your flustered face. "T-this is—" he pauses, finger swiping through your folds to collect your slick, dick jumping in his pants as he sees your hole clenching around nothing, juices dripping in the process, "—heaven."

You whimper as he dips down to lick a stripe up your inner thigh, hot breath ghosting over your pussy. You could damn near scream from his endles teasing, damn near crying as your hips buck up towards his face with a frustrated groan. "N-no teasin'! Please, pleasepleaseplease—"

"Hush, baby. It's her turn now."

Before you can even think of quirking your eyebrows in question he's already burying his face between your thighs, and you let out a scream.

His tongue is fucking relentless, flicking the muscle over your clit with cruel precision before loooong drags collect your juices, his adam's apple bobbing as he's slurping up every drop.

It's like he's starving, and well, maybe he actually is.

His hot tongue circles your puffy button slow just to watch you twitch, then sucks it between his lips with so much force that your legs threathen to clamp around his head.

Until you actually do.

Thighs locking his head in place, your hands scrambling through his hair. He groans against your pussy, the sound feral, almost a whimper, sending vibrations straight through your core. Your fingers scramble through his thick brown locs, tangling and twisting until you're yanking them hard from the roots.

"Yeahhh, use me, baby. C'mon."

His rambles dissapear into your pussy, responding moan so filthy and needy. He could get used to this new neediness of yours.

God, he loves this.

He wraps his arms tighter around your thighs, locking you in place, and whining into your pussy like he's gone mad.

"Just like that, Cay'! Nghhh! don't stop, soooo good!"

Yeah, he's gone mad.

And you? You're gone.

Drooling, rutting your hips into his mouth without a shred of shame. Your body moves on instinct now, so lost in the pleasure that your eyes flutter shut, tummy sucking in as you feel yourself nearing your release.

Slurp, slurp, slurps fill the room and it's so messy— your juices coating the lower half of his face, some bleeding into the sheets below.

He glances up, pulling back just enough, and fuck, what a sight.

Your eyes glisten with unshed tears, wide and glassy pupils blown. A firm drip of drool escapes the corner of your mouth, tracing a long line down your chin. You sniffle softly, nose red and a thin sheen of sweat clings to your skin.

"My poor, poor baby."

The soft tone of his voice is a stark betrayal of what his mouth is doing to you.

His tongue is merciless, flicking and lapping at your folds with so much persicion, every lick calculated to push you further towards your limits.

He latches onto your clit with a groan, sucking hard, your thighs seizing up around his head in a headlock. Your fingers claw uselessly at the sheets, legs kicking, entire body coiled tight.

"G-god, Caleb! So good, don't stop, don't—"

Right then, your orgasm crashes over you with so much force, your head digs back into the matress. Your hips buck up wildly, unable to process the sudden pleasure washing over you, and your sweet, loving boyfriend licks you through it.

He just keeps going, keeps tasting you, even as your thighs shake and you try to twist away from from him, his wet hot tongue overwhelming you.

It's so much, too much, but still, you want—

"M-moreee! Wan' more! Need to—"

Smack!

The sharp sudden sting hits your soaked pussy before you can finish the sentence, palm cracking against your sensitive folds with a wet slap. You let out a loud, broken cry, your head twisting against the pillow as your thighs clamp together on instinct.

"No worries. Gonna give it to ya'."

Only then does he spread you open with both hands, thumbs dragging your slick folds apart to admire the way you twitch and throb. And only then does he finally pull back, tongue slipping out to taste you one last time, his chin and lips soaked, glistening with your juices.

He stays like that, lower face shining in your essance, to lazy to even bother wiping it away as his eyes lock onto you, pupils darkening.

And as he sees your hungry gaze he silently thanks the whole damn universe for your sudden neediness today.

Fucking finally a time for his inner freak to shine.

You're already moving before he says a word, scrambling weakly up onto your knees, hands clutching at his waistband like a woman possessed.

And maybe you are.

"Hurryyyyyy," you whimper, dragging the word out through a long sob. "P-please, baby! Pleaseeee, I want— Need you in me right now."

Oh, how impatient you are.

Eagerly, he shoves his sweats down and kicks them off, cock already flushed and leaking from the torture. He doesn't dare to tease, already climbing ontop of you to grab your hips, and drives into you in one deep thrust.

The stretch is so sharp and overwhelming that you scream out, white-hot blaze overcoming you.

Your walls clamp down around him so fiercely he groans, his pre squirting out with urgency, head falling back, eyes rolling shut.

He underestimated you.

"H-holy shit, baby—so damn tight— h-hahhh!"

You're already back into your drunken daze, meeting his thrusts as your heat-addled clit grinds against his faint brown trail of hair.

"Harder," you pant, nails clawing at his shoulders, his strong arms quick to lift your legs onto his shoulders, hitting your g-spot over and over again.

But it's not enough.

"I said hahhh-harder, Caleb—"

He growls, pushing your legs firmly against your shoulders, your legs dangling above your head as he slams into you faster now, rougher. Unrelenting. His hands dig into the flesh of your thighs, the new position causing your muscles to burn from the stretch, and every thrust hits you so deep, fat tip kissing your cervix, your vision blurs.

"Not gonna last," he blurts out, mouth covered in your slick now attacking yours, diving in as if your mouth would grant him air. "You're too fucking—shit! Toooo good—"

He's going to be the death of you.

"C-cum inside, baby." you moan, hands griping his shoulders, biceps, hips, anything to make him ram into your greddy cunny faster, longing for him to prod at your womb. "Need your cum, baby. F-fill me— uhhh! up!"

His balls tighten, almost painfully so, mouth hanging open as drool drips down, right into your awating mouth and he just know this isn't going to be the last load for him tonight.

He knocks the breath out of you with a brutal push of his hips, his girth hauling your walls further apart as his fat mushroomy head throbs, close, soooo close to fill you to the brim.

"A-alright, pips. Anything for my needy princess."

You're going to be the death of him.

ꪆৎ SYLUS

You're trembling, knees straddling Sylus's broad hips, riding him like your entire body burns with desperate need. His hands grip your thighs, trying to ground you, get you to slow down, but it's already to late.

"Gods," he groans, voice hoarse, on the brink of cracking. His dark, ruby eyes in search of yours and you swear he grows even larger inside you as your eyes lock. "You're killing me here, sweetie."

"M' sorry, Sy. Can't stop, can't—"

His lips crash down onto yours, muffling your pleas with a desperate kiss. His strong hands tighten on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, every thrust deeper and more urgent than the last.

"You don't have to," he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick with lust, ruby eyes eating you alive. "Have me. Use me."

He's done it now.

You grind down harder, hips snapping desperately against him, breath uneven and broken. And every frantic roll of yours pulls a low growl from his throat, his girthy length pulsating inside your gooey walls.

His hefty cock draaags along every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and heavy, stretching your weeping walls to their limit and you swear he gets harder with every needy rut you throw at him.

"Honey, I don't think I can—"

His jaw clenches tightly, teeth grazing his bottom lip as he struggles to maintain his composure. His head sinks into the sheets, gray hair forming a halo around his head as cheery eyes flutter before snapping back to yours, pupils blown wide.

"Y-you're so— sooo"

"Hmm? M' what, Sy'?"

You whimper, grinding down until he's pressed so deep you can feel him bulging inside your lower belly, leaving a visible imprint of himself there.

And It's only driving you further into insanity.

"You're gonna ruin me," he pants, voice thick with lust, a slight crack audible. "Ohhh, gonna fucking ruin me, sweetie. L-look at you."

You press your forehead against his, panting, your walls clench so tight you feel every vein and even the slight right curve of his girth.

Sylus's hands travel up your sides, grip ironclad, his thumbs digging into your ribs. His control is slipping, obvious in the way his dark ruby eyes widen, groan rumbling in his chest when you shift your weight and rock your hips harder against him.

He oggles at your eyes rolling to the back of your head, gripping your nape and pulling you down until his mouth meets yours agar, slamming his mouth against yours with such force, teeth and tongues clash.

"You're everything," he mutters against your lips, saliva connecting you both, voice cracking under the pressure. "So fucking perfect."

Your nails dig into his shoulders, breath hitching in desperate gasps in rythm to the bed creaking under you both as his hips jerk, matching your frantic rhythm.

"Keep going, love." He breaks into a grunt as your head falls into the crook of his neck, painting his ivory skin with bubbling drool.

"Thaaat's my girl."

There's nothing else inside your fucked out mind except for him him and more him.

Sylus. Sylus. Sylus.

Feisty hips bouncing on him, desperate to feel every inch, every frantic pulse, your walls fluttering, dragging Sylus closer to the edge with every desperate thrust.

And you notice from his deep groan, his parted lips aswell as his hands sliding under your arms, pulling you impossibly closer. His breath fans across your skin, heavy and ragged.

"You're driving me mad." He's a drooling mess himself now, thighs clenching as his balls tighten up, so damn close to filling your eager cunt up.

You lift your head before pathetically falling against his lips, saliva messily smearing all across his lower face.

He growls, hips snapping up with brutal force, obscenely loud and wet plap plap plap echoing the room, his grip on your hips tightening, his fingers digging in like you could dissapear if he ever dared to let go.

"I'm close" He moans shamelessly into your mouth now, burrying his cock deeper, reddened tip hitting your cervix with each of his bold jerks up into you. "So close."

"N-ghhh, me t-toooo!" you sob, words barely forming through your moans.

"Gonna cum! Gonna fucking cum, Sy! Pleaseee—"

Then he surges upright, wrapping one strong arm around your waist, the other sliding down to grip your ass with a loud smack! and slam you down on him, over and over until you're voice betrays you, wails and whimpers flooding out from your lips.

His cock drives up into you so deep your toes curl, hitting the same perfect spot again and again, robbing cries from your sobbing pussy.

Plap plap plap.

"Better hold on tight, sweetie."

He grabs your hips, slams up, and fucks you like he hates you. The bed shrieks, holding on for deat life as the headboard rattles against the walls and in these moments you're thankful you live in the N109-Zone with no neighbours.

"Yesyesyes! Js like that, Sy!"

There's a thick white ring of your slick forming at the base of his cock, clinging to him with every brutal thrust, and when he looks down and sees it, something snaps inside him.

He flips you onto your stomach, quickly slipping inside your addicting heat again, as if it pains him to not be inside your for any second longer. His cock slips back inside your dripping heat with a lewd twack! and the both of you groan, breath hitching in sync as he sinks in to the hilt for the nth time tonight.

Your back arches, panting against the pillow as your nails claw at the sheets, loud whail earning a breathless chuckle from man above.

"Please Sy! Need your cum s-so bad— need you to breed me."

He lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a growl before burying himself deep with one last snap of his hips.

His body stiffens as his cock twitches and pulses inside you, flooding you with wave after wave of hot white cum. You clench down hard, milking him for what he's worth, moaning his name as your own orgasm hits like a shockwave, body trembling beneath his.

He stays pressed against you, breath harsh against your neck, hand splayed across your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, lewd squelch from your stuffed cunny letting out a broken whine. You twitch under him, drooling into the pillow, body still shaking from how hard you came.

"This heat's not out of you yet, is it?"

You shake your head with a weak cry, drooling against the pillow.

"Then," he muses, kissing the shell of your ear, slow and almost sweet,

"Best start picking out a new bed you want, sweetie."

ꪆৎ XAVIER

"It's little moments like these,"

he pants against your ear, "that remind you just how much more my sweet princess can take."

You're out of breath, slick and shaking from everything he's already wrung out of you, but he couldn't care less. He doesn't even want you to recover and catch your breath.

And he sure as hell doesn't let you.

He spins you around like youre a mere feather-weight, palms branding into your hips as he manhandles you onto the bed, chest down and ass up.

Your hands scramble for purchase, fingers knotting into the sheets just as you feel the blunt heat of his hefty length press between your thighs again, his cock smearing pre over the curve of your ass, coating it in a shining glee.

"Could get used to you being like this, you know," he hums, one slender finger tracing up your stomach before resting on one of your breasts, giving it a tight squeeze, "you loooove getting all cockdrunk and dumb on me, huh?"

"Mhmm! Love you! Love your—"

"Say it right."

His words pierce through just like his dick through past your puffy folds, tip curving right against the spot that has you mewling out, almost like a button being pressed.

A sharp smack! to your ass follows his firm words, soon rubbing soothingly over the reddened globe as his cock slides out, leaving only his tip cramped in your hole.

"L-love it when you fuck me dumb, Xav'! Love getting drunk on your cock! But p-please..."

Your hips jerk back, earning a growl from his as he inspects your greedy pussy engulfing half of his length now, eager to suck him back in whole.

"... Still not enough. Need more."

Your pleading whimpers are muffled against the pillow face first as he fully rams into you again, body firmly pressed against yours. His throbbing girth is fully nestled inside you, his light chuckle hot against your ear.

"Talking outta that greedy pussy again."

You bite your lip in shame or amusement, you don't know. Desperate and wild grinds of your hips move back against his, rutting hard with every agonizingly slow drag of his hips.

He slides in and out of you like butter, your previous squirts of juices and his thick hot cum creating the perfect lubricant.

It's filthy— the kind of slick, nasty glide that sends sparks through your overstimulated nerves. Every time he pulls back, a string of mixed fluids clings between your swollen folds and his soaked cock, glistening, connecting you to him like a leash. The wet schlik schlik schlik of it echoes in the room, punctuated only by your choked moans and the brutal slap of skin on skin.

You're so swollen, so stretched, your body clutching at him like he's your prey.

"Tight fuckin' thing," he snarls, hands gripping your waist, forming half moons with his nails on your skin. "Keep moving those hips for me, angel— o-oh fuckkkk! Don't stop."

You don't. You can't. Rutting back with abandon, desperate and so greedy, your hips roll and slam into his with haste. You can feel every throb of his cock inside you, feel it twitch and pulse as his rhythm grows savage.

Fuck, you could die like this— pressed neatly against the sheets with your beloved boyfriend rutting you deeper into the matress for the nth time tonight.

His pace turns feral, brutal, the whaming of his hips against your ass growing harder, meaner.

"Y-yes! Yes, Xav! Gimmie more baby," you pant, hands reaching back to grip at his ass, thigh, anything to make him plug deeper into you, your stuffed cunny shrieking and squeking with every of his brutal thrusts, "m-more."

"My pillow princess can't even think straight now, hmm?. She's doing the talking for you now, huh?"

You grind faster, rubbing your clit against the curve of his pelvis, breath hitching in shaky gasps. The way he holds you, the weight of him pressing into your back, makes you lose yourself completely— heat spilling over, body shaking with need.

"Greedy little hole doesn't wanna let me go," he hisses, panting harder now, fucking you through the clench, feeling your now god-knows which-one-orgasm aproach. "A-ahhhh, hear that? Oh yeah, so fucking loud, begging me to fill her up again."

No answer, you're just cumming, squirting against the sheets, orgasm hitting you like a punch in the gut and fuck— he surely is digging in it.

His hand wretch your head up by your neck now, ocean eyes drinking up your agape mouth, lolling out tongue and your fluttering eyes, biting his lip to keep him from cummin in you right then and—

Shit.

Xavier's voice catches in his throat. His head tips back, throat bared. His hands try to grip your waist, then fall limp beside you helplessly, falling right ontop of you as now faint whisps of cum spurt out, meekly adding to the previous buckets of cum resting in your flodded pussy.

And he's still hard.

Well, you don't seem to be satisfied either. Not with your desperate arches, trying to get him to move even though he's fully laying ontop of you, barely leaving you air to breathe.

"O-one more." you purr, one hand trailing down to lock his fingers with yours.

He twitches inside you weakly, shaky sigh escaping him and glassy eyes snapping open.

You still want more?

"You're killing me, princess."

You giggle against the pillow, low lidded eyes shooting him a smug grin, spit painted mouth glisterning.

"Good."

ꪆৎ ZAYNE

In what world could he've known that his sweet little wife could get like this?

Sure, he's always pliant to your needs, always does his best to grant your every wish, make you happy. He'd kiss your ankles if you asked, worship the ground you walked on with no shame at all.

You're his wife, after all. His one and only.

But this? This has his mind fucking reeling.

He's never, not once, seen you like this—wild-eyed and sweat-slicked, mouth parted in shameless moans as you grind yourself up into him with no sign of stopping. Your nails drag hot down his spine, then grip tight around his ass, pulling him into you, holding him there like he might even think to leave.

Like he could.

Zayne groans, loud and ragged, hips stuttering as your soaked, greedy cunt sucks him right back in every time he tries to pull out. You're milking him, clenching down; your body refusing to give him a moment's rest—and it's driving him insane.

"Not e-enough," you gasp, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice so wrecked it makes his cock twitch inside you. "Need more. Wanna feel your cock deeeeep inside."

Well, he can't complain, to be honest.

"More?" he pants, almost incredulous. But the way he smiles, like he's so far gone on you it hurts says everything needed to be said. "Already fucked my darling wife dumb. Doesn't even know what nasty of a mouth she's got on her now."

You just moan, nodding that fucked-out little head of yours frantically, lips dragging across his throat as you rock your hips up again, taking him even deeper. He moans, losing his rhythm completely, slamming back into you with a helpless sound that borders on a whimper.

Your light chuckle sweels his heart—and cock. You kiss his cheek, sweet and breathless. "Yours, Zayne. All yours. Now give it ta' me."

You've done it now. You broke your poor husband's brain.

Before you can blink, he's flipped you over, your knees pressed into the mattress, arms trembling under your weight. You barely register the movement before his leaking tip is already forcing its way back in, sliding through your slick pussy.

He spanks you. Hard.

"You want more?"

"Oh fuckkk yes, I—!"

But he's not talking to you. His gazes falls directly down to your greedy cunny sucking him in, examining the mess that drip drip drips down your legs and onto the sheets.

"Want me to ruin my pretty wife, huh?"

He snarls at your snug cunny and takes the loud squelch! as an answer, bracing his hands on both of your ass cheeks, spreading you wiiiide to get a better view.

"Alright. Then take it, you nasty girl."

Skin slapping skin, his hips driving forward in brutal, punishing thrusts, fucking you with none of that usual sweetness of his. Just raw, filthy. You cry out, over and over, face buried in the sheets, hands clawing for purchase, head spinning with dizziness.

God, you're husband's out of this world. You're not even sure what you did to deserve a man like him.

"I'll take it, all of it!" you sob, hips pushing back to meet his every thrust. "Want it all, Zayne! W-wanna feel all hot and full inside—!"

He actually growls like some beast, ramming his cock damn near into your poor womb, and you scream when his hand snakes down and smacks your clit, a wet slap! followed by furious circles that make your thighs quake.

"You like that, don't you?" he growls, head falling to the crook of your neck to sink his teeth into your shoulder, earning a shriek. "Like me pounding you stupid while your pretty little cunt begs for more?"

You nod frantically, sobbing, helpless to the way your orgasm starts to crest, so tight and fast, your walls spasming around him, trying to milk him again.

"My wife's talking outta her pussy again, huh?" he huffs, snapping his hips harder, tip forming a deep buldge in your tummy. "Sloppy little hole just keeps begging. She's so loud, baby."

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, shattering you completely. Your arms give out under the weight of it, body collapsing onto the soaked sheets as your cunt gushes around him, spraying down your thighs in a messy rush, soaking his cock and making a lewd, slick sound as he fucks you through it. And he doesn't even slow down, just drives in harder, chasing his own end with vicious rams.

"Want more, Zayne... please,"

Voice wrecked and slurred, your body's still trembling from the last orgasm. You're soaked, dripping, stretched and raw, but that greedy little pulse in your cunt won't stop—you're still needy, still aching.

Zayne's panting above you, face flushed, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He’s still buried to the hilt inside you, cock twitching, cum leaking out around the base with every tiny clench of your slick walls.

"W-what about a quick break, darling? Promise I'll—"

"N-noooo," you whine, lip wobbling, eyes stinging as water builds at your lash line, hipsalready back to rutting and arching back into him, his fresh seed spilling from your overflowed hole. “Pleaseee, baby. Want more, my husband's fucking me soooo good."

"Alright then."

His voice is wrecked, but the second he sees the tears in your eyes and the desperate grind of your hips against his, he snaps. Whatever doubt or exhaustion he had left is gone.

He leans in close, presses wet kisses to your cheek as his thrusts get messier and more frantic. "Happy wife," his cock twitches deep inside you, mushroomy head pulsating with fatigue, spurting the last remnats of his whispy cum,

"happy fucking life."

©︎𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙍𝙎 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. Do NOT plagiarize, copy, modify, republish, or translate my work in any way!

[byfawn]

INSPECTED

౨ৎ — beware of dubcon, possessive behavior, pussy inspection, rough unprotected sex, fingering, degradation, implied cheating accusations, breeding, throat fucking, cunnilingus, and manhandling

the barracks were quiet, the usual hum of soldiers winding down for the night replaced by a thick tension. you’d been simon’s little secret for weeks now, his barracks bunny, always eager to please him whenever he crooked a finger in your direction. but tonight, his mood was different—dark, possessive, the kind that made your stomach twist with both fear and something hotter, something desperate.

“heard you’ve been spreading those pretty legs for anyone who asks,” he growled, his voice low, rough like gravel. his massive frame loomed over you, crowding you against the wall of his private quarters. the accusation hit you like a slap, your breath catching in your throat.

“w-what? no, sir, i—i wouldn’t—”

“shut it.” his hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off your protest. his eyes, sharp behind that mask, raked over you like he could see right through your clothes. “gonna inspect you myself. make sure you’re still mine.”

your pulse skyrocketed, thighs pressing together instinctively. but he didn’t give you a choice. one large hand gripped your waist, spinning you around to face the wall. his body pressed against your back, his cock already hard against your ass.

“spread ‘em,” he ordered, voice leaving no room for argument.

you whimpered but obeyed, shuffling your feet apart. his hand slid down your thigh, pushing your skirt up roughly. his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down to your knees. the cold air hit your bare skin, making you shiver.

“fuck, look at you,” he muttered, his free hand spreading your cheeks apart. “gonna check every inch of this cunt. make sure no one else’s been here.”

his thumb dragged through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open. you gasped, your hips jerking forward, but he held you still. “stay put,” he growled. “this is an inspection, sweetheart. not a fuck.”

his fingers slide through your folds, spreading you open. “fuck, look at you. puffy little cunt, all swollen up just from me lookin’ at it.” he rubs his thumb over your clit, just once, and you jerk. “sensitive, too.”

he chuckled darkly, rubbing his thumb over your clit again, just enough to make you whine. “dirty little thing,” he murmured. “already soaked. you like this, don’t you? being checked like some cheap whore.”

“n-no, i—ah!” your protest turned into a moan as two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, stretching you open. he worked them deep, curling just right, and your knees nearly buckled.

“tight,” he noted, voice rough. “but that doesn’t prove shit.” his fingers fucked into you, rough and relentless, the sound obscenely wet. “gotta check deeper.”

you were panting now, your hips rocking back against his hand, chasing the pleasure despite yourself. he added a third finger, stretching you impossibly wider, and you cried out, your nails scraping the wall.

“fuck, sir—please—”

“please what?” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “tell me what you want, bunny.”

“i—i need—ah!” his thumb pressed hard on your clit, rubbing circles just shy of painful, and your vision whited out. your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around his fingers as you came with a broken sob.

he didn’t stop. his fingers kept pumping into you, dragging your pleasure out until you were shaking, oversensitive. only then did he pull his hand away, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth. he licked them clean, eyes locked on yours.

“taste like mine,” he rumbled. “but i’m not done.”

before you could process his words, he was spinning you around, forcing you onto your knees. his belt clinked as he undid it, his cock springing free, thick and flushed. “open,” he ordered.

you obeyed, your mouth falling open, and he shoved himself between your lips without hesitation. you gagged, tears pricking your eyes as he fucked your throat, his grip tight in your hair.

“gonna check this too,” he grunted. “make sure no one else’s been here either.”

you choked around him, drool dripping down your chin, but he didn’t let up. his hips snapped forward, forcing himself deeper, until your nose pressed against his pelvis.

when he finally pulled back, you gasped for air, your lips swollen, your face wet. he tilted your chin up, his thumb smearing spit across your bottom lip. “good girl,” he murmured. “still mine.”

then he was hauling you up, tossing you onto the cot. his hands ripped your clothes away, leaving you bare beneath him. his mouth was on your cunt before you could blink, his tongue lapping at your folds like he was starving.

you writhed, your back arching, but he pinned your hips down, his tongue fucking into you with brutal precision. he sucked your clit into his mouth, biting just enough to make you scream.

“simon—fuck, i can’t—i can’t—”

“come again,” he ordered, his voice vibrating against your skin. “prove you’re mine.”

you shattered, your body convulsing as another orgasm tore through you. he didn’t stop until you were limp, your thighs trembling around his head.

only then did he rise, unbuckling the rest of his gear. his cock was dripping, his need obvious. he dragged you to the edge of the cot, flipping you onto your stomach. one hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down as he lined himself up.

“gonna inspect this cunt thoroughly now,” he growled.

then he was inside you, splitting you open in one brutal thrust. you screamed, your nails clawing at the sheets as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass.

“fuck,” he hissed. “so fucking tight. still just for me.”

he didn’t give you time to adjust. his hands gripped your hips, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust. the cot creaked beneath you, the sound drowned out by your moans, his grunts.

“mine,” he snarled, his pace relentless. “this pussy’s mine. say it.”

“y-yours!” you sobbed. “only yours, sir—fuck!”

he slammed into you harder, his fingers digging bruises into your skin. you could feel him everywhere, his cock stretching you impossibly full, his breath hot on your neck.

“gonna fill you up,” he promised, his voice ragged. “mark you from the inside. let everyone know who you belong to.”

the words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cunt clenching around him. he groaned, his thrusts turning erratic.

“come for me, bunny,” he ordered. “one more time.”

you did, your body obeying him instantly. your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your walls fluttering around him, milking his cock. with a final, brutal thrust, he followed, his cum flooding your cunt, his growl muffled against your shoulder.

he stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting, before he finally pulled out. his cum dripped from your used cunt, and he dragged his fingers through it, smearing it over your thighs.

“good girl,” he murmured, pressing a rough kiss to your spine. “passed inspection.”

[leclerc-hs]

romantic chocolates? - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you and your best friends brother accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate OR you and oscar get so fucking horny while on a yacht in the Maldives. warnings: smut smut smut, all smut basically. oral, p in v, dirty talk, language, marking kink, slight voyeruism, exhibitionism??, not sure what else...NOT PROOFREAD! (might be some typos) word count: ~3.9k author's note: SURPRISEEEE ITS OUT EARLY (I worked hard over the weekend lol) hope you guys enjoy!! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR OSCAR EVERRRR (aside from a one shot i've had sitting in my drafts for months lol) comment and let me know what you think!!! xoxo

ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55

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You’ve always had a sweet tooth.

Everyone knew it. Oscar especially. He used to tease you over it when you were younger. Would point out when your fingers were sticky with something sugary.

He never said it unkindly. Just amused. Soft. Something like you’ve got chocolate on your face and then passed you a napkin you didn’t ask for.

He’s always been like that. Gentle. Kind. The boy who was never loud. More of a listener than a speaker.

And he never made you feel silly. Not when you cried after falling off your bike and scraped your knee. Not when your towel slipped. Not even when you accidentally spilled juice all over your shirt on a long flight. He just handed you a new one from his backpack like he knew it’d happen. 

You’d grown up like that. 

And now here you were, years later. Sunburned and salty on a private yacht in the Maldives, still with a sweet tooth and one of his old McLaren shirts he gave you when he first got signed. Pulled over your bikini.

His sister, your best friend, left on in the morning for a tour with the rest of the group. Something about history and snorkeling. You’d both waved your hands declining. Something about being too burned and too sleepy for it. 

“She’s going to get bored halfway through,” You sip on your drink. “Probably will call us in two hours.”

Oscar gives you a shrug. “I give her one.”

“She said it was a once in a lifetime experience.” You throw up your hands while repeating her words. Mocking her almost. Smiling.

“So is sitting here.”

And you laugh.

He’s sitting across from you, towel slung around the back of his neck, sun catching his shoulders. His hair is damp. Skin flushed from the sun. No shirt. Just a pair of swim shorts and bare feet.

You shift slightly where you are. Curled up in the shade. Bare legs stretched out. The oversized shirt clinging to you just a little too much where your bikini top was wet.

He glances at you when you move. Doesn’t speak. Just tracks it with his eyes. And looks away again.

His hand reaches for the table. “What’s this?”

You look over. 

A little box. Dark. Red ribbon wrapped around it.

“Some welcome thing, I think.” You shrug. “Dropped it off yesterday.”

Oscar pulls the lid open, brows lifting. He picks up a wrapped square, amused.

“Well, well.” He says, looking at you. “Your kryptonite.”

You grin. “Shut up.”

“You gonna pretend you didn’t spot this the second we sat down?”

“I did not.”

He tilts his head, giving you a look.

“Mm, you’ve got that look.” He says.

“What look?”

“The one you used to get before stealing cupcakes at birthday parties.”

You roll your eyes, but blush. Cheeks reddening. “I did not steal…”

“You did.” He cuts you off. Already unwrapping one of the chocolates. “Always had sugar on your hands. Icing on the corner of your lips.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he tosses a piece toward you.

You catch it.

You watch him bring the chocolate to his mouth, tongue darting over his lip without thinking.

Peel open your piece and press it to your tongue. It melts fast. Rich. 

You hum, licking a smear of it off your finger. “That’s actually really good.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up and catch him mid-swipe across his bottom lip. Looking dazed. Distracted.

Then he blinks, clears his throat. And nods. “Yeah, pretty good.”

He closes the lid of the box, slides it to the side. Then leans back, looking at the water.

And you sit there with him. Across from him on the cushioned benches. Chewing slowly. Feeling that heat bloom beneath your skin.

It’s soft at first.

Then deeper.

A warmth in your chest. A pulse between your thighs.

The wind sweeps your skin. And the fabric of your bikini suddenly feels too damp. Too thin. Too tight.

You swallow. Trying not to fidget.

Oscar hasn’t moved much. His gaze is still on the ocean, but it isn’t really. And you watch the way his jaw flexes. The way his foot shifts on the deck. Like he was grounding himself.

He doesn’t look at you.

And he always looks at you. 

You shift again. Cross your ankles. Press your thighs together.

You glance at Oscar again.

And his lips are parted. Just a little bit. And his brow is slightly furrowed.

You sit up slightly. “You okay?”

He shifts. Then clears his throat, blinking. “Yeah. Just…hot.”

You nod slowly. “Same.”

He leans forward, breathes out. But his fingers twitch. And you notice as his back muscles roll slightly as he drops his head down, towel slipping down.

He stays like that for a few seconds. Then rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

His voice is quiet. Flat. “What was in that chocolate?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you’re fucking throbbing now. And your bikini is definitely soaked.

“Do you feel…” He swallows, throat bobbing. “Strange?”

You nod. And then remember he isn’t even looking at you. “Yeah.”

His jaw clenches.

He shifts again. Still not looking at you. And that’s how you know something is wrong.

Because he never acts like this. 

You’ve seen him flustered, sure. After a race, dealing with the media, around too many people. But never like this. Not this tense. As if he’s afraid.

“I didn’t think chocolate could….fuck.” His voice cracks. And he laughs under his breath. 

He grips the bench. Looking like he’s in pain.

“I think I need to go inside.”

And he stands too fast. Towel falling down. Hands clenched at his sides as he turns on bare feet and walks toward the main cabin.

You stare at his back. His shoulders. And he disappears down the stairs.

You’re so hot that you could cry. Unbearable.

You press your palm flat to your stomach. Like it’ll help.

But it doesn’t.

Because it’s not just the chocolate. 

It’s him. Oscar.

Gone for less than a minute and his voice is the only thing in your head. The way his mouth looked when he licked the chocolate off his thumb. His hands. The muscles of his back straining as he leaned forward

The silence stretches heavy.

You make a quiet sound in your throat. Barely audible. And you can’t sit still. Can barely think. Can’t stop seeing him.

Your hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re hesitant at first. But then trail your fingers to the center of your ache.

And your hips lift off the cushion. A heavy breath escaping.

Your other hand grips the bench as you rock slowly against your own fingers. Over the bikini. Slow circles. Each one, pressing harder.

You let your head fall back. And the sky above is almost blinding.

“Oscar…”

You don’t even realize you said it out loud. It just slips. 

And a few moments later, you don’t even hear him come back. Your fingers still at your bikini. Rubbing.

You lift your head. He’s there.

Flushed. Hair ruffled like he ran his fingers through it a million times. Eyes fixed between your legs like he’s in some sort of trance.

He just stares. Doesn’t even speak.

“I can’t stop,” You whisper. Honest.

“You’re…” He blinks. Voice low. Stunned. Like he just walked into his favorite fantasy and doesn’t know what to do. “You’re fucking touching yourself?”

You nod. And he groans.

“To me?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” You whisper.

“Jesus.” His hands twitch at his sides.

You shift, spreading your legs a little wider without meaning to. Unable to stop rubbing the tight circles.

“You look so pretty like that,” He mutters.

You tremble. “I need help.”

And his eyes widen.

“Please,” you whisper. “I can’t…Osc, please.”

He groans. Hands dropping to the front of his swim shorts, palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric.

“Come closer.” You plead.

And he stares at you with wide eyes. Flushed. He doesn’t move. At least, he doesn’t at first.

But then his gaze drops back down to your legs. Spread open. Your fingers rubbing slow, desperate circles. And his hands twitch.

“I…” He says, but he’s already squeezing himself. “I shouldn’t.”

“Oscar…”

“I shouldn’t be seeing this,” his mutters. “And I shouldn’t be this fucking hard.”

Your eyes fall to where his hand squeezes against his cock. Like he’s trying to fight the ache between his legs.

And you whimper. Hips jerking. “I can’t. I need….I need help.”

His hand squeezes himself tighter.

“Fuck.” A pause. A few silent moments of heated stares. “Do you know how many times I used to think about this?”

His voice has gone rough. And you blink at him. Heart stuttering.

“I used to jerk off in my room and feel sick after,” He whispers. “Because it was you. My sister’s best friend. Always walking around in those tiny shorts. That blue bikini. Always so fucking sweet.”

Your fingers slow. Jaw falls slack.

“I’ve thought about it,” His voice shakes. “Fuck. I’ve thought about this. When we were younger.”

Your breath hitches.

“Thought about your pussy more than I should’ve.” He mutters. “Wondered how soft you’d feel. How tight. If you’d let me take my time or if you’d beg me to fuck you rough.”

Your back arches.

“Wondered what you’d sound like when you come.” He continues. “If it’s all breathy. Or if you’d cry. If you’d say my name.”

“I’d press the pillow over my face after so no one would hear me,” He admits. “Every time.”

You gasp.

“I would.” You gasp.

His hand pushes harder into his cock. Groaning. “I’ve thought about fucking you with my tongue. Holding your legs and licking you for hours.”

You press your fingers even harder.

You whimper, other hand reading for a pillow or something to grab onto. “Osc, please.”

“You want my fingers?” He whispers. “Right here? Want me to fuck you with my hand?”

You nod. Repeatedly. Fast. Almost pathetic.

Oscar lets out a whimper. And then he’s kneeling in front of you before you can blink. Hand still pressing into his cock. The other trembling as his fingers brush your thigh.

“You’re so warm.”

Your hand falls away and he replaces it instantly. Pressing two fingers against the soaked fabric. Groans loudly when he feels it.

“Fuck, pretty…” He groans. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ dripping.”

And then he pushes the fabric aside, stares. Pupils blown. “God, look at you…"

You shake your head. “Please.”

“I’ve thought about sliding my fingers into you since I was seventeen,” He pushes them in. Half-laughing. “Thought about curling them deep and slow….hearing you moan just like that.”

Oscar swears under his breath, leaning closer. Jaw locked tight. “I’d keep you like this for hours if I could. Legs spread and needy….mine to play with.”

You cry out. Rocking your hips.

And he curls his fingers. Watching your face.

“Yeah?” His thumb circles your clit now. Slow. “Right there? Knew I’d find it.”

And you careen forward. Hands flying to grab his shoulders.

“Come for me,” He mutters. “Right here. In my fucking shirt. On my yacht. On my fingers.”

And you do.

Hard.

And he watches every second. His lips parted. Cock throbbing.

And then he drags his fingers out of you slow.

Brings them to his mouth. 

Licks them clean. Eyes locked on yours.

“Taste better than I ever dreamed,” He says softly.

And then he’s grabbing the back of your neck. Pulling your lips to his. Kissing you like he’s starving.

His tongue licks your mouth like its his. Like he already knows how to pull those sounds out of you and wants to hear every single one. 

And his hands slip down your body. Down your shoulders, over your ribs. Brushing the dip of your waist. Until he’s gripping your thighs.

“Wanna see bruises here,” He says. “Want people to see bruises and know.”

He stays kneeling between you, chest heaving.

“You’re soaking, baby.” His voice cracks.

He leans forward. Kissing your inner thigh. And then opens his mouth, sucking hard. Pulling a moan from you.

You feel the bruise forming as he licks over it. Sucks it again. Fingers pressing into your skin, gripping it.

“That’s one,” He mutters. 

He leaves another one. Higher. 

Then a third on the other leg. Right by your cunt. So close that it makes your hips jerk into his mouth.

And then he’s standing. Grabbing you under your thighs. And lifts you. 

Laying you down on the table. The welcome basket crashes onto the deck with a thud, but neither of you acknowledge it. The box of chocolates dangling on the edge.

He grabs it.

“What are you doing?” You ask. Breathless.

He doesn’t answer. Opens the box, takes out a single piece and holds it up. Gaze dropping down to your cunt spread open for him.

“Need to taste you with this,” He mutters.

He leans over you. Pressing the chocolate between your lips. “Bite.”

You do.

The sun’s hot against your skin.

And then he kisses you hard. Tongue lapping against yours, sharing the chocolate. You both moan and groan into each other before he’s dropping back to his knees.

“Look at you,” He breathes. “All messy. Want my mouth, baby?”

You nod.

And he leans in. Licks you.

One long drag up your slit.

You cry out. And he groans into your cunt. Licking you. Tasting you.

“Fuckin heaven.” He drags a hand to your leg. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

“Oscar…”

He doesn’t stop. Just hooks his arm under your thigh, and pulls you closer to the edge. Legs over his shoulder.

And buries his face in your pussy.

You grind into him instantly. Chasing every flick of his tongue.

Your hands fist into his hair, dragging his face closer against you. And he moans. Wrecked.

“Fuck,” you yell. “Oscar…oh my…fuck.”

He drags his tongue through you. Flicking your clit over and over.

“Keep fucking my face,” his voice is hot.

“You sound…my God..Oscar, you sound obsessed..”

“I am.” He grunts. Fingers curling in you as he nudges your clit with his nose.

And then he pulls one arm away. You barely notice it. Until you hear it and look down.

He’s got his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting it fast. Leaking.

He jerks his cock faster. Hips twitching into his own fist as his mouth works harder against you. 

“Gonna come,” he confesses. “Gonna come from tasting you.”

You cry out.

“C’mon…” He urges. “Let me taste it, yeah?” 

And it breaks you.

You moan into the open sky. Grinding against his face. Jaw slack. Eyes squeezed shut.

And then he groans, standing up and comes hard onto your cunt. 

Hot, messy ropes of it. Spilling over you. 

And then he’s dragging you off the table without a word. Not giving you time to even breathe. Panting. 

His hands tight around you, and then he’s spinning you. Forcing you to face the ocean. Chest hitting the metal railing. 

And he’s behind you. Silent.

You start to turn your head, “Oscar…?”

“No.” He says. Voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

His hands drag your shirt up. Slow.

His name in bold letters stretched across your back.

He groans. Violently.

“I should’ve fucked you in this years ago.”

Your breath falters.

“Fucking knew it,” He grabs a fistful of the shirt, twisting his hand in it. “Knew one day you’d bend over in this and I’d lose my fucking mind.”

You feel the heat of his body behind you, shoving your bottoms down with one swift flick of his hand. Cock thick and heavy. Dragging through your folds, collecting his come and your wetness.

He groans. You shake.

He presses forward, hips rocking against you. Grinding into your thighs.

“You’ve no idea what you look like.” His breath is heavy behind you. “Bent over. My name on your back. Come still dropping down your cunt.”

And you bite your lip. Arching into him harder.

One hand grips your hip, the other fisted around the shirt.

“You wore this shirt for years like it meant nothing,” His voice quieter. Mean. “Didn’t think about what it did to me every time you wore it.”

“Osc…” You attempt to say his name, but he shifts his hips into you harder and your voice cracks.

He laughs.

“Now look at you. Dripping all over me. Wearing my name like you belong to me.”

He sinks in slow. So slow that you feel every pulse. Every ridge. 

And you whimper. He groans behind you. Like he’s in pain. Like he’s trying so hard to not ravish you.

But when his hips meet you, and he’s bottomed out. He just….stops.

Breathes in heavily.

“Fuck.” He says soft. “You’re so fucking tight around me.”

His fingers dig into your hip even harder. Bruising. Marking.

“You’ve ruined me,” He laughs. “Y’know that?”

And you don’t even get a chance to answer.

Because he pulls back and slams into you. Hard.

You cry out, hands gripping the railing that your knuckles turn white.

His pace isn’t gentle at all. It’s feral.

“Fucking ruined me,” He says again. “You in this shirt….you in my fucking name..do you even know what that does to me?”

You moan. So loud. And his hips smack into you. Over and over.

“You’ve been walkin’ around in it for years.” He spits. “Like it’s nothing.”

He thrusts deep, angling his hips at a better angle. “Like I haven’t been dreaming of fucking you in it since I gave it to you all those years ago.”

You’re babbling now. Unable to breathe properly. Your entire body trembling.

His hand slips from your hip and slides up your spine. He grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down. Just a little bit harder. Forces you to arch even more.

And fuck, he nearly collapses when he feels you clench tighter around him.

“You should see yourself,” He grunts. “Squeezing around me like you’re desperate to never let me go.”

And he’s lost all rhythm. He’s just slamming into you. Cock so deep. 

“Can’t believe this is real.” He’s panting. “Can’t believe I get to fuck you in my shirt. Pussy covered in me.”

Your orgasm is close. And you’re shouting. Moaning. 

"Bet she'd lose her mind if she knew what a slut you were f'me..."

You cry out. He feels you teetering on the edge. 

“Don’t.” He snaps.

And you cry, “Oscar…please.”

“You’re gonna wait.” He demands, fucking into you more rapidly. 

And he’s losing his mind. It’s sooo good. 

“Say who’s inside you.” His hands squeeze the back of your neck. “Say it.”

You gasp. Jaw falling slack. Chest pressed harsh into the metal railing. “You…Osc..fuck, it’s  so good..”

You sob out his name and Oscar fucking snaps.

“That’s it, baby.” 

His hips hit you faster. Deeper. The filthy sound of it heard over the waves lapping the hull. 

You sob into the railing. 

He leans into you, head falling forward.

“Gonna come,” He chokes out. “Gonna come right inside you. Stuff you full. Let it leak out.”

And you break.

Orgasm ripping through you. Violent and hot. Back arching so hard into him. You sob out his name. Your walls clenching around him in a tight grip.

And he crashes with you. Body shuddering. Cock throbbing. Spilling into you.

He’s still panting against you when he pulls out. And it’s a fucking mess in between your thighs.

But before you can say anything, he’s dragging you upright. And you’re stumbling as he drags you across the hot deck. Hand across your stomach. Keeping you close.

And then he’s shoving you into the rinse off shower.

He reaches up. Turns the handle. And the water is so cold that you gasp from it.

Oscar laughs behind you. “Too cold?”

Your head falls onto his shoulder. “Asshole.”

And then he turns the temperature warmer, and then it’s all steam and heat again. 

You expect him to rinse you off gently.

Instead, he grabs the shower head. Detaches it from the hook. And pulls your back against his chest.

“Gonna clean you up.”

You’re about to ask what exactly he means. But then he;;s nudging your legs apart. Brings the shower head straight to your cunt. 

And you jolt forward with a sharp cry.

The heat. The pressure.

“Oh my god…Osc,” You’re mumbling.

And he watches you. Holding one leg to keep them apart.

“Stay open,” his voice is soft. “Wanna see you come again.”

And you whimper. Begging. “Too much…fuck.”

But he doesn’t stop. Just tilts the shower head just right. Hitting your clit.

“Thought I’d have to work harder for this,” He mutters. “But you’re soaking already.”

“Fuck…fuck.”

"Y'like this, hm?" He whispers into your ear. "Being used like some filthy secret?"

Your hands reach behind you and slip their way into his hair. Pulling it. He groans. Rutting his hips into your backside for some friction.

“C’mon, pretty.” He grunts. 

And the water just keeps hitting you. 

You sob. And then crash again.

Your legs shake. Cunt clenching around nothing.  But he holds you up, turning you to face him. Pressing your back against the wall.

He finally sets the shower head down. Lets it spray onto the deck. 

And then his hands are back on you. One at your lower back, one gripping your thigh, pulling it up to wrap at his waist. You balance on one leg.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Y’okay?” His voice gentle. Caring.

And you nod, pressing your head into his neck. And his heart stutters when you lean into him. Like he can finally breathe.

“I’ve got you,” He whispers.

And then, he sinks back into you.

Slow. Gentle.

Your mouth falls open. The stretch still almost unbearable after everything. But the way he slides in, feels too fucking good.

You gasp. Digging your nails into his skin. And he cradles you against the wall.

He moves slow. Rocking. No rhythm. And he feels massive. Thick. 

“Oscar,” You hush into his skin. “You feel…Y’feel so good.”

He nods. “I know, baby. I know.” And his voice is a whisper. 

He grinds deeper. Barely moving but pressing into you. “Can’t believe you’re still this wet…” He grunts. “Still want more? Want me to stuff you full again, hm? Fuck you til it leaks down?”

You nod. Mouth open. Moaning.

“C’mon,” He pants. Hips jerking. Cock throbbing. 

It’s quick. The feel of you wrapped around his cock. The overstimulation of the stretch.

You both come quick. Crying out into each other’s skin. Soft kisses in between the moans.

And then you’re both laughing. Smiling at one another.

-

“Holy shit…I’m dying.” Your best friend announces. “Never let me go on another tour ever ever again.” 

Oscar snorts from beside you on the bench, looking at his phone. “Told you you’d hate it.”

“You didn’t say I’d almost drown.”

You keep your face still. Sipping your drink.

And she plops down on the lounger across the deck, sighing.

And for a moment…it’s quiet.

Until Oscar leans in slightly, elbow brushing your arm.

His voice low. “Y’think she noticed?”

You glance at him. Shake your head.

“She’s never been less observant,” You whisper back.

And he grins. One of those fuck-you grins that makes you stutter.

And you hold back a smile.

Your best friend groans across the deck. “God, I feel disgusting. Should we order dinner in an hour?”

Oscar clears his throat. “Sure.”

“Yeah,” You say.

And then you lean, just slightly, into his side. Just enough that his thigh is touching yours again. 

He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t stop smiling.

"Hey, what happened to the welcome basket?"

Oops? taglist (holy shit SO MANY OF YOU ILY): @landoscarinthefastlane @dudenhaaa27 @330bpm-whiplash @xoln04f1xo @sainzluvrr @minjiahyung @madicecream123 @star73807-blog @simpfortoomanymen @art-h1ve @annaswrites00 @forumlabee @butterfly-daisies07 @nothereneverherever @widow-cevans @suns3treading @fmejenson @megatrilss1885 @10iceicebaby @sh1nedreamsm1le7 @ptrickbateman @chasingosc @uuoozzii @idkwtdwml123 @pinkdeadtopia @chiara8104 @ellie-bellie-29 @piastri-my-boy @1-of-my-many-obsessions @8junejpg1 @jaydensluv @astrlape @idontknow0704 @whistlef0rthechoir @op814kitty @asmoothoperator @illicit-affcirs @lilith-123321 @teddybearbeth @saudianna @skylyn-vais @fleurdangz @angxedxtz @marekmybeloved @liafics @dxrlxb @gabyasworld @treebranch23 @drysdalesv @morganalatina21 @bigcatharmony @ilovemuppets @acina27 @angelabunbun @megatrilss1885 @ilikecarsalotsometimes @roxanne-ragnvindr @euphoriapillz @luminouskalopsia @trinity2058 @livsturnioloo @wdsara48 @ini3103 @shimmermotorsport @marslovesran4eva @wherethezoes-at @monsterdesandia @mythicalmaven @3in1shampooconditionerbodywash @ella284-3 @landossainz @redcrescentmoons @jaeger-chan @altaccount283927 @ericasdumbworld @aerie717 @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ysavelelelel @phillza-my-beloved @thenalovescars @zicosbitch @scaroscar8115 @wertyuizxcvbnm @needy02 @dessashippr @quill-vy @o6hellnah @enchantedwaspwhisper @awesome-fandom-panda @biancathecool @lilorose25 @wowzees (not sure if all these worked but I took them straight from my comments on the sneak peak)

[cumironi]

YOU ARE NOT DYING jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. MIA for two whole days, your older boyfriend finds you have been sick the whole time but don’t worry, they are here to take care of you!

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, you are early twenty and they are late twenty, petnames, fluff, crack,

GOJO SATORU

he bursts through your apartment door like a whirlwind in a storm — keys jangling as they hit the floor, designer sunglasses still perched on his nose, even though it's nearly sundown. the moment the door swings open, his voice echoes through the quiet, too-quiet apartment.

“sweetheart? baby?” his voice is deceptively cheerful, light and sing-song, but the tension is there, tight in the undercurrent. he hasn’t heard from you in two days. no text. no call. nothing. and you never go that quiet, not even when you’re mad at him.

satoru’s long legs carry him through your apartment like he owns the place — which, to be fair, he kind of does, considering he pays your rent without your knowledge. he steps into the dimly lit living room and freezes.

you’re there, bundled up on the couch like a miserable, sniffling ghost. oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, one of his, naturally, and a pathetic mountain of tissues around you like a fortress. there’s a blanket halfway off your legs, a cold cup of tea on the table, and your phone sitting dead by your hand.

“...what the hell,” he breathes, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he takes it in, brows furrowing under snowy bangs. “are you seriously dying in silence? do you hate me?”

you groan softly, barely able to lift your head. “didn’t wanna bother you… you’re busy with work…”

“busy with work? babe, i thought you got kidnapped by some creepy guy who’s into sniffing socks or something—which, by the way, i would’ve lost my shit over.”

he’s already moving, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, hands large and warm as they cup your flushed face. you’re burning. “oh my god, you’re so hot,” he says, wide-eyed, like it’s not from the fever. “and not in the good, ride-me-until-my-legs-don’t-work way. like… medically concerning.”

you manage a weak laugh, and he beams like you just handed him the moon. satoru brushes your hair back with trembling fingers, his usual smugness cracking under genuine concern.

“you didn’t even call me,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “two days, angel. two days. i almost broke into your classes like a psycho sugar daddy with a god complex.”

you sniffle, leaning into his palm. “didn’t wanna make you worry…”

“i always worry about you,” he says, exasperated. “that’s, like, half my personality. haven’t you noticed?”

and then, of course, he softens — because he’s a menace, but he’s your menace. satoru stands, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you squirm, mumbling protests, but your limbs are too heavy, and his arms are warm.

“shut up. we’re doing this,” he says, already carrying you to your bed. “you’re sleeping somewhere with actual blankets and no tissue graveyard. jesus, babe, this whole place smells like menthol and heartbreak.”

he sets you down carefully, tucking the blankets around you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then lingers near your lips, hesitant.

“can i…? or am i gonna get the plague?”

you pout. “you’ll get sick.”

“worth it,” he says immediately, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss — just enough pressure to make your heart ache, his thumb brushing your cheek like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

when he pulls back, he’s grinning again, wicked this time. “besides, i bet i’d look hot with a fever. you’d have to nurse me back to health in, like, a slutty little nurse outfit. win-win, right?”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re my favorite stupid little college girl who forgets to eat when she’s sick.” his hands are already sliding under the covers, slipping around your waist, pulling you close. “so now i’m gonna hold you like a clingy teddy bear, make you drink water, and maybe talk about how good you’d look drooling all over my shirt.”

you snort. “what happened to concern?”

“baby, i am concerned. but i’m also very horny, emotionally overwhelmed, and tragically in love with you. deal with it.”

you let him spoon you from behind, his breath warm on your neck, his body a furnace. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, lips brushing your shoulder.

“next time you’re sick,” he mumbles, “you better call me. i swear to god, i’ll tattoo my number on your forehead if that’s what it takes.”

you nod sleepily, and satoru kisses the shell of your ear.

“good girl.”

GETO SUGURU

he doesn’t knock.

he doesn’t need to — your spare key has been hanging on his keyring for months now, worn from use. suguru opens your door slowly, shoulders tense under his tailored black coat, hair pulled into a lazy low bun like he didn’t even bother styling it this morning. he’s been in meetings all day, working too much, sleeping too little — and now, he’s standing in your apartment, greeted by silence and dim, static air.

“baby?”

his voice is low, velvety, laced with concern that makes your stomach twist. it’s the first time you’ve heard him in two days. you were too sick, too dizzy, too caught up in your own haze of shivers and aching limbs to call him, even though you wanted to. god, you wanted to.

you hear his steps grow closer, steady and measured, then stop right in front of your bedroom door. it creaks open. his tall frame fills the doorway.

and that’s all it takes.

your throat tightens immediately, and like a switch flipped, you burst into tears. snotty, pathetic, breathless sobs that hit you harder than you expected. your voice cracks as you try to speak, but nothing coherent comes out — just a whimper, an ugly sniffle, and a tremble in your bottom lip.

“suguru…” you croak, eyes watery as you sit up on the bed.

his expression falters for half a second — just a flicker of panic under the cool surface. he moves toward you so fast it’s like instinct, dropping his bag to the floor and shrugging off his coat in one motion.

but you beat him to it.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with all the theatrical effort of a dying victorian bride, forcing your shaky body upright. it makes your vision spin, but you don’t care — you throw your arms open dramatically, like some sad, flu-stricken princess summoning her knight.

“hold me,” you sniffle, hiccupping through the tears. “i’m sick and miserable and ugly, and i think i’m dying.”

he blinks. then huffs a breath — a soft, low laugh, like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you.

“you’re the most dramatic little brat i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, but he’s already on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you fully, palms spread over your back as he tucks your face into the crook of his neck.

“i missed you,” you whimper into his skin, voice cracking. “i was too dizzy to text you and i tried to make soup but it just turned into sadness—”

“shh,” he whispers, stroking your hair gently. “breathe, baby. you’re okay now.”

you cling to him like a koala, fists bunching the back of his shirt. your body sags in his arms, and he holds you up without flinching, like he wants to carry your weight, all of it — your illness, your loneliness, your melodramatic sniffles.

“two days without you and i already look like a corpse,” you mumble. “my skin’s grey. i’m withering.”

he chuckles against your hair, then pulls back just enough to cup your flushed cheeks. “hm. dramatic. needy. sick. crying in my arms like a heartbroken soap opera wife.” his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “you know that’s kind of hot, right?”

you blink. “i’m literally disgusting right now.”

“you’re my favorite disgusting little creature,” he says, and kisses your forehead. “now lie back. i’m going to order real food, give you meds, and make you drink water even if i have to hold your nose shut.”

you sniffle again, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzle into his chest.

“you’re gonna spoil me,” you mumble.

he smiles, kissing your hair.

“i already do, sweetheart.”

his hand trails lower under the blanket, slipping to your waist, possessive and warm.

“and after you stop looking like a dying victorian girl,” he murmurs by your ear, voice dipping low, “i’m gonna spoil you in other ways.”

you groan into his chest, heat blooming in your cheeks. “gross.”

“mm. you love it.”

and he’s right. because even at your worst — sick, crying, clingy — suguru geto looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made his life worth slowing down for.

NANAMI KENTO

he should’ve come sooner.

the thought pounds in his head, rhythmic and steady like the ticking of his watch as he pushes into your apartment with a key he made you give him months ago — “for emergencies,” you said, laughing. but this feels like one. you hadn’t texted him back in two days, and that’s unlike you. you were always eager to reply, dramatic even in your “i miss you” messages. so when the silence stretched into a second night, nanami ended his meeting mid-sentence, picked up his coat, and walked out without an ounce of hesitation.

the moment he steps inside, he knows something’s wrong.

your apartment smells off — like the sour tang of sickness masked under old lavender candles. he closes the door quietly, gaze sharp as he sets down his briefcase and calls your name once, calmly.

no answer.

the bathroom light is on.

and then he hears it — the retching.

nanami’s blood runs cold. he moves fast, faster than you’d ever expect from the man who lectures you about walking too quickly indoors. the bathroom door is cracked open. inside, you’re slumped on the cold tile, hugging the toilet bowl, trembling and feverish. your hoodie is sticking to your back with sweat, your knees red from the floor.

you don’t hear him. not until his calm, familiar voice cuts through the haze.

“sweetheart.”

your head jerks up weakly. your voice comes out hoarse, cracking. “kento…?”

he doesn’t say anything at first — just takes a slow breath and kneels beside you, sleeves rolled up in one fluid motion. his tie dangles over your shoulder as he brushes your damp hair back gently, then reaches for the towel nearby to wipe your mouth. his hand doesn’t shake, but his jaw clenches. tight.

“how long has this been happening?” he asks softly, but there’s steel under it. restrained panic. the kind that only surfaces when something he cares about is suffering — and you are the only one who makes him lose control like this.

you sniffle, dazed. “since last night… thought it would pass…”

“and you didn’t call me.”

“you were working,” you mumble. “didn’t wanna stress you out.”

nanami lets out a breath. a sharp one. he gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead, his frown deepening. you’re burning up.

“you’re shaking,” he mutters. “you’re not staying in here another second.”

“but i threw up—”

“exactly why you’re not staying in here,” he says firmly.

and that’s when your vision blurs again, but this time with hot tears. you cover your face with your hands, voice cracking like glass. “i feel gross, kento. i smell disgusting. my mouth tastes like death. i wanted to clean up before you came and now you’re seeing me like this—”

he doesn’t let you spiral.

his hands, large and warm, wrap around your wrists and gently pull them from your face. he leans in, forehead to yours, voice calm but low.

“you think any of that matters to me?” he whispers. “you’re sick. and you’re mine. i don’t care if you smell like hell. you’re still the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen.”

you sniff, swallowing another sob. “i look like a wet rat.”

he presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “then you’re my wet rat.”

and despite everything, you laugh — a weak, wet, pitiful sound, but it makes him smile.

then he lifts you. no warning. one smooth motion, as if you weigh nothing. your arms cling to his neck, dizzy and lightheaded as he carries you out of the bathroom and down the hall.

“where—?”

“bed? no,” he says, striding straight past it. “you’re burning up and soaked through.”

he stops in front of your closet and kicks it open gently. “clean clothes,” he mutters. “then i’m drawing you a bath.”

you blink. “aren’t you going to let me change myself?”

he looks at you, unimpressed. “do you really think i’m letting you stand on your own right now?”

you pout. “you’re bossy when i’m sick.”

“i’m bossy because you’re reckless and dramatic and refuse to call me when you need help,” he says, setting you down on the edge of your bed. his hands reach up, unzipping your hoodie with such care it makes your breath catch. “and if you ever do this again, i swear to god—”

you reach out weakly, tugging at his tie. “you’ll what?”

he leans in, gaze dark and heavy.

“i’ll handcuff you to my bed and monitor your temperature every hour until you learn your lesson.”

your eyes go wide. “…is that a threat or a promise?”

his lips curl into the barest smirk.

“both.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you were crying. again.

but not soft, delicate tears — oh no. it was messy, snotty, full-volume dramatic sobbing, the kind you’d only let out in the privacy of your kitchen, hunched over like some tragic figure in a bad medical drama.

the bottle of meds sat in front of you. sealed. stupid. evil.

and your fingers? useless. trembling. too weak to twist it open. your body had already betrayed you all day — shivering under five blankets, sweating through them an hour later, barely able to sit up without seeing stars. and this goddamn childproof bottle was the final straw.

“open,” you whispered hoarsely, turning it with your palms, your arms shaking.

“open, please… i’m not strong enough, oh my god. i’m a weak pathetic little victorian widow.”

you tried again. failed again.

your bottom lip quivered.

you dropped your head onto the counter with a dramatic thunk.

“this is it,” you wailed to no one. “this is how i die. taken out by a five-dollar bottle of generic tylenol.”

and that was, of course, the exact moment the front door opened with a heavy thud.

of course it was toji.

he was supposed to be out — working, training, maybe casually intimidating someone. but no. your hot mess of a dramatic arc just had to intersect with him at the peak of your suffering.

“you better not be on the floor again,” his voice called out dryly.

you gasped. “toji—!”

and in he walked, black shirt clinging to his chest, hair still slightly wet from the shower he probably took at the gym, eyebrow cocked in that way — the one that said he knew he was walking into bullshit.

he paused at the kitchen doorway.

you were curled in front of the counter, shaking like a leaf in your hoodie and fuzzy socks, cradling the bottle of meds in your hands like it was your last hope.

your eyes, glossy with fever and tears, locked on him like he was salvation.

“babe,” you croaked, dramatic hand on your heart. “i’m too weak. i need you.”

his face was unreadable.

then he sighed.

“you can’t open your meds bottle?”

“no,” you sobbed. “i tried. i begged. i even yelled at it. and it laughed at me, toji.”

he walked over slowly. “the bottle laughed at you?”

“with its silence.”

“you’re outta your damn mind.”

you whimpered as he took the bottle from your hands like it was the easiest thing in the world. he twisted it open with one hand. one hand.

your mouth dropped open in betrayal.

“don’t gloat,” you muttered.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were thinking it. i can hear your thoughts. they’re all smug and condescending.”

toji plucked two pills out, popped them in your hand. “yeah? what else are my thoughts saying?”

“they’re saying, ‘wow, my girlfriend’s so weak and small and pitiful, i could crush her with one hand.’”

he snorted, pushing the water bottle toward you.

“i’d rather use the one hand to spank you next time you act like an idiot instead of calling me.”

your eyes widened. “i was preserving your peace!”

“and i’m preserving your life, you dramatic little shit.”

you downed the meds, still sniffling. “i want chicken soup and cuddles.”

“yeah? say please.”

you glared at him.

he leaned down, grabbed you by the back of the thighs, and lifted you up with zero warning, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

you squealed. “toji—!”

“you want cuddles? you get ‘em after soup. and no more dying alone in the kitchen, dumbass.”

you whined into his back, but your fingers were already gripping the hem of his shirt, safe and secure.

he set you on the couch, tucked you in aggressively, and went back to the kitchen to slam pots around. the bottle of meds still sat on the counter, now open. completely defeated.

you glared at it from your blanket cocoon.

“i hope you fall off the counter and roll under the fridge, you little bitch.”

“what was that?” toji called.

“nothing, babe! love you!”

“that’s what i thought.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

he knew something was off the second he walked through the door.

your apartment was dark. quiet. no sounds of you stomping around, no dramatic voice echoing from the bedroom about how he never refills the snacks or always leaves his rings on the counter like you’re his damn butler.

nothing.

just silence.

and sukuna?

he doesn’t do silence when it comes to you.

so his voice comes loud, sharp. “oi. where the fuck are you?”

no answer.

he’s already heading down the hall, jaw tight, fingers twitching like he’s ready to rip the universe in half if it’s taken you from him. he calls for you again—louder this time. still nothing. until—

a soft, pathetic sound.

gagging.

choking.

then… sniffling.

he throws open the bathroom door and freezes.

you’re on the cold tile, curled up dramatically beside the toilet like a tragic heroine in some bad romance movie. your hair is a mess, face flushed with fever, nose red, eyes glassy with tears. you’re shivering in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked up like a child. and you’re talking to yourself.

rambling.

like you’re saying goodbye.

“tell… tell my mom i loved her,” you whisper hoarsely to no one. “and you can have my manga… just not the signed ones. bury me with those. and don’t let that bitch from the office come to my funeral—”

sukuna blinks. hard.

“what. the fuck,” he growls, stepping in. “are you doing?”

you gasp, like he’s a ghost. “sukuna? is that you? i can’t see, i’m so cold—”

he crouches beside you instantly, hands grabbing your face. your skin is clammy. lips dry. eyes dramatic as hell.

you’re not dying.

you’ve just been throwing up for hours and working yourself into a spiral.

“are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?” he hisses, brushing your hair back, eyes scanning every inch of you. “you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t scream at me for buying the wrong brand of tea. i thought someone killed you.”

you sniffle, grabbing his wrist with trembling fingers. “i tried to crawl to the kitchen… to get water… but then i thought, what’s the point? i’m dying anyway—”

he looks like he’s two seconds from slamming his fist into the wall.

“you’ve got a stomach bug. not the plague. stop acting like you’re in a fuckin’ soap opera.”

“easy for you to say,” you croak. “you’re not the one rotting from the inside out.”

sukuna lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-laugh, and scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you cling to him instantly, arms locking around his neck like a koala.

“don’t cremate me,” you mumble into his throat. “i wanna be dramatic even in death. open casket. fake lashes. maybe some light fog and music—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. “shut up.”

you gasp, offended. “did you just spank me on my deathbed?!”

“you’re not dying,” he growls, carrying you to the bed. “but if you keep talking, i’ll kill you myself.”

you whimper pitifully in his arms. “then… will you at least keep my diary? the one hidden in the closet behind the shoe box? don’t read it—”

“i’ve already read it.”

“what?!”

he lays you down gently, brushing his thumb across your damp cheek.

“you wrote about me in it,” he says, voice low and dangerous now, “every page. even the ones where you were mad. you love me so much it’s pathetic.”

you sniff, cheeks heating up. “i’m allowed to be obsessed with you. it’s your fault.”

he leans down, face inches from yours. “and i’m gonna baby you so hard after this that you’re gonna wish you died, brat.”

“you promise?” you whisper.

his eyes flash with something possessive, raw, feral.

“yeah,” he says, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip, “but only after i get some fluids in you. and not the kind you’re thinking, you filthy little goblin.”

you smile weakly.

and sukuna — your unhinged, dangerous, older boyfriend — tucks you into bed, curses the germs under his breath, and spends the entire night at your side.

because dramatic or not… you’re his.

and he’s not letting you go.

SHIU KONG

he had a key.

of course he had a key. he demanded it after you once locked yourself out at 3 a.m. wearing nothing but a t-shirt and one sock, sobbing over forgotten dumplings. "never again," he’d muttered, shoving the key into his wallet with the same reverence he gave blackmail material.

he wasn’t expecting the door to be unlocked today.

or to hear… whimpering.

low, pitiful, echoing from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

“babe?” he calls out, already slipping off his shoes. his voice carries a lazy calm, the kind he always uses when he’s preparing for bullshit. “you better not be doing something stupid again.”

he turns the corner and freezes.

you’re on the floor.

literally on the floor, crawling toward the kitchen like a Victorian orphan in the final act. your blanket is trailing behind you like a cape, your hair a mess, eyes glassy with tears as you stretch your trembling hand toward the counter like it’s the promised land.

you pause, mid-drag, and look up at him with the most heartbroken face he’s ever seen.

“i dropped… my toast…”

shiu blinks.

you sniffle. “it fell jelly-side down.”

his lips twitch. “oh no.”

“and then i got dizzy.”

“mhm.”

“and i think the floor is sucking the life out of me, shiu.”

he’s walking toward you now, casually, like he’s not biting back a laugh. “you’re telling me… you belly-crawled like a war hero because you dropped toast?”

“i’m starving. i haven’t eaten in days.”

he bends down, squats beside you, one elbow resting on his knee as he watches you dramatically paw at the floor like you’re about to fade into the afterlife.

“you had broth.”

“broth isn’t food. it’s liquid regret.”

shiu snorts. actually snorts. “you’re outta your mind.”

but his voice is gentler now, and without warning, he slips an arm under your waist and another beneath your knees, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you yelp, clinging to his shirt.

“shiu! put me down! i was making progress!”

“toward what? an oscar?”

“toward the toaster!”

he carries you to the couch instead, ignoring your weak little kicks as he deposits you like a fragile treasure, tucks your blanket around you like he hasn’t seen you cry over expired yogurt before, then leans in close.

his voice drops, soft and dangerous.

“next time you wanna reenact your dramatic death, text me first, sweetheart.”

“i didn’t wanna bother you.”

“you’re my favorite kind of bother.”

you blink up at him, pout trembling.

“you’re such an asshole.”

he grins, brushes your hair back gently with a sigh. “but i’m your asshole.”

and then he disappears into the kitchen, mumbling something about how he’s going to make toast the size of your face and spoon-feed you if you try to crawl again.

he does.

he even cuts it into heart shapes.

he just won’t admit it.

HIROMI HIGURUMA

he knew something was off the second he called and you didn’t answer.

you always answered. even if it was just a groggy voice telling him you hated his ringtone and to never call you again. so when he’d finished his meeting, walked out of the courthouse with his tie loosened and a coffee he didn’t even want, and still hadn’t heard from you?

his stomach turned.

fifteen minutes later, he was at your apartment door, unlocking it with the key you gave him the night you first got sick and told him he was your emergency contact “because you look like you’d yell at doctors for me.”

he pushes the door open.

“...hello?”

silence.

and then—

soft sniffles. pen scratching paper. a dramatic sigh.

he follows the sound to the living room and—

freezes.

there you are. wrapped in a blanket like a sad little lump, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your head resting against the coffee table. a whole stack of napkins laid out in front of you like legal documents, each one written in your slightly-shaky, overly-loopy script.

he walks closer, blinking at the one closest to him.

“to my beloved hiromi: you can have my succulents, even though you always forget to water them. i forgive you. i love you. tell my cat i said bye.”

his brow twitches. “...what the hell is this?”

you jump, head snapping up like a child caught drawing on the walls. your eyes are watery and dramatic, red from crying, your nose a little stuffy and your cheeks flushed from fever. you clutch a pen like it’s a quill and you’re writing your last will before war.

“you came,” you whisper.

“yeah. what the hell is going on.”

you sniffle, voice soft and shaking. “i think i’m dying.”

he looks at the box of tissues, the half-empty bottle of cough syrup, and the room-temperature cup of tea on the table.

“you have a cold.”

“a terminal one.”

he sighs, long-suffering but fond, dropping the briefcase onto the floor with a soft thud.

“you sent me twelve napkin letters. in one of them you said i can have your pinterest password when you die.”

“you should know what i liked. to mourn properly.”

“you also left the air fryer to nanami.”

“he said he liked it once!”

he crouches down in front of you, long legs folding easily, eyes scanning your flushed face. he lifts a hand to press it gently to your forehead.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you’re burning up.”

you gaze at him with tear-filled devotion. “if i go, you have to be the one to eulogize me. make it sound like i was sexy and mysterious.”

“you’re congested and covered in napkins.”

“so was marilyn monroe probably.”

hiromi lets out a soft breath. then he leans forward, gathering you into his arms with a slow, practiced motion, your blanket and all, lifting you gently until you’re in his lap, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

you melt into him instantly, mumbling, “i left you my lip balm too. don’t let another girl use it.”

he hums. presses a kiss to your forehead.

“don’t worry, angel. you’re not dying.”

“you sound like a lawyer.”

“i am one. and i can legally promise you’re going to be fine.”

you grumble something about rewriting your will just in case, and he lets you. even picks up a fresh napkin for you and hands you your glitter pen with a quiet, indulgent smile.

“just let me make you some soup after,” he murmurs. “and then i’ll read every one of your dramatic goodbyes.”

“even the one where i left you my collection of embarrassing texts?”

“especially that one.”

he holds you tighter. his voice soft, but his touch firm. grounding. safe.

because for all your chaos, he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

[berrryparfait]

lick my conch ! 𓆝⋆.˚ 𓇼

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: sylus, caleb, rafayel, zayne, xavier x fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: "beach day", or so he said. little do you know that he's about to eat you out to the point of tears! 「i can't take this anymore... his tongue—!」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] pure smut, cunnilingus on the beach, squirting, cl*t stimulation, intense orgasms, semi-public, dubcon on reader's part

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: cherry – lana del rey

✧ a/n: reader singlehandedly spawned another ocean with her c*m and that's okay! #peaceandlove happy reading! <3

“The beach is quiet today, sweetie.” Sylus rests a calloused hand on your thigh, the warmth of his touch surprising you. “Uhuh…” You don’t quite know where he’s going with this. Looking around, there’s not a single person in sight, but you can hear voices coming from somewhere behind the giant beachrock you’ve been leaning against. You eye him suspiciously as his hand travels further up your thigh, a familiar glint in his eye that tells you you’re in deep, deep trouble. “Relax. no one can see or hear us.” Not here, Sylus!—you want to yell at him, but the pad of his thumb on your clit effectively silences you. He massages you gently through the thin fabric before pulling your thong to the side, your pussy already moist with arousal. “Well, look what we have here…” he muses, positioning his face between your legs and admiring your wet folds. “We’re in public—“ you begin, stopping short when his tongue pokes out to tease your clit. “Mmpfh—“ You try your best to suppress your moans, but he’s lapping at your cunt now, eagerly as a man starved. “Fuck, kitten—you taste so good…” He licks and sucks at your needy pussy, every inch of you begging for his attention despite the fact that you’re quite literally committing a felony right now. The thought flies right over your head, your entire being consumed by the quick, wet movements of his lips and tongue against your sensitive heat. As you feel your pleasure spiking, you grab his semi-wet hair and arch your back, attempting and failing to muffle your moans as you cum all over his mouth, the sensation crashing over you so hard you see stars. He smirks at you annoyingly while you writhe in pleasure, taking in the beautiful beach scenery that is now you. “Return the favor for me, will you, darling?”

Perfect weather, perfect day. The cool breeze brushes against your skin as you sip from your glass, the sour sweetness of the sparkling mojito dancing on your tongue. "This is so good," you remark, carelessly tipping the glass towards you and spilling a bit on your bare stomach. Caleb looks down at the mess you've made and tuts, as if wholly unsurprised. "She strikes again. Good thing I've got a way to clean that up." He brings his head down to your navel, then begins trailing small kisses down your stomach, cleaning the sweet liquid off your skin as he goes. When he reaches the waistline of your bikini bottoms, a lopsided smile twists his lips. "Caleb, we're out in the open right now—" you protest, but he pulls them to the side and begins licking at your folds anyway. You whine in surprise, frantically looking around the beach for signs of other people. His tongue is on your clit now, caressing your core with slow, languid movements at make your toes curl and knees buck. "You're wet for me, Pips..." he groans as your arousal coats his tongue and drives him wild. The friction between his mouth and your cunt is overwhelming, and you rock against his face out of your volition. "Ugh... Ahh—!" Propping yourself up with your elbows, the rough sand digging into your skin while you're consumed by the euphoric feeling that is Caleb's tongue between your folds, you hear footsteps approaching in your direction. "Quick, come for me, baby—" A wave crashes in the distance, mimicking your climax. You shake with pleasure as the orgasm hits you, squirting in Caleb's face as he massages your trembling thighs. "Quite the clean-up job, if I do say so myself."

"The water's so peaceful today," you muse, leaning your head on Rafayel's shoulder. "It might be a sign," he replies, the cryptic answer puzzling you. He chuckles at your quirked eyebrow, then shrugs. "All I'm saying is that we wouldn't want the calm tide to go to waste." Before you can make sense of what he's trying to say, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you up over his shoulder, balancing your weight with one hand. "Put me down, Raf! What are you—" With a splash, he tosses you into the water, jumping in right after. Treading, you look around, but can't see him anywhere. A pair of hands grips your thighs, and you gasp in shock, wondering if you should be fearing for your life right now. But the way the waves instantly calm, the way the sea suddenly looks bluer—you know it's him. He gently pulls your legs apart, and you instinctively search the shoreline for watchful eyes. Thankfully, there are none—for now. He pulls your swimsuit bottom down and in a split second his mouth is there, planting soft kisses on your clit. You bite your lip and rest your legs on his shoulders, unsure of what else to do. His tongue laps at your cunt, which has now grown wet independent of the seawater all around you. You can't hear him, but you can feel him groaning against your pussy, the warm vibrations buzzing through every nerve in your body and drenching you in ecstasy. "Ahh—ahh..." you moan out loud, hoping no one on land is able to see or hear your lewd expressions. A stronger wave sways you then, and his tongue hits your g-spot at just the right moment. You come undone with his mouth around your heat, crying out as your shake uncontrollably with nothing to grab on to but his hair. You can feel his dirty grin between your legs. He rises to the surface, face flushed and eyes heavy-lidded. "I may be a sea god, but I do love drowning."

You both decided to embark on this beach getaway to get your minds off work—something the two of you are pretty much constantly drowning in. Despite your dedication to the task, it's to ignore the fact that your inbox hasn't been checked in hours... "Zayne, maybe we should check our emails. Just the emails! I hate the thought of missing something important..." He smooths a hand over your arm. "We both assigned perfectly capable stand-ins, remember? Try your best to relax now that we're here." He pauses then, thinking. "I may have something in mind that could help. It's common knowledge that reaching orgasm is incredibly effective for relieving stress." You gape at him. "Reaching what now?" He smiles at you, gently, then gets on his knees before you can stop him. "Zayne! We're in a public space!" He ignores your feeble protests and spreads your thighs apart. The next thing you know, his mouth is on your bare pussy and you can think of nothing else. He starts off slow, worshipping your cunt with smooth, unhurried strokes. But it isn't long before he responds to your sweet verbal sounds, picking up the pace as if knowing exactly what you need. His lips firmly latch onto the area around your clit while his tongue straight up abuses the swollen nub, flicking it with such unrelenting speed that you cry out for mercy. "Fuck— Zayne—!" You clamp your thighs around his face, squeezing hard. Back arched and feet curled, your mind is no longer on emails, that's for sure. "Fuck, fuck—!" you wail before the orgasm hits you and you cum all over his mouth, squirting warm, transparent liquid onto his glasses and down his throat. He massages your pussy for a while longer, drawing out your climax as you spasm around his fingers. "There, better?"

"I like this one." He points to a baby blue seashell by your foot, eyeing it curiously. You laugh, trying your best to ignore the wetness pooling between your legs. You've been horny for the past hour, but don't want to say anything to ruin the innocence of your date. "You're ovulating, aren't you?" he asks, waking you from your stupor. "How did you know?" He grins sheepishly, then mutters something about how he always knows. "It's not a big deal, you know, me being like this. We don't have to do anything. I'm happy just sitting here with you—" "Ride my face." It sounds more like a command than a suggestion, and you waste no time following his orders. Making sure there's no one around, you slide your one-piece bathing suit off and position yourself right above his face, where his mouth is already open and waiting. "Fuck, you're so wet..." He grabs your thighs and pulls you down onto him, and the feeling of your cunt settling onto his lips is heavenly. You begin to rock against his tongue to a steady rhythm, waves of pleasure filling your body as your clit rubs on his chin and nose. "Mmmpfh..." he sighs into your pussy, prompting you to fuck his face harder and faster than before. You grab a fistful of his hair and jerk your hips against his mouth, the both of you grunting with every thrust as the pressure builds and builds deep in your core. "Yes—right there, right there—!" you scream as his tongue hits that sweet spot, sending your heart into orbit. It's as if your hips have a mind of their own as you hump his mouth, the wet suction noises intensifying— You burst all over his face, squirt and cum leaking out of your pussy in violent spurts that he promptly licks up. Panting, you slump onto the sand and fall into an exhausted, satisfied heap. "Back to counting seashells, are we?"

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[isasweetie]

in which you’re forced into having a talk with your ex-boyfriend, rafe cameron, on the boat ride to morocco.

being a pogue and rafe cameron’s ex was not easy. although you dated shortly before he killed peterkin, and you were sure he barely even remembered your favourite colour, seeing him blatanly disrespect you and his friends, and go down a path you tried so hard to prevent him from, was hard to watch. but now he’s picked himself up since ward died. you thought you had another chance to at least be on good terms. sending flowers and a card to tanneyhill when ward died, smiling at him when you’d see him around. it didn’t work, he still hated you and your friends.

fortunately, he redeemed himself ever so slightly by volunteering to take the pogues to morocco. rafe had to find chandler groff, you guys wanted the blue crown. it was perfect.

until jj punched him, that is. he knocked him out cold. with a scolding “jj!” coming from majority of the pogues, including you, jj carries him down into the downstairs washroom and ties his wrists to a pole. they don’t trust him, which is fair. you don’t either — you shouldn’t, anyway.

rafe was down there quietly for a mere half hour until he woke up with a groan from his head hitting the ground earlier, followed up with yelling once he realizes he was stuck down there.

all touching your noses and saying ‘not it’ the minute pope suggests someone going down there to check on him, you’re the unlucky one who said it last. shutting up your protests, john b gently coaxes you downstairs, saying things like, “you used to mack on him”, “this is good, you know him”, “he won’t hurt you,” john b leaves you downstairs once you make it to the door of the bathroom. knocking gently, you timidly ask, “can i come in?”

there’s no answer. you can picture him. wrists tied, brows furrowed, eyes closed tightly as his head leans against the wall and towards the ceiling. his gorgeous stressed face. you slowly open the door, peeking your head in. “hi,” you say gently, timid around the scary and aggressive man you have the curse of calling your ex.

“…hey,” rafe says, voice rough as he shuts his eyes tight.

unsure what to say, you awkwardly stand there and stare down at him. “um, i brought asprin,”

“right, right, like i can fuckin’ swallow it. what, you gonna throw it in my mouth like a.. seal or something?” sassy, his upper lip lifts a bit as he thinks about it and isn’t very fond of the idea.

a second of silence as you figure out what to say. “…um, ill just set it down here,” you say, putting the container down beside him. “sorry about your head.”

“yeah, uh, your little boyfriend can’t control his fists, huh?”

“…not my boyfriend,” you correct softly, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to tell him that. “but no one really.. trusts you, rafe, so you kind of brought this on yourself—“

he quickly interrupts you. “bullshit. you know why that’s bullshit? because i was helping. who got you this boat, huh? me. i did. rafe. i’m the reason that you guys aren’t swimming, or some shit, to north africa. i’m being helpful and understanding, and this is what i get. you think that’s fair?” when you’re stood there in silence at his sudden raised voice, he repeats, “you think that’s fucking fair, y/n!?” he kicks a can in anger.

it’s like you’re his girlfriend again as you sit down next to him instantly instead of running. you get deja vu to the time three years ago when he was high on coke and got kicked out of the house. everyone ignored him except for you. “..um, okay, i’m gonna give you some asprin,” you say softly. “help your head. open,” you tell him, grabbing a pill as he gives you a look but opens his mouth. you pop it in his mouth and he dry swallows. “there.”

you two share a look. you don’t think it’s a bad look by any means. he looks frustrated still, but there’s an underlying gentleness in his eyes, as if he registers you’re still the same girl you were when you two were together. “…and, um, for the record, i don’t think it’s fair that you’re down here. you helped us, thats.. nice.”

the word ‘us’ when referring to you and the pogues makes him feel weird. “i don’t get why you hang out with them,” he mutters as he looks at the ground. “tried so fucking hard to keep you away from them when we were.. together.”

“i know,” you whisper, your gaze dropping as well, to his tied wrists. you feel awful. “trust me, your warnings still play in my head when i’m with them sometimes,”

“you remind me of sarah.” he says. you’re not sure what that means.

“you hate sarah,”

“nah, nah— i don’t hate her. hate who she’s turned into,” he adjusts himself. “she makes me sad. i’m sad for her, alright? she had so much potential.“ he shrugs. “but there’s no saving her. she’s in too deep,” he looks back up at you again. “i think there’s saving you, though,”

“…this is weird, rafe,”

“how?” he asks.

“because in the years we’ve been broken up, you’ve never talked to me about this. feels like it’s a… trick or something,”

“it’s not a trick,” he assures, voice still rough. “look, i’m out half a mill, i’m tied up in a bathroom, i’m probably gonna.. die or something. i got nothing to lose, may as well tell you my concern,”

“um, i appreciate it,” you say gently, unsure how to respond. “and i’m gonna go back upstairs.”

“hey— no, woah, woah, woah,” he stops you quickly. “stay. okay?”

“i should go up and help with dinner, though—“

“no, stay. i— i want you to stay, okay? i don’t wanna be down here alone, and i want you away from the pogues,”

he doesn’t wanna be alone. you feel bad for him all over again, nodding gently as you sit back down beside him. you always were so good for rafe.

you’re not sure how long you’ll be down here with him. maybe until it’s late at night and he’s asleep. so gently, after about five minutes of silence, to ease some of the tension and pass the time, you murmur a, “truth or dare?”

rafe just smiles.

[bowtiepasta]

FLUFF 𑣿 SUKUNA RYOMEN: “FOR A LIFETIME”

grumpy x sunshine thoughts I cooked up tonight hehe. put it in this format since it’s a little longer than a blurb ! written for an irl of mine (cw: nicknames, reader wears shorts, touchy, suggestive)

sukuna being grumpy doesn’t stop him from also being clingy when he needs wants you. he grumbles if you try to leave the bed, even to get a glass of water. his arm will shoot out and slip under the shirt you’re wearing (his), wrap around your waist before you can escape — pulling you back into the sheets.

“where do you think you’re going?” he scowls, wrinkle between his brows despite his eyes still being closed. you try to wriggle free, but his grip tightens, not letting you go anywhere until he’s had enough of you being in his space. “I didn’t say you could leave.”

“you’re so needy, ‘kuna.”

he also has a habit of following you around when he’s in a bad mood. like a shadow with an attitude.

you’re in the kitchen, washing dishes? he’s there. “when did I say you could walk around like that?”

you roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “didn’t know I needed approval to be comfortable in my own house.”

his eyes drop to your legs. more specifically, to the boyshorts barely covering anything, paired with the oversized shirt (his. again.) that does nothing to hide the fact that you’re wearing basically underwear.

he clicks his tongue but doesn’t argue. yet a warm hand slides over your hip, kneading into it. his other hand follows suit, trailing lazily from your waist to the bare skin of your thigh as he comes up behind you.

you laugh into a kiss on his cheek. “all yours.”

-

predictably refuses to admit he likes being taken care of, yet the moment you start doting, even in tiniest of ways, he melts.

you find him lounging on the couch, shirtless, one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily draped across his stomach. his brows furrow as you approach with a plate of food, setting it down on the coffee table.

“tch. what’s this?” he squints at it while he shifts to make space for you. here he goes.

“dinner. you barely ate today.” you grab the remote from him and bring your knees up to your chest, humming as you flip through the channels.

he exhales through his nose, side-eyeing you. you pick up a piece of chicken and bring it towards his lips.

“I’m not a damn kid,” he clicks his tongue, torn between pride and instinct. but when you don’t move your hand away, he takes the bite, no further protest.

he stares while he chews, and then he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand back toward him, letting his teeth scrape against your fingers as he licks the sauce off.

“might as well keep feeding me if you’re so insistent.”

-

you’re standing by the couch, minding your own business, when he suddenly tugs you down, effortlessly maneuvering until you're straddling him. his hands settle on your knees from behind, rubbing as he leans in. “you were in the way.”

“I was literally across the room?”

he ignores that, as one does, hand sliding up your back, resting between your shoulder blades. His other hand squeezes your thigh, like he’s testing the way you feel against him, satisfied by the weight of you there.

“too far.” his voice is gruff — irritated with himself for even admitting it.

you shake your head, but you don’t move. neither does he. his fingers trace hearts from your shoulders down to your lower back, grip never loosening.

and when you shift to get comfortable, his hold tightens — warning and wanting all at once.

yeah. you’re not getting up anytime soon.

-

his fingers hook into the edge of your blanket, tugging insistently. “move.”

you blink. “move where?” “you know where.”

before you can argue, he grabs you — arm snaking around your waist, yanking the blanket away so he can pull you flush against him. his chin finds its place atop your head, body practically caging yours in.

“quit acting like I don’t exist, brat.” (more to himself than to you) he says, nuzzling into your hair, grip tightening as if he’s punishing you for it.

you lace your fingers into his. “ask, next time.”

he won’t. he won’t ever, in fact. he’s planning on being like this for the rest of your lives. plural — because he refuses to believe the two as separate anymore. you’ll have to deal with him being grumpy, stubborn, and clingy altogether. but you don’t really mind. not if it means you have him all to yourself, for a lifetime.

[punkkture]

simon with a cute and sweet shy girlfriend.

{ mdni } - cocky simon, pervy simon, bj's, and eating out yay wc: { 1027 }

— it's not that you were insecure or sensitive. you just enjoyed the life that came with being a bit more reserved. one close friend, saturday nights spent at home, and letting simon do the talking anytime his friends were over. he didn’t mind either way, he was still going to act the same.

standing in front of him at a nice dinner party john and his wife had planned. simon just adored the way you dolled up into a skintight dress, yet hating when eyes were on you. it almost made simon snap his fingers and tell you to go change before leaving.

there wasn’t much he could do now, his palms on your waist while you picked at which appetizers to set on your plate. warm hands smoothing over the curve of your ass, trailing over your hip, almost like he was searching for something.

and when he found it, his thick fingers hooked under what he could make out of your panty line, pulling it back and letting it go. the stretchy elastic snapping harshly against your skin under the dress.

he couldn’t help but chuckle at your little jump.

"hurry up, i wanna get outta here."

— in a more intimate setting, his persistent cockiness to your bashful attitude was more evident.

he’s got your fatty ass in the tight vice of his hands. shoving your body down to ride his sensitive cock. gentle squeaks from your lips made their way into his ears, he had to figure out how to get you to be more vocal.

both of you had sweaty and sticky skin. it was always so much work to get him to cum. it’s not that he didn’t want to, but it was obvious he tried to draw it out for as long as he could. and, not that he would ever let you know, it was a hopeful attempt at getting you more pliable and docile for him.

so when he finally does stuff your sopping cunt full of his warm cum, he’s pulling you off of his still twitching cock. protests and whines falling from your puffed up lips as he is eagerly dragging you to straddle over his face.

“simon don’t that’s gross” almost a desperate plea for him to not humiliate you like this.

"'s fine baby, c'mon let me try." he’s huffing and not wasting a second of time to pull down the delicious and overstimulated pussy onto his mouth.

his strong fingers were making sure you weren’t going anywhere. barely giving enough room for you to squirm around.

he’s smiling against the soaked sweetness. dipping his tongue into your leaking hole while grazing his teeth against your sensitive clit. softly, but enough to get you to let out a choked sob and twitch against his face.

simon was refusing to let up until sticky globs were covering his mouth. planting a gentle but firm kiss right onto that far too sensitive spot once you had cum a couple times. it only took thirteen minutes for him to prove his point.

"you gotta wake me up like this one day, 's so sweet baby."

— simon's favorite memory of this is when he helped you manage the painful tent in his pants. your smooth skin rubbing up against the cotton fabric of his sweatpants. sitting on his lap with your soft sleep shorts on, eyes just glued to the tv as your favorite movie played.

he would never tell you no when you asked to watch it together. but after the tenth time in three months, he needed a little more to keep himself awake.

occasionally grinding you into his lap anytime it got interesting. just so you wouldn’t really notice. and a man could only take so much. his heavy voice flowing into your ear once he leaned up a little.

"need your help real quick honey."

your eyes only glancing away from the screen when he slides you off his lap and sitting you next to him. his hand engulfed yours, trailing it over to the tent in his pants.

your cheeks were red and you whined about missing the movie, but simon knew deep down you didn’t mind, there was just a small sliver of prude hiding away in there somewhere.

he paused the movie as he convinced you to pull down his pants and boxers. and anytime you were like this, it was almost like any semblance of remembering what to do, left your head.

"spit on it a little." his voice was lax, fingers scratching sweetly at your scalp to hopefully act as a form of encouragement.

soon enough he had your small hands wrapped around him, his thick cock covered in your spit. the drool oozing out from around your fingers while you moved your hands up and down, jerking him off as he reassured you. it really didn’t even take long for him to get your mouth around him either. using gentle coos to explain how ‘it just hurt so bad’.

he tries to not chuckle when you choke and gag around his long cock. the salty taste of his pre cum hitting the back of your throat, but he wanted more.

"swallow. swallow baby."

and when you do, he shoves your head down a little more. burrowing himself all the way into your tight throat until his fatty tip was pressed against you.

it was almost wicked. the way he tried to desensitize you to the size of his cock. in his head he was helping.

but that’s not how it felt when you were choking and gagging around him. your lips puffy around him while drool seeped down to the base of him. it helped to swallow while he was sheathed into you, a gasp of air making it through every time. and he loved it. the sensation of your throat tightening around him, even just for a second, was euphoric.

the only thing getting you through was the idea that he’d be relaxed enough afterwards to finish the movie. and he didn’t let up until his cum was pouring down your throat.

"good job, baby. good good job."

ೃ࿔* tag list: @vanillarosekiss @simonskitty @cu456 @silverwoodlynx @mlthree @vint4geroses @ktmjoslin @darlingchanse @xangelbnnyx @tslmvn @1pps @jgissle12 @asherscove @bunty-girl @yu-rikaa @mara-018 @diorpar @sky-robin @ray-19 @ldrtypeofgirl @mentalhorror @teranya @chawitea @all-by-myself98 @jinx53 @alfiestreacle @annierosesreposts @frazzledfawn @chris444evr @iamtoriasworld @annierosesposts @dude1634 

[stunie]

“NEEDIN’ A RIDE REAL, REAL BAD!!”

HAIKYUU + THIGH RIDING ᯓ⭑ ft. bokuto koutarou, daichi sawamura, kuroo tetsurou, miya atsumu, sakusa kiyoomi, & ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader

contains : explicit smut (18+), thigh riding / dry humping, phone call (keep quiet n ride!), risky sex / very mild: cw exhibitionism, squirting, teasing, praise, kissing <3, hair pulling (you to them), orgasm denial, usage of pet names — 2.9K WC

note : yayya my first haikyuu post on here ! this is my response to this thirst here ૮꒰˶˃ ^ ˂̵˵꒱ა hope u all have fun reading this <3

KUROO TETSUROU.

“Whoa whoa,” Kuroo coos through a breathy chuckle, big hand wrapping around your hip to hold you still against his thigh. “Easy now, pretty thing. Let’s pause for a second, okay?”

The sound of your protests and whines almost make him cave right off the bat. “…Tetsu..” you sulk, corners of your lips curling into a sad pout even when he gives you an apologetic smile before he’s jutting his thumb to gesture at his phone, the irritating melody of his ringtone repeating itself as the screen lights up, “Incoming call from: Kenma!” displayed across the top.

“Sorryy,” he huffs. “Can’t. This one’s important.”

He’s giving you a reassuring squeeze around your hip, a silent reminder that he’ll give you everything you need in a few minutes, but you’re not having any of that. Your arms come to stubbornly wrap around his neck before he can pick up the call, sugar sweet voice already making pleas only a second later.

On any other given day, you would have let him take the call with only an irritated huff— just not today. Not with the way you can already feel your orgasm running away from you. “P-please, please Tetsu,” you sob, “I was so close. Can’t wait any longer.. please?”

His eyes are widening a bit at the unfamiliar desperation in your voice, grunt slipping out when his cock reacts to it too, twitching and slapping against his stomach— a reoccurring habit that seems to only occur whenever you give him that needy little look of yours.

“Awww,” he whispers, and you barely catch the strain in his voice. “Well I’m sorry for ruining your moment, angel.”

You’re practically purring as soon as you feel his hand come to lightly cup your jaw, immediately melting into his touch as he smiles in response. “Ah— fine,” Kuroo caves as soon as he sees your hands coming to cutely hold his wrist in place. “Guess i can’t stop you if you need it so bad. But listen here..”

His thumb moves from your jaw, digit pressing into your bottom lip to angle your face at him. The look you’re giving him is just to die for, pouty lips soft against his thumb and you’re peering up at him through those pleady eyes— as if there was even a single chance that Kuroo would ever deny his pretty girl of an orgasm in the first place.

“Nothing crazy. Deal? Kenma hears and..” he presses a little harder into your lip, watching the way your tongue comes to swipe at the invasive finger. “Me and you? Are never hearing the end of it.”

You’re swiftly nodding as soon as the words register, hands coming to rest on the muscles of his shoulders as you resume your movement the next second, gasping at the way your clit catches against his thigh. “Kenma?” You hear him hum, tucking his phone between his cheek and shoulder— quick and casual.

Maybe too casual.

“Mmm,” his eyes flicker back towards you when you take in a sharp inhale. “So it’s about that. You sure you don’t wanna meet up to go over it?”

A loud gasp slips out from you when he abruptly grabs you by your waist, and your hands slam over your mouth, Kuroo tensing beneath you. “…Hm? Yeah, I’m listening.” He chuckles, regaining his composure in an instant as he starts to rock you back and forth against his leg— and fast.

The roughness has your face contorting, nails digging deep into his shoulders as you try and resist the strong hands guiding you back and forth— try and slow him down a bit, delay your oncoming orgasm by even second if anything at all. You hadn’t expected it to come back so fast, and.. you both knew good and well that you weren’t gonna be able to stay quiet.

You give him a look, something resembling your best attempt at a glare, but he’s ignoring it— casually chatting with kenma about something you can’t quite catch. You’re only left to bite your lip, eyebrows deeply furrowed as you desperately fight the knot tightening inside your belly, thighs clamping against his own as he flexes his quad straight into you.

“Oh,” Kuroo says, hand leaving your waist to pick up his phone again, finger hovering over the ‘mute’ button, and your body is falling limp onto his chest, hands balancing yourself on him as you peer up at him through tired eyes and a heavy pant. “Actually..”

“..Looks like I got a bit of a problem to take care of here first.” He smiles. “So give me a minute, yeah?”

MIYA ATSUMU.

“Gonna have to keep that pretty voice of yours down.” Atsumu’s lips brush against the shell of your ear, big hands tight around your hips as he drags you up and down his thigh. “Or ‘Samu’s gonna hear ya.”

Your hips stutter against his leg, drawing a sharp gasp from you- and he curses under his breath. Osamu would be back any second now, and yet he’s got you seated on him, your lounge shorts pulled to the side so he can draw one quick orgasm out of you before the three of you head out for dinner.

Because you— Atsumu’s impatient lil bunny, or so he calls you, just couldn’t wait until after the dinner to get a quick treat.

“‘M trying.” You whisper, voice breathless and whiny, and you tighten your embrace around his middle, burying your face deep into the fabric of his sweater. “Feels ‘s good… so good— need more..”

“I know, I know— later, yeah?” He sounds unsteady from how roughly he’s moving you against him, muscles of his thigh flexing and hardening underneath you. “Gonna give it to ya real good. stuff ya nice and full. How’s that sound, dirty girl?”

You want that.

You know exactly how easy it’d be for him to get you gushing underneath his cock if it weren’t for your insistence on him not cumming. And well.. it kind of made sense to him— considering how your last creampie went. His mind thinks back to how you looked with his cum dribbling down your thighs as you nervously clamped them together, and how no one seemed to noticed the juices dripping into a neat little puddle beneath you.

It’d be so easy— he’s got you all mapped out and knows you like the back of his hand. He could just push those pretty thighs of yours up to your face, hold them nice and still as he pummels the deep spot inside you that has you chanting his name over and over, and your cunt would be gushing right after that.

“‘Tsumu.” You choke out, tightly latching onto him like a koala, “‘M gonna cum..!”

“You are, aren’t ya? I can tell.” He groans, and his thigh bounces up into you, mumbling a curse under his breath when you squeal at the roughness. “Show me that pretty face when you’re lettin’ go.”

A couple more rolls of your hips and you’re gasping and stuttering against him, Atsumu pulling you just right against his thigh as your eyes slam shut, knot inside you violently snapping in an instant as you tremble underneath him, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.” His voice comes out deep and breathy, hands tightening their grip on you. “Ride it all out f’ me, rela- oh s-shit.”

Your eyes widen as soon as the sound of footsteps registers in your mind, and your head swiftly turns back to see that Atsumu’s already pulling your shorts back over your cunt, your juices immediately soaking through the fabric as he holds you flush against his chest, big hand cradling the back of your head.

“‘Tsumu..!” You whisper, but he’s shushing you with gentle strokes along the back of your head.

“What, ‘Samu?” he calls out, his mind putting together a silent prayer that his twin was not about to open the door.

His prayers go unanswered.

“You two ready yet?” Osamu’s asking as soon as he flings open the door, the knob accidentally slipping through his grasp, and your door crashes against your wall with a loud thud a second later.

You faintly hear him mutter an “oops” before his eyes are finally falling on you, brow raising at the sight of you clinging tightly onto atsumu as your chest heaves up and down.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI.

“What?” you can feel your concentration falter as soon as the sound of Sakusa’s voice reaches you, and you’re immediately wiping at the frustrated tears that have begun to collect along your lashes. “Can’t cum like that?”

You’re quick to shake your head, and he doesn’t miss the slight tremble to your lips. Cute.

Sakusa had his doubts about this idea of yours from the start. He knows how needy you always get— knows that despite that innocent face of yours, your cunt’s anything but. It’s greedy. Something like this was probably not gonna be able to get you to finish, and he knew that.. but a part of him was just curious.

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was to see you this frustrated. Your chest is rising up and down with each angry pant, arm coming to rub at your nose from the occasional sniffle after being denied orgasm after orgasm.

And him? he’s never felt such a strong ache before. The dark spot on his shorts are a tell-tale sign that he’s been leaking with pre-cum, and he can practically feel it starting to drip down his cock. Neither of you were doing so well, and if he was being honest, he’s on the verge of flipping you over and putting you in a mating press— but the small voice inside him wants to see you come undone on his thighs. Badly.

He’s just gotta see how you look.

“Need your cock, Omi.” You mumble, rising onto your knees to scoot further up, but he’s stopping you only a second later. “Omi? Why..?”

“No.” he says flatly. “You don’t.”

“I do!” You’re protesting immediately after, hands balancing on his shoulders. “Can’t finish without it— ah!”

You yelp when he’s roughly pulling you back down, his quad flexing as soon as your cunt makes contact with his leg. The hands around your hips are tight, and Sakusa’s setting a rhythm only a moment later, keeping the muscles of his legs firm and flexed to better rub against your clit.

“W-wait!” You’re stammering, whining straight into his ear as you frantically latch onto him. He lets you bury your face into the crook of his neck as he works you closer to your high, forcing you into a mind-numbing pace to have you flying right off the edge in a few more seconds.

“You can— don’t fight it.” His voice comes out as a deep grunt, a result of his dragged out attempts at ignoring the borderline painful throb of his cock, and oh- he was so going to take you in a mating press after this. The second you’re finished gushing, he was gonna flip you over and finally rid himself this irritating ache.

“Omi!” You sob, eyes clenching shut as your hips start to stutter, and he can feel you trembling underneath his hands. “Omi.. O-omi— ‘m close!” He only responds by roughly pressing his thigh up against you, thick muscle hitting your clit just right as you choke out a scream, finally gushing all over his thighs.

“See?” He exhales, breath hitching in his throat when your nails dig deep into his back, his hands slowly moving you up and down to ride out your high.

“You can.”

DAICHI SAWAMURA.

“Feeling good, huh? Don’t try to fight it.”

Daichi grunts when you tug at his hair a little harder, face buried deep into his front as you desperately hump his leg. He’s gentle with you, strong hands guiding you up and down his leg, but he’d be lying if he said his patience wasn’t starting to wear thin.

The sweet nothings he’s been whispering into your ear this entire time are starting to sound a lot less like cooing and a lot more like grunting.

He couldn’t help it. He can feel you so so vividly, feel your juices dripping down the sides of his thigh and hear you moaning straight into his chest. You were soaked through and through, and it’s taking everything in him to stay patient and let you have this.

“There you go.” He’s praising you when you grind against him particularly hard, ignoring the way his shorts are feeling painfully tight around his cock. “Just like that— move exactly like that.”

“Daichi,” you whine. “‘M getting so close— feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He exhales deeply, and the way his cock twitches suddenly has him groaning, hands squeezing a bit too hard against your hips as you wince. “Daichi..?”

“Oops, sorry princess.” He’s clenching his jaw, giving you a weak smile as you wrap your arms around him. “That’s my bad. Don’t mind me, okay? Just.. worry about yourself— this is all about you right now.”

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI.

You weren’t as subtle as you thought.

His legs just looked so strong, so perfect to sit on, and you couldn’t help yourself. He didn’t seem to think too much of it when you first sat a little lower than you usually did, straddling his mid thigh as he flipped through another manga that Tendou had lent him earlier that week.

Just subtle movements up and down his thigh was your original plan, but it didn’t take very long for him to catch on.

“What are you doing?” Ushijima’s voice has you jolting from where you’re seated on his left thigh, his gaze now on you and the way you’re frantically waving your arms around in defense, barely able to stammer out a “N-nothing!”

You just barely catch the way his eyebrow raises in suspicion. It has you moving off him the next second, but he’s tossing aside the manga, big and strong hands easily wrapping around your hips to keep you planted on him.

“Don’t leave yet.” He says, stern and flat, but you catch the hint of curiosity swirling deep in his eyes.

The familiar heat of embarrassment is flooding to your face in an instant, and your head hangs low. “S-sorry, Toshi.” You mumble, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Your thighs just looked so big, just wanted to… ride them.”

It’s silent.

You work up the courage to snack a glance at him again, now faced with the sight of his head tilted a bit, as if confused by your confession. “B-but!” You continue, mouth already running off on its own. “Forget it, okay? It might be weird— Toshi..?”

It was just one little flex of his quad, one that had the muscle pushing up against your clit, but the way his name rolled off your tongue sounded sinful. You can feel his grip around your hips tightening a bit, and he’s leaning in to close the gap between the two of you.

“Wouldn’t it feel better like this?”

BOKUTO KOUTAROU.

It started off with an accidental brush of his knee against your cunt.

Bokuto had always been eager with his kisses. He had you pinned down on his mattress, body hovering over yours as he moved his lips against your own— and he hadn’t even noticed anything different until he heard you suddenly moan into his mouth. He’s pulling away the next second, eyes wide as he tries gauging your reaction again, bringing his knee back to rub over your cunt. And … just like clockwork, your eyes clench shut and you choke back a gasp.

He swallows thickly.

Only five minutes later and he’s got you seated on his thigh, moving you back and forth with a needy grunt, his free hand squeezing your cheeks as he forces you to look up at him. “Don’t look away, ‘kay?”

“You look pretty— pretty like that. I just wanna see.”

The look on his face isn’t much different from yours. His mouth is slightly parted in desperate pants, deep red spreading across his cheeks at the sight of you feeling good on his leg. He’s swallowing deeply before he takes in a sharp inhale right after, already pussy drunk and his dick hasn’t even touched you yet.

The way your face starts to contort when you’re rapidly approaching your high has him just hoping he doesn’t end up finishing untouched. It’s throbbing— absolutely aching with need and as soon as you start sobbing his name, he can feel his patience shatter into thin pieces.

You let out a loud yelp as soon as your back hits the mattress, Bokuto looming over you with a strained look on his face as he rushes to line his tip up with your hole. “S-sorry.” His voice is just above a growl. “I can’t help it after all. It’s okay though, right? Gonna make you feel good.”

[snail-day]

Satoru doesn't do well with the idea of leaving you. Never has. Probably never will.

Even the short missions are enough to make him sulky, but the long ones? The ones where he’ll be away for days, maybe weeks? He turns into a whining mess. You wonder if he's always been like this, just never voiced it aloud to anyone before.

Packing takes three times longer than it should. Every time he tries to fold a shirt or zip his carry on, he ends up abandoning the task halfway through just to wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into the crook of your neck with a pitiful little whine.

"I don't wanna go," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, maybe saying it enough times might make the whole thing mission disappear. "You’re my little Pokémon, y'know? I should be able to just catch you in a ball and bring you with me."

You laugh, warm and breathless, reaching up behind you to card your fingers through his snowy hair. "You could try," you tease, and he groans dramatically, squeezing you tighter.

It’s not just joking, though. When you offer to come with him, he always gets a little quiet. A little stuck in his mind. Turning you around and pulling back just enough to look at you, and the way his bright blue eyes shimmer... God, it breaks your heart a little. He wants to say yes. You can see it in the way his hand trembles against your side. The way his pretty eyes scan your face. It's on the tip of his tongue.

But instead, he just shakes his head slowly, a wobbly little smile on his lips.

Because the thought of something happening to you, curse or no curse, makes his heart ache. Makes his mind wander a little too far for his liking.

What if he’s in the middle of a fight and someone targets you?

What if he’s too far away to reach you in time?

What if...?

"Can’t risk it," he finally says softly, thumb brushing back and forth against your hip, memorizing the feel of your soft skin. Maybe your scent will eventually be engrained in his mind. "You're... you’re everything, baby."

Already pulling you against his lean chest again, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, mumbling "I love you" over and over against the crown of your head. His palm rubbing up and down your back in loose patterns. You almost think he's tearing up.

"I love you. I love you so much. Don’t forget, okay?" he murmurs between kisses to the top of your head. "Be safe. Call me if you even think something’s weird, kay? I’ll come running, promise."

You have to physically pry him off you just to get him to finish packing. And even then, he keeps glancing back at you every five seconds. Begging for one more hug. One more kiss. One more chance to touch you before he has to drag himself to the door.

By the time he actually gets to the door, he’s somehow hugging you again, despite your giggling protests, rocking you gently side to side in his arms, mumbling about how he’s going to miss you so bad he might just quit being a sorcerer and become your full-time house husband. (He’s only half joking.)

Finally, after a hundred kisses and whispered I love yous, he leans down one last time, nose brushing against yours, voice soft and almost trembling: "Be here when I get back, 'kay? I don’t wanna come home to a world without you."

But then, quieter, so quiet you nearly miss it he adds: "...And don’t... don’t forget about me either, yeah? Don’t find someone normal while I'm gone. Someone who doesn't leave. Someone who can give you the kind of life you deserve."

It’s said with a half-laugh, light and teasing, like he’s trying to play it off, but you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, the way his voice wavers. That tiny, hidden crack in the foundation of Satoru Gojo: The fear that being the strongest might mean ending up the loneliest too.

And even as he finally forces himself to step away, flashing you that big, blinding smile. You catch the flicker of sadness he tries so desperately to hide. Because no matter how strong he is, when it comes to you, Satoru’s always afraid that someday you’ll realize you deserve more than a man who keeps having to leave.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part 4 of Bird Watching aka hot construction worker Simon Riley x single mom reader

It’s almost comical, when you allow yourself the rare moment of quiet to sit and reflect, just how different life is now compared to less than a year ago

Last year, the mental check list you went through every time you ventured out of your flat was much shorter, simpler, the bare essentials one might say

Wallet? Check

Phone? Check

Keys? Check

Out the door you went

Nowadays, the check list was only the teensiest bit longer, thanks to the teensiest addition to your flat

Wallet? Check

Phone? Check

Keys? Check

Diaper bag? Check

Enough diapers and wipes? Got it

Extra sets of clothes in case she has a blow out? Already packed in the bag

Her little beanie in case it gets chilly? You swore you had shoved it to the bottom of the diaper bag last time you took a walk…

Enough blankies for her to be comfortable in the pram? Most are in the hamper where you left them…

Her pacifier if she gets fussy? Can’t find a single one, though you swore you owned a dozen…

The baby sling if she becomes tired of the pram and wants to be held? Has to be somewhere around here…

Getting out the door recently proved to be a more complicated affair than you were used to, as did every other aspect of new motherhood that no one could suitably prepare you for, though as the weeks went on, you were slowly but surely getting the hang of things

Not that you had much of a choice in the matter, did you?

Your family and friends overseas were supportive, they checked in with you regularly, always gushed over each and every baby photo you sent their way, had even gone and sent you care packages not long after your delivery, helping to contribute to all the baby gear and supplies you would need to embark on this new chapter of your life… but at the end of the day, you were still going through all this by yourself

It was you who was navigating the late night cluster feedings, it was you who had to learn how to soothe a colicky infant who never wanted to be put down, you who still had to cook the meals you needed to eat, you who still washed the dishes that piled up, you who still had to do the laundry that needed washing, you who had to pay the bills which weighed heavy on your mind each time you watched your bank account diminish, all of this while running on such little sleep you oftentimes felt more like the undead than someone who’d just created new life

And yet… you managed

This hadn’t been how you’d originally envisioned your life going, but now that she was here, now that the tiny speck of life you’d spent months growing inside you was more than just a blurry mass on an ultrasound screen, now that she was a real tangible person whose birth certificate bore your name and yours alone, you couldn’t picture a world without her

The only issue was, you couldn’t picture how much longer you’d be able to keep this up - money was the one thing you couldn’t offer her in abundance

You were a smart girl, you’d been saving up ever since you started working as a teenager, you rented a flat that wasn’t out of your budget, you sold the car when it became evident that it was a luxury you couldn’t afford to keep any longer - but no one could have prepared you for how utterly and devastatingly expensive babies were

Your only choice was to go back to work, as heartbreaking as the thought of leaving your new baby in the care of strangers was, and as much as your body protested the idea, you really were running out of options unfortunately

The stark lack of childcare available was only just the cherry on top of it all, wasn’t it?

You’d reached out to in-home nurseries, local daycares, nanny agencies, larger company centres, and every time the answer was the same: there’s a wait list

As much as you valued your independence, your ability to stay positive in the face of problems no matter how big or small, and as much as you despised asking for help, you had been inching closer to a breaking point when you overheard a conversation between two mums in the paediatricians waiting room, something about the bothersome construction site around the corner being worth it in the end if it turned out to be a new nursery after all

Swallowing down your pride and putting on what you hoped came across as a brave face, you’d ventured over to that very construction site, determined to find out if this might be your needle in the haystack, if this truly could be somewhere you had a fighting chance of enrolling Rosie before the money ran out, even if that meant asking for help for once

What you hadn’t realized at the time, was just how much help you’d end up getting

Part of you still wakes up some mornings, wondering if Simon was a perfect dream you had, the answer to your prayers you’d never spoken aloud, the solution to your problems handed to you on a silver platter

Because what kind of man does all of this for a stranger? Who goes through all this trouble just to be kind? Did he feel bad for you? Did he pity you? There had to be some sort of ulterior motive to this, right?

“Or, I don’t know? Did it ever occur to you that maybe he likes you?” You roll your eyes as you picture the exact expression on your best friend’s face as she tells you this over the phone. You’d told her everything, keen on getting someone else’s opinion on the situation

“He doesn’t even know me yet.” You reply, phone cradled against your ear and shoulder as you double check you’ve packed everything in Rosie’s diaper bag

“Exactly, not yet. He obviously wants to.” She answers easily, never one to be phased by your talent to shut things down prematurely. “Don’t go ruining a good thing before it even happens.”

“I don’t know. It’s not just me I have to make these decisions for anymore, you know? I’ve got Rosie to think about too.” You say, glancing over at her in her crib, entirely entranced by the mobile spinning above her

“Yeah, and look at how he’s already trying to provide for the two of you! The guy literally found you a nursery spot within days! You’ve been telling me it’s impossible for weeks and dude did it in the blink of an eye. For you.” She tries to rationalize to you. “I know it was different while you were pregnant, you didn’t want to date, and I get that. But she’s here now, and you can’t keep yourself closed off ‘til she’s eighteen.”

“When did I say I was keeping myself closed off?”

“Sweetie, I know you, okay? You tried finding him, we all did. But he’s not just going to appear.” You can’t help but cringe slightly as her words, knowing exactly who she’s referring to. “You are not the first woman in the world to get pregnant from a one night stand, and you won’t be the last.”

“I don’t-”

“No I’m serious, listen to me.” She interrupts you before you can protest properly. “You never even got his name, babe. I love you, and I know you always want to do the right thing, but you can’t keep holding out hope you’ll find him again. If this Simon guy wants to step up and take you out for a date, then let him. Who knows, you might even have fun. You remember that word right? Fun? Something people are supposed to try and do.”

“Maybe I should take back the godmother idea, after all.” You joke, knowing deep down that your friend is right

“Too late. I’ve already got it embroidered on my jacket. I’m gonna get her a matching one when she’s bigger.”

You go to tease her instantly, knowing that her embroidery skills will have the jacket looking like Rosie decorated it herself, when a knock at the door interrupts your thoughts

“I’ve got to go, I think he’s here already.”

“Just try to give this a chance, will you? Please?” Your friend asks, the sincerity in her tone giving you pause as you refrain from automatically rolling your eyes again

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“You better.”

Hanging up the phone, you scoop Rosie up to cradle her against your chest as you make your way towards the door, steadying yourself with a deep breath, a quick glance in the hallway mirror letting you know you don’t look half as bad as you could, before you’re opening the door for Simon

The first thing you’re caught off guard by is the same as every other time your eyes have landed on him, which is just how ruggedly handsome he is, his impressive stature and evident muscle tone aside, the thin scars and pock marks littered across his pale skin cannot hide the strong face beneath, dirty blonde hair with a days worth of stubble to match, a nose that looks as though it’s been broken and reset one too many times, it’s his eyes that really captivate you, his eyes that tell you there’s a story to be uncovered here

Your gaze doesn’t linger long however, when you spot the bright yellow bouquet clutched in his hands

He wonders if it really is this easy, to keep a pretty bird happy

If he knew how elated you’d be at the sight of some bright flowers from the shop nearby, then he should have figured the new infant car seat securely installed in his truck would have you practically bursting as the seams

You tried insisting to him that you’d pay him back for the car seat, that he really hadn’t needed to make such a purchase for you, but he wasn’t having any of that

In truth, Simon never even bothered to look at the price tag or the receipt at any point, the cost was the furthest thing from his mind, not when he considered your happiness to be pricelesss

And while he could readily admit to himself that he didn’t know how to do this, didn’t quite understand how to go about this ‘the right way’, didn’t know how to come off as anything other than intense and insistent, he could equally confess that he was just following what felt right

He figured that pretty birds liked it when men bought them things, showered them in grand gestures, but they probably liked it even more when it was things they paid attention to, things that made them feel seen, like flowers in your favourite colour, or a car seat to keep your baby bird safe, or opening the door for you when your hands were full, or offering to carry the absurdly large diaper bag while you juggled the baby

Of course, it wasn’t like he’d had much of an example growing up to follow off of, someone’s footsteps to trace and replicate. Simon can’t help but to think for a fleeting moment as he watches you buckle Rosie in, ‘would it have been that hard?’ for his own father to have paid attention? To have made his mum feel seen? To have tried? Was it really so difficult to be a good man?

He can recall a time when his old man was far too pissed on the drink to notice that Simon had been skipping school, sat in front of the telly and yelling about how the news stories that day were rubbish, his speech too slurred to be fully comprehensible, but he’ll never forget when the old man turned to him, looked at him for the first time in a long time and saw him rather than saw through him, empty beer bottle pointed in his direction and eyes glazed over, telling him ‘When I see wha’ I wan’- no- when I see wha’s mine, I take it! Y’hear me boy? You see wha’s yours, an’ you take it.’

Never in his life had Simon ever wanted to take the man’s advice, determined to never turn out as he had, but this was one such occasion where he could agree with the low life’s sentiment

Because when he looks at you, sat contently next to him in his passenger seat with a smile on your face, a glance in the rear view mirror showing a strapped in baby lulled to sleep on the drive, he knows he can’t let this slip through his fingers, not when his heart kept repeating one thing to him

Mine mine mine mine mine

What was one more lie to make sure this was his? He’d never claimed to be a perfect man, not even a good a man, but if one more innocent fib helped him get one step closer to calling something his own for the first time in a very long time, helped him prove he could be the right man for you, then where was the harm in that?

“You might-” he clears his throat awkwardly when you glance over at him, averting his gaze quickly and readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “You might hear ‘em call me a weird nickname, dependin’ who’s workin’, by the way.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” You ask him with immediate curiosity, angling yourself more towards him now, with an elbow against the centre console while you balance your chin on your fist, attention solely on his words

The two of you had been making idle chit chat throughout the drive, mostly your endless thanks and his insistence that you were no bother, but this is the first thing he’s mentioned that’s really caught your attention

“We’ve been workin’ on this site for a while, the nursery. I’ve put in quite a few hours on it myself. I like to see things through properly, end up workin’ later than some o’ the other blokes most days.” He starts off, peeking at you quickly as he weaves through traffic, seeing that you’re still listening intently. “Anyway, someone made the joke one day tha’ I treat the job almost like it’s my kid or somethin’, that I’m sort of the ‘dad’ on site.”

“Really?” You scoff, not in an unkind way, but more like you believe what he’s saying, believe that some younger lads on the crew would totally take a jab at him and start referring to him as the dad

“Really. After that, the name just sort o’ stuck. So if you hear anyone call me dad, tha’s all they’re talkin’ ‘bout.” He shrugs, trying to come across as casual as he can, nonchalant in the way someone telling a real anecdote would be

“Even folk outside your work crew call you that?”

“Done enough jobs for this company that somehow they got wind o’ the name. Haven’t been able to shake it yet.” He playfully rolls his eyes and looks at you in a ‘what can you do about it’ kind of way, hoping that this is one of the last tales he has to weave into the web of lies he’s unintentionally begun to spin around you

He knew it was a bit of a stretch, that the odds of avoiding the truth and pretending to be your husband, to be Rosie’s father, were stacked against him, and piling higher and higher the more he opened his mouth, but Simon knows that this isn’t a sprint to the finish line, this is more akin to a marathon, and while he’s stretched and rearing to go, if he can play his cards right, you’ll be waiting for him with open arms on the other end of the ribbon, ready to crown him with those same titles he’s pretending are already his to claim

He wasn’t sure if the ‘dad’ lie was going to be entirely necessary today, though he’d wanted to cover his bases as much as possible before the meeting, hoping to avoid interfering too much and raising suspicions

He’s ultimately glad for the fib however, when he holds the door open for you and Rosie, and the three of you are greeted with the sight of a flustered assistant director sat behind the desk

“Oh, hi! Apologies if I seem rushed, our director had something come up last minute, and she won’t be able to make it in time. Flat tire, it seems.” The young woman explains as she attempts to straighten some scattered documents, Simon nodding along in understanding when you voice your own sympathy at the situation, feigning ignorance as though he hadn’t been the one to prick the woman’s wheel earlier that morning

“She’s asked me to speak with you in the meantime.” She goes on to say, coming around to desk and approaching Simon first with an extended hand. “You must be the dad she was mentioning to me then.”

“Aye, nice to meet you.” He agrees politely, offering the woman a quick shake of the hand before dropping his gaze over to you, the two of you sharing a look that says ‘wow, they really do call you that, huh?’

“And then you must be Mom, of course.” She turns towards you, offering you the same professional handshake and smile she likely gives everyone who walks through these doors

“That’d be me. Though, just Rosie’s mom. I could never handle all those sites and jobs like he does, the baby’s enough for me.” You joke, believing that you’re all referencing how Simon is ‘dad’ to his construction jobs, while you’re mom to the little girl that’s brought you all here today

Lucky for Simon, this woman apparently doesn’t get paid enough to dissect people’s statements

“Agreed, we’ll leave that to him.” She laughs along with you before turning her attention towards the squirming bundle in the pram. “And who have we here then?”

Just like that, the attention’s off of him, off of your relationship to one another, diverted instead towards enrolment details, paperwork that needs to be filled out, information you need to know as a parent and information they need as a childcare provider

Before he knows it, more than an hour’s gone by, the t’s have been crossed and the i’s have been dotted, and you’re told that as soon as the open sign switches on at the new location, Rosie’s got a spot in their infant program

“I should probably feed her quickly, just before we get going again.” You tell Simon, bouncing an increasingly upset Rosie against your shoulder as you stand up from your chair

“Oh. Yeah, ‘course. You have a, uh, a bottle for ‘er, or-” he trails off, not yet prepared to name the alternative

“I wish. No, she hasn’t taken to a bottle quite yet. Still prefers it straight from the tap.” You explain easily, not catching the way the mental image you’ve just painted for him has his heart jump starting in his chest, breath catching in his throat, and heat rushing up his neck

“We do have a breastfeeding space, just past our staff room around the corner here. You’re welcome to use it.” The assistant director informs you, pointing you in the right direction as she opens her office door back up

“Perfect. And thank you again so much. I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to us.” You tell her, sincere gratitude painted across your features

“You go on ‘head, love. I’ll wait out ‘ere for ya.” Simon says, watching you turn around the corner out of earshot

“You’ve got a lovely family, Mr. Riley.” The woman tells him offhandedly, beginning to gather all the paperwork you’ve just filled out by hand for them

“I do. I’m very lucky.” He agrees easily, taking a step closer to her desk. “Though the poor missus has been exhausted lately, late nights with the baby an’ all tha’. Hope everything was filled out alrigh’.” He adds, throwing a baited line out into the water, waiting to see if he’ll get a bite

“Ugh, don’t we know it. She looks like she’s handling things well though, and everything here looks to be in order as far as I can- oh. Actually,” the woman says, fingers stopping halfway through the sheet she was quickly glancing over, making sure no spots were left empty now that Simon had mentioned it. “It looks like she only filled out the emergency contacts halfway. She’s only put herself.”

“S’alrigh’, I can add my information quickly. I know she’s real tired, poor girl.” Simon doesn’t give the woman the chance to blink before he’s snatched a loose pen up and is scribbling his name and phone number under the second emergency contact, marking himself under as ‘dad’

After all, it’s only a matter of time until the words he’s put on paper are as real as the ink drying on paper declare them to be

It’s midafternoon by the time he’s driven you and Rosie back to your flat, insisting that he help you carry the diaper bag and pram back inside as you cradled a sleeping babe against chest, hopeful that you could lay her back down in her crib without waking her

“You can make yourself a cup of tea if you’d like, while you wait. I’ll hopefully just be a minute or two. Mugs are in the cabinet by the sink, tea bags by the kettle.” You tell him before slipping down the hall towards her room

Simon takes his time glancing around your space this time, now that his attention isn’t solely enraptured by your presence, and thinks he can hear his heart beating through his ears, when he catches sight of his own chicken scratch penmanship in your kitchen, on the fridge amongst the postcards and takeaway menus and old seasons greetings cards, is the phone number he’d written for you when you first met, a mirrored version of his own fridge at home bearing only your writing

He takes your advice and prepares not just one but two cups of tea, puts your new flowers into a vase and fills it with water before setting it on your table, the sound of your approaching footsteps masked by the hissing of the kettle, though when he turns and makes eye contact with you, the energy in the room is different from before, a tension that wasn’t present the last time you both stood here

“How’d you take your tea?” He asks, jutting his chin towards the chairs at the table, his way of telling you to sit and let him take care of you, his own way of unofficially saying his job isn’t over yet, he’s not done here yet. Rosie’s daycare spot might be filled, he might have driven you home, helped you inside, but won’t you let him prepare your tea? Won’t you indulge him just a little longer?

To his elation, you do. You tell him how you like your tea, you watch him gather his ingredients and prepare both your drinks, watch him as he slides your cup across the table and lowers himself into the seat next to you, rather than across from you like last time, feeling more daring than before

“Simon, I know you keep telling me this is all okay, that it’s no big deal, not a problem,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the handle of your mug as he takes his own sip, pretending as though he isn’t desperately hanging onto your every word, hoping that the gears turning in your head have landed on a conclusion in his favour. “But I just- I don’t know how to thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. Truly.” His reply is instantaneous, honest, one he’s given you each time you try to act as though you owe him anything for his kindness, as though he isn’t the one getting more out of this than you are

“How’s this possible?” You ask with a flustered laugh, the smallest crack in your usually cool and collected facade beginning to show, a glimmer of a flummoxed, confused, disbelieving girl peaking through for a split second

“What’d you mean, love?” Simon inquires, pushing his mug to the side and offering you his undivided attention now

“I just- you’ve been nothing but kind, and helpful, and outrageously generous since the literal minute I’ve met you Simon. And I’m so beyond appreciative and thankful- but I- I mean- how- what are you getting out of this?” You finally ask, a visible weight being lifted off your shoulders as you ask the question that’s clearly been plaguing you

Part of him aches as you essentially admit to him that you have a hard time believing someone could be so kind without expecting anything in return, that you feel you owe him anything because of his help, but he also lives in this same world as you, has seen just how dark and cruel and greedy people can be, agrees with the sentiment that you can’t willingly trust just anyone

But he doesn’t want to be just anyone to you, and so he decides to try some honesty for a change

“I like you.”

“You think you like me. You hardly know me.” You reply, as though his answer was one you were expecting, though the determination on your face cannot hide the faint blush that appeared on the apples of your cheeks soon as his words were in the open

“I’d like to get to know you. Feel a bit like I already do.” At this, Simon eases your mug out of your grasp, slipping his own calloused palms into your much softer, smaller hands, knowing already that he’ll be feigning for your next touch before he’s even let go of you yet. “I look at you, love, you and Rosie, the two o’ you, and I see…”

What he doesn’t dare say aloud is that you remind him of something achingly familiar, that he looks at you and sees someone alone, someone in need of help, too fiercely proud to admit so, you remind him of him, you remind him of home, in the most fucked up yet equally incredible way

But for now, he settles instead on telling you a little less

“Hope.” Your eyes widen at his words, mouth falling open in the slightest ‘o’ as you take in his words. “You- y’give me hope.”

Something about that seems to resonate within you, has you blinking at him as though you’ve been only seeing a silhouette through thick fog thus far, able to make out the silhouette of a man but unable to define his edges, unsure whether you’re seeing a friend or foe, but now, it’s as though the high beams have finally turned on, as though you’re seeing him in perfect, unfiltered light

Simon can only hope you don’t hate what you see

He thinks it’s safe to presume not, when your hand lets go of his, reaching up instead to pull him in by his shirt collar until your lips meet, eyelids closing with visions of yellows flowers in the corner of your eyes

Next chapter

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[bywons]

PULLING YOU ON THEIR LAP 𖥔 ENHYPEN

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬──── 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋

❪ 𝑃𝑅𝐸𝐶𝑖𝑆 ❫ ｡ 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 992wc 𖥔 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ── 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 愛 ／ 𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒

する ܃ dedicated to @.jenni cause she gave the idea for jw’s hc and then BOOM ot7 hc :0

reb𝑙ogs& ˊᗜˋ 𝑓eedbacks

LEE HEESEUNG

“do i really look good in this dress?” you pout, mindlessly monitoring yourself in front of the mirror.

“i feel like—” before you can even finish your sentence, your loving boyfriend, lee heeseung, pulls you on his lap. you land on his lap with a soft gasp, your hands automatically flying to his chest. as soon as you take in heeseung’s expression towards you, you feel heat rush to your cheeks and tips of your ear.

his infamous doe eyes lock onto yours, brimming with adoration as he quickly takes in all of you through his lovesick eyes. heeseung leans closer, his lips curling into a playful smirk as he rests his chin on your shoulder. his hands find their way to your waist, holding you firmly yet gently as if you might slip away at any moment.

“you feel like what, babe?” he whispers, teasing, “like you're the prettiest girl in the world? if so, then i agree.”

PARK JONGSEONG

your restlessness doesn't go unnoticed by your boyfriend, as you pace around the room, venting about your day.

meanwhile jay feels concerned by the minute, he wants to share your pain, your thoughts. so without a word, he reaches out and catches your wrist, gently tugging you toward him. before you can react, he pulls you onto his lap, his arms encircling your waist with a quiet possessiveness.

“jay—” “shh,” he shushes you down, before creeping his hands up against your back, tracing little circles and shapes to calm you down, while the other hand holds you in place, resting along your waist. jay leans in, pressing a soft kiss on the side of your neck which makes your breath hitch.

“you don’t always have to fight everything on your own,” he whispers, his tone laced with affection. he pushes your head against his warm chest. “lean on me, baby. i’ll always be here for you.”

SIM JAEYUN

jake whines, sighs heavily as he watches you scroll down your phone for the past hour now, and the longer he waits the more he wants to snatch you away from it. and so he does.

without a word he grabs your hand and pulls you on his lap. “jake what—” before you can even say anything, he wraps himself around you like a koala, face buried deep in your neck and hands snaking around your waist.

“jake! what are you doing?” you protest, your cheeks heating up.

“just wanted you closer,” he says simply, mumbling against your neck. his hands settle around you, his thumbs drawing lazy circles.

“you look cute you're flustered,” he giggles as you say that, he can't deny that it's completely true.

PARK SUNGHOON

a lazy afternoon, you fold your laundry while humming to yourself. when you suddenly feel gentle hands wrapping around your abdomen, and before you can react you land squarely on sunghoons lap.

“‘hoon!” you gasp sweetly, before turning towards him, taking a glance of his beautiful face, “are you feeling extra romantic, maybe?”

“how’d you know?” he mumbles, kissing your shoulders before resting his chin there, swaying the both of you side to side. he holds your tighter as if you’d slip away. sunghoons embrace brings you comfort and warmth, as he giggles into your ear with sweet nothings. just the two of you this mellow afternoon.

you lean back against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you.

“you’re beautiful like this,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “stay with me a little longer.”

KIM SUNOO

you're play arguing with your boyfriend sunoo— a serious topic on who likes mint chocolate more, your teasing words earning exaggerated sighs and pouts from him.

just as you laugh at his reaction, with surprising great strength, sunoo grabs your wrist and hauls you towards him. with a gasp, your head rests over his shoulders, with you on his lap.

“okay, that’s enough,” he says with a dramatic huff, his arms locking around your waist to keep you in place. “i win.

your blink up at him, momentarily surprised at the sudden closeness and warmth from him. his touch is warm and loving, except his eyes which look down on you with a hint of playfulness and possession. he smirks, finally lighting your heart on fire.

“sunoo—!” “nope, nope. you're staying right here,” he chuckles, before leaning down to whisper, “besides, you look the best on my lap, close to me.”

YANG JUNGWON

your jaw hangs low as you stare at your boyfriend like a hawk. so this was jungwon’s sweet surprise? going blonde?

“so? say something?” he sighs. he ruffles his newly dyed hair, his lips pulling into an awkward smile, as he sits on the couch. you don’t know whether to laugh, cry or swoon, so you stammer, “you..you look different.”

“different good or different bad?” he giggles, gently pulling you closer until you land on his lap, your silken hair falling upon his cheeks. “different good,” you whisper.

“very nice then,” he whispers back, pressing a soft kiss against your lips as he pulls you closer by your waist, “i plan on being blonde the rest of my life then.”

NISHIMURA RIKI

you've been teasing and your boyfriend riki relentlessly, giggling at his exaggerated groans of frustration. he rolls his eyes, pretending to be unbothered, but you know you’ve struck a nerve. just as you’re about to say something else, he abruptly grabs your wrist and tugs you onto his lap.

“quiet,” he says, leaning closer, his voice tinged with mock annoyance. his hands rest on your thighs, steadying you as his dark eyes meet yours, full of mischief and something deeper. “you’ve been teasing me all day. now it’s my turn.”

your breath hitches as his face inches closer, the proximity making your heart pound.

he wants to laugh at your expression, but instead he gives you a sweet kiss. “you're lucky that I like you,” he giggles.

© BYWONS, 2024 / do not copy or repost without permission . div ctto

taglist────open tags in the reblogs ! network tag. @/k-labels @k-films @k-nets CLICK ME

[solxamber]

Pick Us!

In which you have to choose a club and it looks like everyone wants a piece of you.

Part 2 (Choosing a club)

You were minding your own business, dodging Grim's increasingly creative ways to get you to buy premium tuna, when Crowley swept in with his usual dramatic flair.

“Ah, my dear pupil!” he exclaimed, arms wide like a bad community theater actor. “To better immerse yourself in school life, you must join a club. It’s mandatory!”

Before you could protest or ask any clarifying questions, he disappeared in a swirl of his cape, leaving you standing there with nothing but Grim’s unsympathetic shrug.

Naturally, this information traveled faster than you could process it, because the next thing you knew, Ace was practically dragging you by the arm across campus.

The Basketball Club

“Alright, listen,” Ace began, spinning a basketball on one finger and grinning like he just invented the sport. “You’re obviously joining the basketball club. It’s the best. I’m here, Floyd’s here, and even Jamil’s here, so really, it’s a no-brainer.”

“Is that supposed to sell it?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Uh, yeah!” he said, tossing the ball toward you. It immediately bounced off your hands and hit the floor. Ace, undeterred, caught it mid-bounce and gave you a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. I’m, like, super good at this. Just ask him!”

From across the gym, some poor guy—bless his heart—tried to nod in support, but you caught the nervous look he shot Ace instead.

“Okay, sure,” you said, “but isn’t this just an excuse for you to show off?”

“Maybe,” Ace said with zero shame, dribbling the ball dramatically before attempting a layup. The ball bounced off the rim and into Floyd’s waiting hands.

“Shrimpy!” Floyd called, tossing the ball behind his head without looking (and still somehow making the shot). “Join the club. It’ll be fuuuuun.”

You hesitated, because with Floyd, “fun” could mean literally anything. “Define fun,” you said cautiously.

“Simple! You, me, and Ace crushing people in games!” Floyd grinned, leaning closer to you. “And if anyone tries to mess with you, I’ll squish ‘em.”

Ace groaned. “Floyd, you can’t just threaten people into joining.”

“Why not?” Floyd asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because it’s weird!”

“No, it’s effective,” Floyd countered, shooting you another toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy, you’re already here. I’ll even let you call the plays. Or, you know, not. Whatever.”

“...You’re just bored, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Floyd admitted, leaning lazily against the wall. “But hey, if you join, I won’t let Ace hog the ball. Win-win, right?”

And then there was Jamil, who had been sitting silently on the sidelines, observing the chaos with his usual exasperated expression.

“Are they done?” he asked, finally standing and walking over to you.

“I don’t think so,” you replied, watching as Floyd tried to steal the ball from Ace mid-dribble.

Jamil sighed. “Typical.” He glanced at you, his tone cool and measured. “Ignore them. They’re just trying to drag you into their antics.”

“Antics?” Floyd repeated, offended.

“Yeah, Jamil,” Ace added, narrowing his eyes. “What’re you implying?”

“I’m implying you’re both terrible at convincing people,” Jamil said smoothly. He turned back to you. “If you’re interested in joining the club, you’ll actually get something out of it. Physical exercise, teamwork, strategy. And if you stick around, I’ll make sure you’re not stuck with them during practice.”

“Hey!” Ace protested.

Floyd just laughed. “Jamil’s still salty about the last scrimmage.”

“Hardly,” Jamil said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m just pointing out that if you want to learn how to actually play, you’d be better off with me.”

You blinked. “Are you… offering to train me?”

He shrugged, but there was a faint smirk on his face. “If it means saving you from their nonsense, yes.”

All you can do is sigh and say "I'll think about it"

Track and Field Club

You barely made it out of the basketball club’s gym alive when Deuce grabbed your wrist like his life depended on it. His expression was that unique combination of earnest and panicked—classic Deuce.

“Wait, don’t decide yet!” he said, already dragging you down the corridor. “You haven’t even seen the track and field club! You might like it better!”

“Deuce,” you began, trying to keep up without tripping. “I haven’t even—”

“Just come on!”

Before you knew it, you were standing on the edge of the outdoor track, blinking in the sunlight as Deuce shoved you forward like he was presenting a prize to a panel of judges. Jack, in the middle of sprint drills, stopped mid-stride to look over at you. His tail flicked once, and he jogged over with that intimidating mix of focus and curiosity he always had.

“You’re trying to recruit them?” Jack asked, crossing his arms.

Deuce nodded, puffing out his chest like he was making the ultimate sales pitch. “Yeah! Track and field’s way better than basketball. No offense to those guys.”

“I take offense,” you muttered, but neither of them heard.

“Plus,” Deuce continued, “we’ve got variety. Running, jumping, throwing—you can do anything. It’s not just bouncing a ball around, you know?”

Jack nodded in agreement. “It’s good for discipline. Builds strength, endurance, and focus. If you want to improve yourself, this is the place to do it.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, glancing at the track. “And what if I… don’t exactly have focus?”

“That’s fine!” Deuce said, grinning brightly. “We’ll help you! Right, Jack?”

Jack nodded. “Of course. We’ll start with basic drills.” He gave you a once-over, sizing you up. “How’s your stamina?”

“Define… stamina,” you said cautiously, because you had a feeling your answer wasn’t going to impress him.

Jack’s ears twitched, and he leaned slightly closer. “How far can you run without stopping?”

“Uh,” you began, nervously shifting your weight. “To the fridge?”

Jack blinked. “...You’re joking, right?”

Deuce coughed loudly, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that! Everyone starts somewhere, right? Besides, they’re here because they want to try something new.”

You stared at Deuce. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“Exactly!” he continued, ignoring you entirely. “Think of how awesome it’d be to have us training you! We’ll get you in the best shape of your life. Right, Jack?”

Jack, who was still mildly horrified by your fridge comment, hesitated. “...Sure.”

Deuce, now fully in salesman mode, gestured to the track like it was some sort of holy land. “And you don’t have to worry about teamwork stuff! You can focus on your personal goals and—”

“Unless you’re in a relay,” Jack interjected.

“Right, but relays are cool!” Deuce added quickly. “Like… team spirit, you know?”

You glanced between the two of them, taking in Jack’s intensity and Deuce’s enthusiasm. They were both staring at you with a mix of hope and determination, and honestly, it was kind of endearing.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “If I join, do I get to skip the first practice?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

Deuce grinned sheepishly. “But we’ll go easy on you!”

“Jack doesn’t look like he believes that.”

Jack tilted his head, his tail swishing once. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I’m not sure I’ll survive later,” you muttered.

Deuce ignored that, clapping his hands together. “Great! I knew you’d love it here! C’mon, let’s give them a quick demo, Jack!”

Before you could protest, the two of them took off around the track, moving at speeds that made you feel dizzy just watching. Deuce kept glancing back to grin at you, while Jack stayed focused, every stride perfect.

You stood there, bewildered and vaguely impressed, wondering if joining any club was a good idea at all. Still, as Deuce stumbled back toward you, sweaty but grinning like a puppy who just fetched a stick, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Think about it, okay?” he said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “We’d love to have you here.”

Jack jogged up beside him, barely winded. “You’ll fit in if you put in the effort.”

“Yeah,” Deuce agreed, nodding earnestly. “So… what do you think?”

You hesitated, glancing at the track, then at them. “…I’ll get back to you.”

Deuce grinned like that was a victory, and Jack just nodded approvingly. As they walked back to their drills, you realized you had yet another club to consider—and these two weren’t going to make it any easier.

Board Game Club

Before you could make your escape—or even fully process the events of the day—your wrist was suddenly seized by Ortho, who zoomed in out of nowhere like a missile with a purpose.

“There you are!” Ortho exclaimed with unsettling cheer. His grip was surprisingly firm for someone who probably didn’t even need to touch you to move you. “Big Brother’s been waiting! Come on!”

“Wait—what? Ortho, where are we—”

“No time for questions!” And just like that, he lifted you into the air like you were a deranged package and he was some kind of express courier. You barely had time to flail before he rocketed off, delivering you with precision to the board game club's headquarters.

You landed with an unceremonious thud, right in front of Idia, who nearly fell out of his chair.

“Ortho!” Idia hissed, his flaming hair flaring. “You can’t just abduct people like that!”

“But you said you wanted them to join!” Ortho chirped. “Mission accomplished!”

Azul, seated calmly at the head of the table, adjusted his glasses and smirked. “Well, well. A delivery service—how efficient. Welcome to the board game club.”

You were still processing the fact that you’d been airmailed when Idia slouched lower in his seat, muttering, “Ugh, so embarrassing. Ortho, seriously…”

“Uh,” you began, brushing yourself off. “Hi?”

Azul gestured grandly to the table in front of him, where an array of meticulously organized board games was displayed like they were ancient treasures. “Here, we focus on strategy, intellect, and the fine art of outwitting your opponent. Unlike other clubs,” he said with a pointed glance at the door, “this one doesn’t require you to break a sweat.”

“That’s actually kind of appealing,” you admitted, still wary.

Idia perked up slightly, his hair flickering a little brighter. “See? I told you it’s cool. I mean, if you like, uh, not running around like some NPC.”

Ortho leaned over, nodding enthusiastically. “And Big Brother’s really good at this stuff! He’s undefeated in our club tournaments!”

“That’s because you’re the only other member who’s not a liability!” Idia blurted, before realizing what he’d just said. “Uh—I mean—you’d totally, like, be an asset. Probably.”

Azul cleared his throat, clearly annoyed at being excluded from the compliment. “Allow me to demonstrate. Why don’t we have a quick match? You against Idia.”

“What?” Idia sat up straight, his hair sparking nervously. “No way! That’s not fair—I can’t just—”

Azul gave him a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of losing, Idia.”

Idia’s face turned pink. “Fine,” he grumbled, setting up the board. “But don’t blame me if I crush them.”

You sat down reluctantly, realizing too late that this was probably a trap. Idia’s fingers moved at lightning speed as he set up his pieces, muttering calculations under his breath. Ortho leaned over your shoulder, giving you completely useless advice like, “Just believe in yourself!”

To your surprise, you managed to hold your own for the first few turns. Idia glanced up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were reevaluating your existence.

“Huh,” he murmured. “Not bad. For a newbie.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked, moving your piece cautiously.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said quickly, his face turning red again.

Azul chuckled from his spot at the table. “See? A game of wits and strategy. Isn’t this far superior to running laps or throwing balls into hoops?”

“Hey!” you said, pointing your game piece at him. “Don’t diss the other clubs. They’re passionate too!”

Azul raised an eyebrow. “Passion doesn’t win battles. Strategy does.”

The game dragged on, and by the end of it, you were completely out of your depth. Idia, on the other hand, looked like he’d just stepped out of an anime boss fight, his hair flaring dramatically as he made his final move.

“Checkmate,” he said, grinning slightly.

“Wrong game, Big Brother,” Ortho corrected.

“Whatever!” Idia snapped, but he didn’t look too upset. “It’s over, okay?”

Azul leaned forward, smirking again. “So, what do you think? Ready to join?”

You leaned back in your chair, your brain fried from trying to keep up. “I… I need to think about it.”

Ortho beamed. “That means they’re considering it! Success!”

Idia muttered something under his breath about “too much pressure” and “why is this so stressful,” but you caught a tiny flicker of a smile as he fiddled with one of the game pieces.

Azul, ever the businessman, handed you a brochure as you left. “Take your time. But remember—intellect always wins.”

You left the board game club feeling like you’d just survived a high-stakes negotiation. And as Ortho cheerfully waved goodbye, you couldn’t help but wonder if all the clubs were this intense.

Film Studies Club

You were rounding a corner, still recovering from your latest club recruitment ambush, when a perfectly manicured hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

Before you could even yelp, you found yourself being gracefully pulled into the Film Studies Clubroom by none other than Vil Schoenheit. His strides were purposeful, his posture impeccable, and his expression…well, let’s just say it was the definition of I’m doing you a favor, peasant.

“Vil?” you sputtered, barely managing to keep up. “What are you—”

“I need to vet you,” Vil said simply, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. “The Film Studies Club could use some fresh blood, and you look… adequate.”

“Adequate?” you echoed, mildly offended but too intrigued to argue further.

He led you to the center of the room, gesturing for you to stand under a perfectly angled spotlight. “Don’t misunderstand,” Vil continued, crossing his arms and regarding you with a critical eye. “I’m merely evaluating your potential. Our club requires both talent and diligence—qualities that, if I’m being honest, are rare in this school.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Vil ignored you, pulling out a script and flipping through it like he was deciding your fate. “If you can’t pass the audition, you can still join as a backstage hand,” he said airily. “We’re short on those too.”

“Wow, what an inspiring pitch,” you muttered, but Vil’s sharp gaze silenced you immediately.

“Read this,” he instructed, handing you the script and gesturing for you to begin.

You hesitated, glancing at the lines. “You’re serious? Right now?”

“Do I look like someone who jokes about art?” Vil asked, raising a perfectly sculpted brow.

Point taken.

Clearing your throat, you started reading, trying to put some effort into it. Vil watched you intently, his expression inscrutable. He occasionally tilted his head, as if mentally dissecting every word you spoke, every movement you made.

When you finished, you looked at him expectantly, waiting for his verdict.

Vil tapped his chin, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not hopeless,” he said finally, in a tone that made it sound like a compliment. “Rough around the edges, yes, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly.

“Don’t be smug. You’ll need work,” Vil continued, ignoring your tone. “But I suppose you have potential.”

“And if I didn’t?”

Vil gave a delicate shrug, his expression cool. “Then you’d still be useful behind the scenes. But consider this your opportunity to elevate yourself. Being part of my club means striving for excellence—no exceptions.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Is this really about me, or are you just desperate for members?”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement there. “Desperation has nothing to do with it. I’m simply ensuring that my club remains unparalleled. If you happen to benefit from my guidance, so be it.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? I'll think about it.”

Vil’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Smart choice. Now, don’t make me regret it.”

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving you standing there wondering what exactly you’d just signed up for—and if Vil’s idea of “elevating yourself” involved a complete personality overhaul.

Science Club

You barely had time to process Vil's dramatic exit when a familiar voice whispered theatrically, “Ah, my muse! Fate conspires to bring us together!”

Before you could react, Rook Hunt appeared—swooped, really—out of nowhere and expertly whisked you away from the Film Studies Clubroom. It was less like being led and more like being caught mid-flight by an overly enthusiastic bird of prey.

“Rook?!” you yelped as he practically danced you down the hallway. “What is happening?”

“Mon ami,” he declared, his eyes glittering with fervor, “you must see the science club! A world of wonder awaits you!”

“Wait—science?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’re in the science club?”

“Ah, oui! Science is but another stage upon which the beauty of nature and humanity performs its eternal dance! The experiments! The cultivation of life! The creation of culinary masterpieces! All expressions of art, no?”

You weren’t sure if he was describing scientific principles or poetry, but before you could argue, Rook had dragged you into the science clubroom.

The room was a chaotic mix of activities. One corner housed a vibrant garden under grow lights, another had chemistry equipment bubbling away ominously, and a third corner smelled suspiciously like freshly baked bread. Trey Clover stood near a counter, pulling cookies out of an oven as if this were the most normal thing to happen in a science lab.

“Ah, there you are,��� Trey greeted, smiling warmly. “Rook said he’d bring someone by. I’m guessing you’re deciding on a club?”

You glanced between Rook, who was already gesturing dramatically at a rack of test tubes, and Trey, who held up a tray of cookies like a peace offering. “I… guess I am?”

“Bien sûr!” Rook exclaimed, sweeping an arm toward the greenery in the corner. “Behold! We grow life itself here! Tomatoes, basil, flowers—anything your heart desires!”

Trey added, “We also bake and cook as part of our activities. It’s a great way to learn about chemistry and make something useful at the same time.”

“And explosions!” Rook chimed in enthusiastically. “Occasionally, there are explosions.”

Trey shot him a look. “Not… intentionally.”

Rook turned back to you, his expression radiant. “Think of the possibilities, mon ami! With science, you can cultivate beauty, create masterpieces, and perhaps even unlock secrets of the universe! And, of course, I am here to guide you—to nurture the artistic soul that dwells within!”

“Also,” Trey added, far more pragmatically, “we’re not picky about what activities you want to try. It’s a flexible club, so you could do a little bit of everything.”

You considered this as Trey handed you a cookie. It was warm and delicious, which admittedly swayed your opinion a little.

“Hmm,” you said thoughtfully, “so I could garden, bake, and blow things up all in one club?”

“Exactly!” Trey said with a smile.

Rook leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And think, mon cher—if you hone your talents here, you could support Vil in creating the cinematic beauty he so envisions! Science and art, united in harmony!”

You blinked. “Wait, are you trying to recruit me for this club and help Vil at the same time?”

Rook grinned. “Nature does not limit itself to one purpose, mon ami, and neither do I.”

Trey sighed but didn’t deny it.

“Well, this is definitely… something,” you said, nibbling on the cookie. “I’ll think about it.”

“Ah, a maybe!” Rook clasped his hands together like you’d just promised him your soul. “A victory in itself!”

Before you could say anything else, Rook twirled you toward the door, clearly ready to drag you to your next destination—or possibly just keep talking about “the poetry of chlorophyll” until you gave in.

Pop Music Club

Just as you were beginning to suspect Rook was about to wax poetic about “the lyrical mysteries of yeast fermentation,” a sudden voice interrupted.

“Oh-ho, what’s this?”

Before you could even react, Lilia Vanrouge materialized out of thin air, practically glowing with chaotic energy. “Ah, my dear friend! You’re far too bright a star to waste away on science experiments! Come with me—pop stardom awaits!”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

And just like that, you were swept up in Lilia’s whirlwind. He dragged you down the hallway with a skip in his step and a mischievous laugh, leaving Rook and Trey in his dust.

“Lilia, I can walk, you know!” you said, stumbling to keep up.

“But where’s the drama in that?” Lilia replied, cackling as he pushed open the doors to the Pop Music Clubroom.

Inside, the room was a cacophony of sound and color. Disco lights spun, a half-finished banner reading ‘Next Big Thing!’ hung lopsidedly on the wall, and Kalim was gleefully banging away on a drum like it owed him money. Cater sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through his phone and periodically snapping selfies with sparkly filters.

“Oh, hey!” Kalim greeted you, waving so enthusiastically he almost hit himself with the drum stick. “You’re here to join us, right? This club is the best! We have music, dancing, and it’s all just super fun!”

Cater glanced up from his phone, his grin wide and just a little too calculated. “You’d fit right in! Think of all the magicam-worthy moments we could create together. Plus, the followers you’d get? Off the charts.”

“Followers?” you echoed, glancing at Lilia.

“Ah, but of course!” Lilia said, flinging his arms wide as if presenting you to an adoring crowd. “The Pop Music Club isn’t just about music—it’s about presence! Charisma! The ability to captivate a room with a single note or a dazzling smile!”

“It’s also about having a good time!” Kalim added, spinning in a circle for no reason other than sheer joy.

Cater nodded, holding up his phone. “And don’t forget—every moment is a potential viral video. You, me, Lilia, and Kalim as the dream team? We’d own the algorithm.”

You hesitated. “Uh, I don’t even play an instrument.”

“Neither does he!” Lilia said brightly, pointing at some unfortunate bystander.

“Hey!” he protested. “I play the Kalimba!” He promptly tried to play a note, missed the rhythm entirely, and Lilia laughed like it was the funniest thing ever.

“See?” Lilia said, unfazed. “Talent is optional here. All we need is your spirit!”

Cater stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “We also dabble in choreography, so if you’ve got two left feet, don’t worry—we’ll teach you how to make them look intentional.”

“Come on, join us!” Kalim said, grabbing your hands and bouncing up and down like an overexcited puppy. “We could totally use your energy!”

“What energy?” you asked, deadpan. “I’ve been dragged between clubs all day—I barely have any left.”

“Exactly!” Lilia said with a wink. “We’ll channel what’s left into a glorious crescendo of pop music excellence!”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or just surrender entirely to the chaos. Lilia’s grin was practically infectious, Kalim’s enthusiasm radiated like the sun, and Cater was already adjusting the angle of his phone to catch you in the best light.

“Well,” you muttered, “at least it sounds… lively.”

“Lively is an understatement,” Cater said, snapping a selfie with you and Lilia in the background. “Hashtag PopStarsInTheMaking! You’re gonna love it here.”

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You’re already planning to upload that, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Cater said with a wink.

Lilia clapped his hands, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “So, what do you say? Ready to unleash your inner star?”

“I… will think about it,” you replied, edging toward the door.

“Think fast!” Kalim called after you. “The bass is calling your name!”

You bolted before anyone could shove an instrument into your hands.

Equestrian Club

As you hurried down the hallway, still reeling from the pop music chaos you'd just escaped, you nearly collided with a flash of red.

"Ah, there you are!"

You blinked up at none other than Riddle Rosehearts, who looked as though he'd been scouring the entire school for you. His eyes narrowed, and his voice carried a tone of stern authority mixed with subtle relief.

"I've been looking for you," Riddle said, crossing his arms. "Ace and Deuce mentioned that you’re considering which club to join. As housewarden, it’s my responsibility to ensure you make a proper choice."

You blinked, still processing. "Oh, uh… thanks?"

"Enough dilly-dallying," Riddle said briskly, taking your wrist with surprising firmness. "You're coming with me to the Equestrian Club."

"Wait, what—"

Before you could finish, Riddle had already begun marching you toward the stables. You were half-dragged, half-guided, catching snippets of his lecture along the way about the merits of horseback riding, discipline, and poise.

When you arrived, the warm scent of hay filled the air, and the sound of soft nickering greeted you. The stables were pristine, the horses sleek and well-groomed. Standing nearby were Silver and Sebek, both tending to the horses.

"Riddle, you found them" Silver greeted you with his usual calm demeanor. He gave you a faint smile as he gently brushed a dappled gray mare. "Perfect timing—we were just about to go for a ride."

Sebek, on the other hand, straightened like a soldier at attention, his voice booming. "THEY WILL JOIN US, OF COURSE! IT IS ONLY FITTING FOR AN INDIVIDUAL OF WORTH TO EMBRACE SUCH A NOBLE ART!"

"Sebek, indoor voice," Riddle said sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I AM OUTDOORS!" Sebek retorted, though he did lower his volume slightly.

You glanced nervously at the horses. "Uh, I don’t know if I’m… horse material."

"Nonsense," Riddle said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Riding teaches discipline, focus, and responsibility. It’s the perfect club for fostering growth—and for avoiding unnecessary distractions like some less dignified clubs."

"Pop Music Club?" you guessed.

Riddle sniffed, his expression sour. "Among others."

Silver walked over, still holding the brush, and gave you a reassuring nod. "Don’t worry. The horses are gentle, and we can teach you everything. It’s a peaceful activity once you get used to it."

"Peaceful!" Sebek exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "It is a pursuit befitting the greatest warriors! EVEN LORD MALLEUS—"

"Sebek," Riddle interrupted, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Focus on the matter at hand."

"Apologies!" Sebek barked, saluting.

Riddle turned back to you, his expression softening just a fraction. "The Equestrian Club isn’t just about riding horses. It’s about elegance, partnership, and understanding. You could benefit greatly from it."

"And the horses are great listeners," Silver added.

"Unlike some humans," Sebek muttered under his breath.

You bit back a laugh as Riddle gave Sebek another glare.

"What do you say?" Riddle asked, stepping aside to let you see one of the horses—a chestnut with a kind, inquisitive gaze. "This is Vorpal. Perhaps a ride would convince you?"

The horse whinnied softly, and for a moment, you considered it. There was something appealing about the tranquility of the stables, the camaraderie of the club members, and the undeniable charm of working with such majestic creatures.

But then you remembered the drum chaos, the science experiments, and Vil’s dramatic vetting process.

"Let me, uh… think about it?" you said, taking a step back.

Riddle sighed, though he looked more exasperated than disappointed. "Very well. But don’t wait too long—indecision is unbecoming."

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Got it."

As you made your escape, you could hear Sebek booming, "RIDING A HORSE WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE!"

You weren’t sure about that, but you were certain that escaping club recruitment was starting to feel like an Olympic sport.

Magift Club

As you staggered away from the stables, thoroughly frazzled by Sebek’s enthusiastic yelling and Riddle’s intense lecture on discipline, you barely had time to catch your breath before—

“Yo, gotcha!”

A pair of hands grabbed your shoulders from behind, and you let out a very undignified yelp. You turned to find Ruggie grinning up at you like a mischievous hyena that had just found its next meal.

“Ruggie! What—?”

“No time for questions, boss,” he said, practically dragging you down the path. “Leona’s orders. He told me to bring ya to the Magift Club.”

“The Magift Club?” you repeated, already sensing disaster.

Ruggie nodded, smirking. “Yup. Let’s go, let’s go!”

“But—wait—I don’t even have magic!” you protested as he hauled you toward the field.

“Details, details,” Ruggie waved off, his grip on your arm firm.

Soon enough, you were dumped unceremoniously on the sidelines of the Magift field. Leona was lounging on the grass under the shade of a tree, looking entirely too comfortable for someone allegedly trying to recruit you. Epel was nearby, aggressively practicing his throws while muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll show ‘em.”

Leona cracked one eye open lazily as Ruggie dropped you off. “’Bout time,” he drawled.

“Leona,” you said flatly, “why would you want me in the Magift Club? I don't even have magic.”

He yawned, looking entirely unbothered. “Yeah, I know that. You’re still better than the other herbivores running around. You can be the manager.”

“Manager?”

“Yup,” Ruggie chimed in, plopping down next to Leona. “You’d handle all the boring stuff—paperwork, schedules, snacks, makin’ sure Epel doesn’t throw a fit when he gets tackled.”

“I don’t throw fits!” Epel yelled, narrowly missing a hoop with his throw.

Leona smirked. “Sure you don’t.”

You crossed your arms, unconvinced. “Why me, though? You’re telling me I’m the best candidate for this?”

Leona sat up slightly, his sharp eyes locking on yours. “I’m sayin’ you’re the least annoying option. I don’t need some herbivore manager who’s gonna cry every time I take a nap instead of practicing. You’re not useless, so quit whining.”

Ruggie leaned in conspiratorially. “Basically, you’re the only one Leona doesn’t feel like chasing off the field after two days.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a ringing endorsement.”

Leona shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Makes no difference to me.”

At that moment, Epel ran up, panting slightly from his practice. “C’mon, you should join us!” he urged. “You don’t need magic to be part of the team. And if you ever wanna learn some tricks, I can teach ya!”

Leona gave him a lazy side-eye. “Don’t scare them off.”

“I’m not scarin’ ‘em! I’m convincin’ ‘em!” Epel shot back, glaring at Leona before turning back to you. “Seriously, we could use someone like you. The club’s fun, I promise!”

Ruggie snickered. “Fun’s a stretch. It’s more like… survival of the fittest with a ball involved.”

“And napping,” Leona added with a smirk.

Epel crossed his arms. “Well, maybe if someone practiced instead of nappin’, we’d win more games!”

Leona waved him off with a scoff.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know, guys. This sounds like a lot of chaos.”

“Chaos is half the fun,” Ruggie said with a grin. “C’mon, boss, think of all the free food we get during games. And you’d get to boss Leona around as the manager. Ain’t that worth it?”

Leona snorted. “Good luck with that.”

You glanced at the trio—Epel brimming with determination, Ruggie radiating mischief, and Leona looking like he didn’t care but also somehow cared just enough to try. It was… weirdly tempting, in its own way.

“I’ll… think about it,” you said finally.

“Fair enough,” Leona said, already reclining again. “Don’t take too long, though. We’ve got a game next week, and I’m not filling out paperwork.”

Ruggie winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll come around. Everyone does.”

As you left the field, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just been almost recruited into something much more taxing than a simple club.

Mountain Lovers Club

Before you could escape the Magift field and all its potential paperwork, you took a sharp turn—only to smack right into what felt like a wall of polite menace. A soft, knowing chuckle sounded above you.

“Oh dear, do be careful,” came Jade Leech’s unmistakably smooth voice.

You took a step back, already dreading the conversation. “Jade,” you said warily, “what are you doing here?”

His sharp smile grew ever so slightly. “Waiting for you, of course. Word travels fast, and I’ve heard you’re in the market for a club.”

“Oh no,” you muttered. “You’re not here to—”

Before you could finish, he was already guiding you away, his hand light on your arm but unyielding, like a vice hidden under a silk glove.

“Come now,” he said, his tone as polite as ever, “I simply must show you the Mountain Lovers Club.”

“The what now?” you asked, bewildered.

“The Mountain Lovers Club,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And… who else is in this club?”

“Why, just me.”

You stopped in your tracks. “It’s just you?”

“Yes.” Jade smiled serenely, as if this were not a glaring red flag. “I am the founder, leader, and sole member. But with your arrival, that could very well change.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you’d misheard. “Wait, so you’ve been running a one-person club this whole time?”

“Indeed.” His expression didn’t falter in the slightest. “The Mountain Lovers Club is dedicated to the appreciation of all things mountainous. Hiking through beautiful terrain, foraging for wild plants, observing unique ecosystems, and—on occasion—befriending the local fauna.”

“Befriending?”

“Examining, petting, observing closely…” His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps all three.”

You shook your head, trying to process. “So… why me?”

Jade clasped his hands together, the picture of poised enthusiasm. “You strike me as someone who appreciates unique experiences. The Mountain Lovers Club offers a chance to explore the great outdoors, expand your horizons, and develop a deeper appreciation for nature’s wonders.”

“And by ‘great outdoors,’ you mean mountains?”

“Precisely.”

“And it’s just you?”

“For now,” he said, his tone warm but his gaze uncomfortably intense. “But every great journey begins with a single step. Yours could be joining this club.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Uh… I don’t think hiking through mountains is really my thing.”

“Ah, but how do you know unless you try?” Jade’s smile widened. “Besides, I’ll be there to guide you every step of the way. No need to worry about getting lost… or encountering anything unexpected.”

The way he said “unexpected” made you want to run for the hills (ironic, given the circumstances).

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

“I insist,” he cut in smoothly, his tone polite but with a note of finality. “At least allow me to show you the club’s activities. Perhaps a short hike this weekend? I’ve already prepared a route.”

You stared at him. “You’ve already…?”

“Of course.” His gaze was calm, calculating. “Preparation is key. I’ve even packed a lunch.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Jade, I—”

He tilted his head, his smile remaining perfectly composed. “Surely you wouldn’t refuse without at least giving it a chance? I’ve put so much thought into this.”

“Why do I feel like I don’t have a choice?” you muttered.

Jade’s smile was razor-sharp and utterly unrepentant. “Because you don’t.”

You sighed in defeat. “Fine. One hike.”

“Excellent,” he said, his tone soft and victorious. “I’ll see you this Saturday at dawn.”

“Dawn?!”

“Oh yes,” he said, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “The mountains are at their most beautiful in the early morning light. You’ll love it.”

As he sauntered away, leaving you to process your fate, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just agreed to something far more treacherous than a simple hike.

Gargoyle Research Society

The moment you finally reached Ramshackle Dorm, exhausted from the whirlwind of club-hopping and increasingly bizarre sales pitches, you let out a long sigh of relief. The day had been nothing short of chaotic, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your creaky old bed and forget the words “club activities” ever existed.

But just as your hand touched the doorknob, a familiar voice, deep and regal, called out from the shadows.

“Child of man.”

You jumped slightly, spinning around to see none other than Malleus Draconia emerging from beneath the pale light of the moon, his presence as imposing and enigmatic as always. He stood by one of Ramshackle’s crumbling stone walls, his expression calm but his eyes bright with an unreadable intensity.

“Oh, Malleus,” you said, your voice tinged with weariness but also a touch of warmth. “Didn’t see you there.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I was merely admiring the architecture of your dorm. It has a certain… wistful charm.”

You smiled faintly. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

Then, with the sort of graceful confidence only Malleus could manage, he stepped closer, his presence looming but never threatening. “I have heard,” he began, his tone soft and deliberate, “that you have been seeking a club to join.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “How did you—”

“The winds carry whispers,” he said cryptically.

“Right,” you muttered, deciding not to question it.

Malleus folded his hands neatly in front of him, looking every bit the picture of regal sincerity. “If you have not yet made your decision… I would like to invite you to join my club.”

Your brain, still reeling from Jade’s mountain escapades and Leona’s managerial demands, stalled for a moment. “Your… club?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice brimming with quiet pride. “The Gargoyle Research Society.”

“The… what now?”

“The Gargoyle Research Society,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I am both its founder and sole member.”

Of course, he was.

Malleus seemed oblivious to your stunned silence as he continued, his expression softening into something almost earnest. “The society is dedicated to the appreciation and study of gargoyles. We explore the campus, observing their intricate designs and marveling at their history. There is so much beauty in their silent watch over us.”

You blinked. “So… you just walk around and look at gargoyles?”

“Precisely,” he said, his tone unironically enthusiastic.

“And… that’s it?”

Malleus nodded solemnly. “Indeed. It is a noble pursuit, one that nurtures both the mind and the spirit.”

For a moment, you were at a loss for words. Of all the clubs you’d encountered today, this might just take the crown for most niche.

Malleus, however, seemed utterly earnest. His eyes bore into yours, his expression sincere and unguarded. “I understand if this does not align with your current interests,” he said, his voice softening. “But should you ever feel the call of the gargoyles… know that you are always welcome.”

There was something so genuine in his tone, so quietly hopeful, that you felt a pang of guilt for even thinking about brushing him off. You sighed, offering him a tired but sincere smile. “You know what? I’ll definitely consider it.”

Malleus’s eyes lit up, his calm demeanor giving way to a flicker of pure joy. “Truly?”

“Truly,” you said, nodding.

“Then I shall look forward to the day you join me,” he said, his voice as soft as a promise.

With that, he gave you a small, graceful bow before disappearing back into the night, leaving you to wonder how you’d managed to end the day not only agreeing to a potential club but also feeling oddly flattered by the idea of studying gargoyles.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What a day…”

Masterlist

Part 2: Choosing a club

a/n: it completely slipped my mind that ortho is in film studies sorry :(

[mostly-imagines]

Banished

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason misses his girlfriend

warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)

Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.

Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes while Tim has sat atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.

Damian trudges into the room, past them and onto the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.

He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”

Jason just grunts.

He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.

But it’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He secretly wouldn’t really mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stayed behind. A lose-lose for Jason.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.

Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”

Jason keeps his head down as he blindly reaches for the spoon in his cereal and chucks it at Tim’s head.

Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.

Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”

“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.

Damian pauses.

“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.

“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.

“It was a genuine question!” Damian protests, face screwed up.

Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”

It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.

Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.

He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.

Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.

He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.

And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.

And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.

Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.

But you could.

Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.

He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.

He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.

And he watches Jason.

As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.

He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.

He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.

The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.

✨ reblog fics or face the block button ✨

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: soft pregnancy mention, implied smut, post-sex intimacy, emotional vulnerability, chris being extremely down bad, light humor, and overwhelming tenderness.

notes: in which you finally tell chan about your unexpected pregnancy.

The nausea comes in waves. Not sudden, but rising — quiet and cruel.

You slip out of bed on instinct, careful not to stir him. The room is dim, still painted in that pre-dawn blue where shadows blur soft against the walls. The floor’s cold under your feet, the silence heavier than usual.

You close the bathroom door behind you, but not fast enough to hide the sound.

You barely make it to the toilet.

Your body folds in on itself as you retch, one hand clutching the edge of the counter, the other pressed to your mouth. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting. You’re trembling again, just like yesterday. Just like every morning this week.

And you know exactly why.

But you haven’t told him.

Not yet.

The door clicks gently, and before you can even call out, he's there.

“Baby?” Chris’s voice is thick with sleep, curls still mussed, but his worry is immediate. 

He steps into the bathroom, barefoot and blinking against the light. You don’t turn around, can’t—your cheek is pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes shut tight, trying to keep the tears at bay.

You hear him crouch beside you. Feel the warmth of his palm, tentative but steady, on your back.

“Hey, hey…” he whispers, thumb rubbing soft, slow circles between your shoulder blades. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You hate how kind he is. How easily he forgives the way you’ve been pulling away lately—your silence, the distance you keep curling between your bodies each night. You hate it because he still looks at you like you haven’t broken his heart in quiet, accidental pieces.

Like you haven’t been lying by omission.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, already standing. But you reach back blindly, fingers clutching at his wrist.

His movement stills the second you touch him.

Your fingers curl weakly around his wrist, barely more than a brush, but he stays rooted like you’ve anchored him. He sinks back down beside you without hesitation, knees to the cold tile, one hand steadying you while the other moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I won’t go.”

Your fingers slip from his wrist to his forearm, anchoring there. Not tight, not pleading. Just... needing something solid. He shifts closer, gently tucking you against him, and you let him—half-curled over the toilet, cheek pressed now to the curve of his shoulder instead of cold porcelain.

It’s shameful how good it feels.

How much you missed him.

How much he still makes space for you, without question.

You breathe him in. Warm skin, sleep-soft cotton, the scent of dreams not yet dissolved. His hand returns to your back, tracing the same slow circles, patient and gentle. He doesn't rush you. Doesn’t push. Just stays.

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it back down.

“You’ve been sick a lot lately,” he says quietly. “And I—I didn’t want to push, but… I was starting to worry.”

You close your eyes.

Tighter.

Like you can hold the truth inside your chest if you just try hard enough.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you manage, voice paper-thin.

Chris lets out a small, broken exhale—half a laugh, half a sigh. His thumb is still tracing that same small circle on your back, over and over like a ritual.

“Too late, baby,” he says. “You know me. I worry when you don’t text back for ten minutes.”

You breathe out a tremble of a laugh. It barely escapes you.

He pulls you in a little more, his shoulder now against your cheek, his arm curling around your waist, like he could take this ache from you if you just let him.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get off this floor, yeah?”

You don’t protest. You let him help you up, let him walk you slowly back to bed. He moves around you like instinct — pulling the blankets over your legs, smoothing your hair back, propping a pillow behind your back like he knows how this all goes. Like you’ve always been this breakable.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the kettle click on. The cupboard door. The soft clink of ceramic. It’s the kind of intimacy you never thought would undo you.

When he returns, he’s carrying a steaming mug. He sets the tea down, crawls in beside you, and tugs you gently against his chest. You go without hesitation this time. Your cheek finds his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady.

“Try to sip,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to the mug. “Ginger and honey. Helps settle the stomach.”

You take a shaky breath. Sip once. Then again.

He strokes your arm, still not asking what’s wrong. Still just being.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, the words too fragile to carry.

Chris doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just presses his lips to your forehead, eyes closed.

“You’ve got me anyway.”

You hold the tea with both hands, and before you can stop yourself, before you can weigh the moment, it falls out—

“I’m pregnant.”

A beat.

Then two.

His breath catches just slightly. You feel it in the way his chest stills beneath your cheek.

“Yeah?” he says, quiet.

He doesn’t sound shocked.

Not really.

You feel his hand pause where it rests on your arm. Not jerked away, not pulled back—just still. Still like he’s been waiting for this. Still like he already knew.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His face is soft in the low light. No widening of the eyes, no sharp intake of breath, no panic. Just a quiet kind of calm. Like he’s been holding this truth behind his teeth for days.

You blink. “You’re… not surprised.”

Chris gives you a small, lopsided smile, and there’s something tired in it. Something knowing.

“I kind of figured.”

You freeze.

Chris shifts slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple. 

Your fingers tighten around the mug. “You… what?”

“I’ve known for a little while,” he says, and there’s no accusation in it. Just fact. “Not for sure, but… yeah. I knew.”

You pull back slowly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes meet yours, gentle and tired and a little sad around the edges.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Chris exhales through his nose, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready. And if you never were—” he swallows, voice thickening, “—I figured I’d wait anyway.”

You stare at him. Your chest aches. He’s holding you like you haven’t broken his heart a hundred times over by keeping this to yourself.

“You should’ve been mad,” you whisper. “I pulled away. I lied. I let you think something was wrong with us.”

He shakes his head, thumb still moving, like he’s trying to wipe the guilt from your skin. “You didn’t lie,” he says softly. “You were scared. That’s not the same thing.”

“But—”

“Baby.”

The word silences you.

He shifts closer, rests his forehead to yours. The kind of closeness that feels like home, like breath shared between ribs.

“You’re pregnant,” he says quietly, like he’s still wrapping his heart around the truth. “That’s huge. That’s life-changing. You didn’t owe me a perfect response to that.”

Your eyes fill again. The tears this time are different—no longer the kind that come from fear, but from the ache of being known, and loved anyway.

“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” you breathe.

Chris huffs a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh. “Disappointed?” He leans back, just enough to look at you fully. “Sweetheart, I’ve been walking around for the last two weeks trying not to hope too hard. Every time you flinched at the smell of eggs, I thought I was going to lose it.”

You blink.

He smiles, slow and tender. “I started carrying extra granola bars in my bag like some kind of dad training simulation.”

A laugh breaks from you, wet and surprised and a little wild. He kisses the sound off your cheek.

You want to believe him. God, you do.

But it still claws at you — the weight of it. The impossibility. The quiet voice that’s been whispering the same thing over and over since the first test turned positive.

Your laughter fades as quickly as it came, and you drop your gaze, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.

“But your career…”

The words are quiet. Almost too quiet. Like you’re afraid of waking something up by saying them aloud.

Chris stills.

You press on, slowly. “You have enough on your plate already. The tours. The schedules. The pressure. I didn’t want to be the reason everything got harder. I didn’t want you to feel… trapped.”

His face folds in on itself, soft and stunned, like your words physically knock the wind from him.

“Trapped?” he echoes. “Is that what you thought I’d feel?”

You swallow hard, shrugging helplessly. “You’ve worked your whole life for this. And I know what it looks like from the outside — you, me, suddenly pregnant in the middle of everything. Headlines. Rumors. People blaming me for pulling focus. I just… I didn’t want to be a detour.”

Chris is quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that stretches with tension, but the kind that holds something. Thoughtfulness. Heartbreak. The ache of someone hearing what wasn’t said aloud.

Then, softly:

“You think I care about headlines?”

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“You think I’d let any of that matter more than you?” His voice breaks—just enough to make your eyes sting again. “I don’t care what the outside looks like. I care about you. About the way you’ve been hurting and hiding it. About how you’ve been carrying all of this alone.”

He sits up a little straighter beside you, pulling your hands into his lap, like he needs to anchor both of you to the moment. His thumbs rub over your knuckles, steady and warm.

“I didn’t spend all this time building something just to let it become a cage,” he says. “I built it so I could choose what matters.”

Your lip trembles. You want to crawl into his words and never leave.

“I want this baby,” he says simply. “And I want you. And if that makes everything harder, then so be it. I’ve never been afraid of hard things. Just losing you.”

You press a shaky hand to your mouth, trying to bite back the sob threatening to rise.

Chris leans in, gently tugging your hands away to cup your cheeks.

“I love what I do,” he whispers. “But I love you more.”

And then, softer still—

“Let them talk. Let the whole world think what they want. I’ll hold your hand through every bit of it. I’ll shout it from the rooftops if that’s what you need.”

You break.

You fall forward into him and he catches you instantly, wrapping you up in the kind of hold that feels less like comfort and more like coming home. He rocks you slowly, like you’re something precious, and murmurs nothing but love into your hair until the shaking stops.

Neither of you speak for a while. Not in words. Just the rhythm of breath shared, the way his thumb never stops moving across your spine, the quiet tremble of your body as it starts to finally release the weight it's been holding for too long.

Eventually, you shift just enough to look up at him, eyes red and swollen.

“You’re really not scared?” you whisper.

Chris smiles. It’s tired, but steady. Steady in the way he’s always been.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he says with a soft laugh. “But I’m not scared of us.”

His words settle into the quiet like a promise, like a hand pressed to a wound. Not to hide it—but to hold it. To keep it warm. To let it heal.

“I’m scared of screwing it up,” he admits. “Of not knowing what I’m doing. Of forgetting diapers at three in the morning and dropping the car seat manual in a puddle.”

You huff out a shaky laugh.

“But I’m not scared of loving you through this. Of being here. I want to mess it up with you. I want the sleepless nights and the ugly furniture and the weird little onesies your mom’s definitely going to send.”

You let your eyes close for a moment, breathing in the space between you. The safety of it. The calm after the unraveling.

Chris shifts behind you, easing both of you down beneath the covers again. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, palm splaying gently over your stomach—hesitant at first, then firmer, like he’s grounding himself to what’s real.

To what’s already begun.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you murmur, voice muffled against the pillow.

“Neither do I,” he says. “But I think we’ll figure it out. Together.”

His thumb draws soft, mindless circles against your skin. You can feel his breath on your shoulder, warm and even.

“We’re gonna be so bad at swaddling,” you whisper after a moment.

Chris snorts into your hair. “Horrible. Absolute disaster.”

“They’ll probably pee on us within the first ten minutes.”

He laughs again, and it rumbles through you like something holy.

“You mean they won’t wait twenty?” he teases. “Already disappointed in our future child’s manners.”

You smile. Not because the fear is gone. Not because it’s easy now. But because he’s still here. Still him. And somehow, even in the dark—especially in the dark—he’s made space for all of it.

You roll slightly, enough to face him, and he meets your gaze instantly. His eyes are red at the corners too, but soft. So soft.

You reach for his hand again. 

He gives it without hesitation.

______________________________________________________________

The sheets are still warm.

They’re tangled around your legs, half-forgotten, pulled low from where Chris tugged them back earlier in careful haste—like he couldn’t wait another second to feel you again. To love you the way he’d been aching to for weeks.

But it had been gentle. So slow. So careful it almost hurt.

He’d kissed you like he was scared you’d break beneath him. Like every part of you needed to be cherished differently now—worshipped not just because he loved you, but because you were carrying something he already did.

Now, the room is quiet again.

Not the sharp quiet from earlier—the kind lined with secrets and held breath. This silence is sweeter. Fuller. The kind that lingers in the air after closeness, after truth, after love has been made and remade and made again.

You lie curled in the sheets, his hoodie pooled beneath your head like a pillow, your body still humming from the weight of him—on you, in you, with you.

Chris is beside you. Propped on one elbow, hair a mess, eyes soft in the gold light pouring through the window.

He hasn’t stopped touching you.

His fingertips skim the slope of your stomach—slow, aimless strokes over skin still too tender. He traces the curve like it’s already changed. Like he can already see the future stretching beneath your navel.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, for the third—maybe fourth—time.

You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you at all?”

You open your eyes again, shifting to face him more. He looks almost pained asking it—like he’s still afraid he was too much, even though every touch had been measured, every motion guided by whispered I love yous and soft gasps.

You reach up, fingers brushing through his hair—so soft, still sleep-mussed, still clinging to last night’s weight. His eyes flutter at the contact.

“You didn’t hurt me, Chris,” you say gently, your thumb sweeping across his temple. “You couldn’t have. You were…” You pause, cheeks warming. “You were so good to me.”

He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, nose nudging your palm, lips brushing the edge of your wrist. “I just didn’t want to rush anything,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to take from you.”

“You gave to me,” you correct quietly. “More than you know.”

His gaze finds yours again. And it’s so open—so filled with something fragile and gleaming that it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be careful with someone the way I want to be with you,” he murmurs, hand still slow on your stomach. “Like every piece of you deserves a softer kind of love.”

Your throat tightens, eyes stinging with the tears you thought you’d already run out of. You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him—soft and close and wordless. A promise.

When you pull back, Chris smiles, all crooked and boyish, like it still surprises him he gets to kiss you whenever he wants.

“Do you think…” he starts, then hesitates, biting down on his lower lip in that familiar way he does when he’s about to say something that scares him. “Do you think they can hear me yet?”

You blink. “Hear you?”

He shrugs, flushing a little. “I don’t know. Maybe not hear, but like—feel me.”

You smile, hand still resting over his where it sprawls protectively across your belly.

“I think,” you say, voice soft with wonder, “if they feel anything at all, it’s love.”

Chris lets out a slow breath, almost like a laugh, almost like a prayer. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s all I want them to feel.”

And then he lowers himself again—carefully, reverently—so his face is level with your stomach, his curls brushing your skin. You feel his breath before his lips, warm and tender, and then—

“Hi,” he whispers. “It’s me again.”

You bite back a watery smile, brushing his hair back from his face. He doesn't look up. He’s focused, eyes closed, words blooming straight from his heart.

“You’re still tiny,” he says. “Probably the size of… I don’t know. A peanut? A lentil?”

You laugh softly. “A blueberry, I think.”

Chris grins against your skin. “Okay. Hi, blueberry.”

The tears return, but this time they don’t sting. They soothe. You let them fall.

Chris presses another kiss, slower this time. “Your mom is amazing. She’s strong, and patient, and really stubborn when she wants to be—don’t get any ideas—but she’s also the kindest person I’ve ever met. And she loves you already. So much.”

You can’t breathe. Or maybe you just don’t want to—don’t want to disturb the moment, the hush in the room, the way it feels like the world has paused just to let him say this.

“And I love you, too,” he adds, softer now. “Even if you’re already making her throw up every morning.”

You snort.

Chris finally looks up at you, face glowing with something boyish and stunned. Like he’s still adjusting to the weight of the word dad and how it might belong to him now.

“Do you think it’s okay to be happy yet?” he whispers. “Or is it too early?”

You blink, startled by the softness of the question. It’s not a doubt in you. It’s a doubt in himself—the way he was used to waiting for the world to collapse anytime something good entered the picture.

You tilt his face fully toward you, one hand on his cheek, the other still resting over his on your belly.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “We’re allowed to be happy.”

Chris leans into your palm, lashes kissing your skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Even if it’s early. Even if it’s messy. We’re allowed.”

A long breath leaves his chest. When he exhales, it sounds like something unknots inside him.

“Okay,” he says. And then again, firmer: “Okay.”

He kisses your belly once more—then your ribs, then your shoulder, and finally your lips, slow and sure and lingering like he’s learning the shape of this new beginning through you.

Your breath catches.

Because there’s something different in this kiss—less cautious than before, less tentative. Still tender, still full of awe, but threaded now with a kind of ache. A hunger not for your body, but for closeness. For reassurance. For the promise of you and him and this tiny, impossible future you’re building together.

You kiss him back. Let your hands curl into the soft cotton at his shoulders, let your mouth part beneath his. He deepens it without a word, like your response is all the permission he’s ever needed.

Chris exhales against your lips, the sound low, almost relieved. His hand slides from your belly to your waist, guiding you gently onto your back, careful not to press too hard, like he’s still remembering how much softer the world has become.

You pull him with you, fingers in his hair now, breath mingling as he settles between your legs, his weight familiar, comforting. Not heavy—never heavy. He’s holding himself up even now, even in this, like you’re precious. Like he can’t risk the smallest part of you going untouched, unnoticed, unloved.

His kiss grows slower. Deeper. Tongue brushing yours, mouth warm and open and wanting, but not hurried. Nothing about him is hurried. He maps you like he’s memorizing—not rediscovering your body, but learning what it means now, with the quiet miracle curled inside you.

His palm returns to your belly halfway through the kiss.

It lingers there.

Anchoring.

You feel his hips roll, subtle and restrained, like he can’t help it—but even that is tempered by reverence. He groans softly against your lips and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead to yours.

“I want you again,” he murmurs, breath catching. “So bad.”

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “We just had sex, Chris.”

“I know,” he groans, dragging his lips down to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—soft little kisses like he’s trying to keep himself distracted. “It’s not my fault. You’re literally glowing. Like… it’s actually not fair.”

You laugh, tilting your head to give him more space. “I think that’s just the sweat from me throwing up three times this morning.”

“Nope,” he says, grinning against your collarbone. “Sorry. Pregnancy glow. Hormones. Boobs. All of it. My brain’s broken. I’m ruined.”

You snort. “Are you seriously saying I got hotter now that I’m pregnant?”

Chris lifts his head to look at you, eyebrows raised, completely unapologetic. “Yes. Have you seen yourself? You’re radiant. Divine. A walking goddess with a baby growing inside her—my baby, by the way. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You blink at him, stunned and absolutely flustered. “Chris—”

He groans dramatically and drops his head to your chest. “You don’t get it. I’m suffering.”

You wheeze a laugh, your fingers threading through his hair again.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely serious now. “Every time you move I want to pounce. But I can’t. Because I am a gentleman. A respectful, self-restrained—” he kisses the top of your belly, “—incredibly patient father-to-be.”

You grin. “Uh-huh.”

His hand slides up your thigh, just high enough to make your breath hitch. “But if you even so much as breathe wrong, I’m folding.”

“Chris—”

“I mean it. One little sound. A sigh. A whimper. I’m gone.”

Your laughter breaks loose then, full and warm and aching at the edges. He kisses you hard, almost like he’s trying to prove his point—like he's sealing the moment in his mouth before it gets the better of him.

His hands are definitely not innocent anymore.

“Okay—okay,” he says, breathless, forehead against yours again. “I have to get up. I have to. You need food. I need distance.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, not letting him go. “You sure?”

He groans into your shoulder. “I’m going. I'm going. But I’m leaving in emotional pain.”

You release him with a teasing little kiss. “Breakfast, dad.”

Chris smirks as he finally sits up, eyes sweeping over you one last time before he swings his legs off the bed. “Fine. But you better be decent when I come back or I’m canceling breakfast and blaming the baby.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

And with that, he trudges toward the kitchen in his boxers, muttering something about toast and torture under his breath.

You melt back into the sheets, laughing, heart pounding, belly warm—and for once, everything feels exactly, impossibly, beautifully right.