#ticke art request

[emry-stars-art]

Might i humbly request the jelly!neil au??

I really like neil's design as a jelly fish (also have you ever considered giving him other colors outside of orange for his jellyfish-ness??)

Well I have NOW, this was perfect to doodle after a long day

I also learned while doing these that Portuguese man o’ war are not technically jellyfish but we included him anyway 💕

Also mentioned was a species swap (thank you @jtl-fics ) so I have shark Neil and jelly Andrew too :D

[deztryx]

Draw Kit and Tick like this

Here ya go 😼

[higherhell]

Atsushi Sakurai (Stream drawing, September 29, 2024 - Clip Studio Paint)

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

5 with heist carrying y/n and 4 but it's y/n carrying heist?

work injury

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous.  His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

[saoney]

520, Rafayel

𖠋♡𖠋 Rafayel x Fem!Reader

From the very beginning of your relationship with Rafayel, the two of you have always been careful— intimate, yet protective. Boundaries were respected. Desires tempered with responsibility. But when your dear friend confides in you about the overwhelming intimacy of being creampied, curiosity begins to bloom. A hunger to experience that same raw connection stirs inside you. Will he give in to your request? Or will love, lust and trust collide in a night that changes everything?

Trigger warning: creampie

🫧 comment and reblog are deeply appreciated <3

The decision came on a slow morning in bed, wrapped in sheets that smelled like his cologne and your skin. The kind of morning where everything is soft — his voice, the light streaming through the window, the way his thumb traced lazy circles on your bare hip.

“No kids,” you said, your head tucked under his chin.

“No kids,” Rafayel agreed, almost instantly, the conviction in his voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

You both smiled.

You didn’t need more than that. You had each other. The art, the city, the laughter between studio walls and nighttime walks after closing hours. The way he’d press kisses behind your ear when you sat on his lap, or how his touch could turn your bones to syrup when he whispered your name like a prayer.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love deeply. You did, possibly too deeply. But maybe that was why the thought of children felt too heavy. You were already navigating a universe made entirely of the two of you. You didn’t need anything more.

But still, the curiosity lingered.

It started as a joke, once, after a brunch date with your friend who couldn’t stop gushing about how incredible it felt when her boyfriend— “She said it’s like… this flood. Of warmth. Of love,” you’d told him one night, sprawled together on the couch, your legs tangled over his. “Like she could feel him in her for hours.”

Rafayel stiffened beneath you.

You looked up at him, amused. “You okay?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s… not something I’ve ever heard you want before.”

“I didn’t say I wanted it.” You paused. “I just said I’m curious.”

He shifted beneath you, pulling you a little tighter. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

The way he said it low, conflicted, almost vulnerable — made something deep inside you ache.

“Is that so bad?” you whispered, half-teasing, half-meaning it.

He didn’t answer.

But the thought stuck with both of you.

Tonight, you wore the red dress.

Not for the occasion. For him.

Dinner had been intoxicating — not the wine, but him — the way he looked at you across the table, hand on your thigh, voice a velvet murmur in your ear when he leaned too close.

“You’re making it very hard to behave,” he’d said, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You never behave,” you’d whispered back.

By the time you both stumbled back to his studio, your lipstick was smudged from kisses in the car, your breath shallow, your thighs pressed together with unbearable ache.

He pinned you lightly against the door of Mo Art, kissing you like he’d waited a century for this moment.

“Let’s continue this in our bedroom, yeah?” he murmured, voice rough, eyes molten.

You nodded, dizzy with anticipation.

The lights were low. His paintings stood witness from every wall, but you only saw him — his flushed cheeks, the hunger in his gaze, the way he gently, reverently, slid the zipper of your dress down and kissed every inch he revealed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Always so fucking beautiful…”

When he laid you down, it wasn’t rushed. It was worship.

The way his hands caressed you — slow, thorough, like he was sketching your body into memory. The way he kissed your chest, your stomach, your thighs, murmuring your name like it was holy.

When he slid the condom on, you felt the weight of it between you, not disappointment, but… distance. A soft barrier you suddenly wished wasn’t there.

But you let it happen. At first.

Because the way he sank into you in missionary, the way he groaned your name into your mouth and whispered, “I love you,” was still everything.

“Ah—Rafayel,” you moaned, arching into him.

“You feel so good, cutie,” he panted, rocking into you, strong and slow. “So tight. You always take me so well.”

You kissed his throat, clutched his back, wrapped your legs around him.

But something inside you begged for more. For everything.

And when he shifted the angle and your body trembled with how deep he reached, you knew.

Now was the moment.

Your hips roll up to meet his. Each thrust hits deep, precise, intimate. But that thin layer — that barrier — it's all you can think about.

You wanted him. All of him.

His cock, his heat, his surrender. The rawness of nothing between you but love and sweat and skin.

He’s murmuring against your lips, “God, you feel so good, cutie. You’re squeezing me so tight... fuck—just like that... I love you.”

You look up at him — flushed, his curls damp with sweat, eyes hooded and glassy with need. And your heart, your soul, everything that is you reaches out.

You pull him in for a kiss, long and lingering. Then gently push him back.

“Lie down,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“I want to ride you.”

He grins, breathless. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shake your head. “I want to feel you.”

He exhales hard, nods, lets you push him gently to the mattress. You straddle him, bodies slick and trembling, hearts pounding in tandem. He watches with reverence as you guide him back in, already pulsing for you.

You start to move slow, controlled, hypnotic. Your hands on his chest, your head thrown back.

And then, in that moment — you do it.

Fingers slide down to the base of him.

And you pull the condom off.

His eyes shoot open.

“Wait—what are you—?”

You look down at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every breath.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need this. I need you.”

He stares up at you, torn between fear and lust and love so deep it makes his voice crack. “I’ll lose control.”

You nod slowly. “That’s what I want.”

His hands grip your hips like he’s trying to ground himself. “I’ll go too deep. I’ll come too fast. I’ll—fuck—I might not be able to stop.”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, lowering yourself onto him.

And he breaks.

The moment he slides inside you bare, it’s like your whole body seizes — not in pain, but in shock.

“Ah—fuck—” you both gasp in unison.

It’s different.

He’s thicker, hotter, every ridge and vein pressing into your most tender places. Every inch of him stretching you, claiming you. No barrier. No separation. Just him.

And he feels everything.

Every shiver of your walls. Every flutter, every tremble. You’re wet, so wet, and he’s drowning in it.

“Oh my god,” you moan, head falling back. “You feel—so deep, Rafayel. So full.”

He’s biting his lip, hands digging into your thighs. “Shit, shit—fuck, you’re perfect. You feel perfect. I can’t—honey, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You start to move, riding him in slow, deep waves, and he’s not surviving this. He’s shaking, breathless, eyes locked on the spot where your bodies meet.

“You’re squeezing me so tightly,” he growls, voice hoarse. “I can feel your pulse, cutie—fuck.”

You clench around him on purpose and he groans, hands flying to your hips. “D-Don’t do that—you’re gonna make me come!—”

“That’s the point,” you breathe, leaning over him. “I want you to. Inside me.”

He grabs you, flips you under him so fast you gasp. Now he’s on top, pounding into you with raw, unfiltered need, the sounds of your skin slapping echoing through the room.

He moans against your neck, voice wrecked. “I’m not gonna last—I’m not—ah, fuck—I’m sorry—”

“Do it,” you cry. “Please, baby. Fill me. Claim me. I want to feel all of you.”

And with a strangled groan, he bites the side of your neck — not hard, just enough to mark — and then...

He lets go.

He collapses over you, shuddering.

Your fingers thread into his damp curls, stroking, soothing. His breath is ragged against your neck. He hasn’t pulled out. You can feel the warmth inside you, thick and real, and the slow, delicious weight of him softening but still buried deep.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

The silence is not empty. It’s swollen with something raw and full.

“…fuck,” he finally whispers, voice barely there. “…I came inside you.”

You hold him tighter. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean to—I mean—” He lifts his head, looking into your eyes. “I meant it, but I didn’t plan it. You— you looked at me like that and I lost every ounce of control I thought I had. I couldn’t say no to you.”

You smile, brushing his sweaty hair from his forehead. “You didn’t need to.”

He groans softly, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“You already are,” you whisper, tilting your head to give him better access. “You’re so deep in me, Rafayel. I can still feel you…”

His hips twitch involuntarily, and he lets out a helpless moan. “Fuck, don’t say that—”

“But it’s true,” you murmur. “You’re leaking out of me and it’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt.”

That stuns him into silence.

He finally pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are full with concern, with awe, with something fragile and breaking. “Are you… okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

You shake your head. “You loved me.”

He exhales shakily, then leans down to kiss your lips, your jaw, your cheeks — over and over like he’s trying to convince himself this moment is real.

“I love you so much it terrifies me,” he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your hand finds his. “Then we’re terrified together.”

He smiles. It’s that rare, boyish smile — the one that only comes out when his armor drops.

You both stay tangled like that, long past the moment his body finally slides out of yours. He kisses the inside of your thighs, cleaning you with trembling fingers and reverent care, whispering apologies and praises in equal measure.

Later, under the covers, when the tremors have subsided and the world is quiet again, he pulls you close and murmurs:

“No more condoms?”

You laugh, curling into his chest. “Let’s see how long we last.”

He chuckles, low and wicked in your ear. “Not too long, cutie. Not if you keep looking at me the way you did tonight.”

You smile, content and sated. “Good.”

Because you don’t need anything else.

Just him.

Just this.

Just the two of you — raw, messy, vulnerable, and in love.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMET GALA 2025 * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N, worldwide famous singer, goes to the Met Gala 2025 and brings Chris as her pair for the first time.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x singer!reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　some fashion talk because I'm a fashion student whipped for the fashion world.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: This happens in the same universe as my 'Grammys 2025' fanfic. You can find it on my Chris’s masterlist.

There was gold on her collarbone, roses stitched into the hem of her coat, and Sol de Janeiro lotion all over her palms.

Y/N stood frozen in front of one of the many full-length mirrors scattered across the grand penthouse living room of The Surrey Hotel, her fingers nervously pressing the creamy shimmer from her hands into the plush, regal fabric of her coat.

The scent of salted caramel and pistachio danced around her in a tentative to calm her down, but it only made her mind feel fuzzy.

It was her third Met Gala, so why does it feel like it was her first?

Was her clothes too literal for the theme? Was it edgy enough? Too sharp? Too structured? Too obvious?

Her mind raced in loops, bouncing off every invisible standard she’d set for herself. The theme, Tailoring Black, was nothing short of genius. But as the minutes ticked closer to the Met Gala carpet, her stomach churned with anxiety.

Everyone always expected her to be the "best of the best". What if this time... she wasn't?

"Y/N, babe, stop rubbing the cream on your coat." Her stylist, Harry Lambert, chided in his signature playful tone as he ducked past the makeup station with a handful of safety pins and a cappuccino. "You're gonna stain it white."

She looked down, her eyes comically widening when she noticed the small pattern of glitter left behind from her hand cream.

"Alright, Harry? I think I’ve ruined it." She mumbled, voice trembling, palm now pressing over the fabric of her coat with even more strenght. "Like actually ruined it."

"You did not ruin it." Harry talked back, walking closer to take a better look at it. "We can just say that you were moisturizing your nerves. Very couture of you, huh?"

Y/N shot him a glare through the mirror, lips parted in half-exasperation, half-laughter.

"I’m literally shining. This coat is going to have body shimmer forever embedded into it. Daniel, I’m so sorry."

Across the room, a soft string of chuckles floated in from the open double doors of the main bathroom. Daniel Roseberry - the mind behind the art she wore tonight - was bent over a steamer, carefully working out the last crease on the matching tailored pants.

"Darling." He said without looking up. "My design was made to hold a woman’s essence, not reject it. You look divine. Let the shimmer stay. It’s yours."

Y/N turned to the mirror again, slowly dragging her gaze from the tip of her velvet-covered hat down to the gold-accented buttons of her coat, down further to the rich gradient of crimson and magenta pooling into her trousers like royal ink.

Daniel had outdone himself. This ensemble was historical, theatrical, and utterly hers. The old-world glamour of Jacques Fath’s Fall/Winter ‘92 had been revived by Schiaparelli's modern surrealism, made to fit her figure like a poem written in silk and courage.

But her heart still pounded like crazy, her plump lips pressed into a soft pout.

The room bustled behind her: makeup artists reapplying lip liner, her manager Josh frantically scrolling through emails while mumbling about red carpet call times, someone adjusting the velvet sash that trailed behind her.

The playlist Harry had queued hummed through the Bluetooth speakers – Madonna, Nelly Furtado, and Britney Spears – influenced hips to move slightly.

Then the main ensuite door creaked.

And out stepped Chris.

Y/N didn’t turn, raising her eyes to the mirror first, her pout fading away, and an automatic smile taking over it.

Chris carried an awkward posture that only made him look even more handsome, adjusting the cuffs of his sculptural black and white suit from Alexander McQueen's, the sharp angles of the tailoring hugging his frame in ways that were sinful.

But it wasn’t his clothes that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. It was the way his bright blue eyes widened when they landed on her.

Always his eyes.

"Holy shi-" He whispered, stopping in his tracks.

"No swearing, Christopher. Vogue is literally on this floor." Josh walked by behind Chris holding his iPad.

Chris blinked, then laughed under his breath, like the sight of her was short-circuiting his brain.

"I... I think I just blacked out for a second. You look-" He waved his hands helplessly in front of him, searching for words. "You look like... like some art. No- like a painting. Those rich ass paintings we saw in Milan."

Y/N’s cheeks flushed.

"You’re so silly." She said, breathlessly, biting back a smile.

He stepped closer, eyes drinking her in like a man starved.

"Jesus- that’s illegal, what you’re doing-"

Daniel, crouched nearby and still fussing with fabrics, gave Chris a soft grin.

"She is an artwork, no?"

Chris just nodded, pink tongue wetting soft chapped lips.

"What? Yeah. Shit- yes!"

Y/N turned around now, finally facing him fully, hands still nervously toying with the buttons on her jacket.

"You don’t look too bad yourself, Sturniolo. Very jazz player from the 70's."

"I’ll take that." Chris grinned, cheeks pink, but his eyes softened when he noticed her wringing her fingers, nails nervously playing with her commitment ring. "Hey." He muttered gently, stepping in closer, his voice dipping quieter. "You okay?"

Y/N reached for Chris’s hand, and he instantly laced his fingers with hers, ignoring her sweaty palms. He gently pulled her toward him, his thumbs brushing her knuckles, free hand carefully meeting her hips, pressing her flesh in a grounding way.

"You nervous?"

She nodded silently, her other hand still twitching at her side.

"So much. My chest’s doing this weird thumpy thing, and my makeup’s probably melting already, and I don’t know if I can do the stairs in these heels. And there’s all these cameras and Vogue livestreams, and you’re here, and I just..."

Chris smiled, one hand coming up from her hips to touch the side of her neck gently, thumb brushing along her jaw.

"That’s supposed to make you less nervous, not more."

"It’s just." She sighed, leaning slightly into his touch. "You’re like... this whole different part of my life. My comfort, my normal. And now you’re stepping into the chaos part. I just-" She paused, voice trembling. "I want you to love it. I want it to be good."

Chris frowned.

"Baby, I don’t care if we get swarmed or if I look like an idiot mid-carpet. I get to walk up those stairs holding you. That’s already the best part."

Y/N’s eyes glossed, and Chris leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips, barely there, just enough for her to feel it.

"And if it helps." He added, lips still close to her skin, breath fanning over her mascara covered eyelashes. "I’m terrified, too. Like, super terrified. I’ve watched Met Gala videos on TikTok all week. Matt told me to bring mints. Nick said to suck in my cheeks. I don’t even know what that means."

Y/N let out a loud laugh, forehead falling to his chest, her hat bumping against his skin and tilting to the side.

"God, I love you."

Chris kissed her covered shoulder, breathing in the strong scent of her perfume.

"You’ve done this before. You’re a pro. Everything will be okay."

She let out a long breath, muffled against the fabric of his lapel.

Harry poked his head dramatically from behind the mirror.

"Okay, lovebirds, wrap it up, Vogue’s getting the pre-carpet shots in twenty in front of the hotel, and I need to fix that jacket crease. Daniel, tell me she’s allowed to sit."

"She is, carefully." Daniel smiled, leaning over to fluff the hem of her coat once more, voice gentle now. "Y/N, you’re not just wearing a gown. You’re making a statement. You’re bringing heritage and power and joy to that carpet. Remember that. Every button on this look is telling a story. You just have to let it speak."

"And if the story includes a little sweat under the armpits?" Y/N asked, half-smiling, following Harry's directions, who chimed in, snatching the glass filled with freshly made dry martini from the coffee table and holding it out to Y/N.

"Then it’s high fashion sweat."

The whole room laughed, and Chris reached for her waist, his fingers intertwining around her covered skin.

Her pulse slowed instantly.

"I got you." He whispered in her ear as a stylist passed them with a steamer.

"I know." She whispered back, taking the glass from Harry and gulping it down.

Maybe she hadn’t ruined it after all.

The second her heel touches the first petal-strewn step of the Met Gala carpet, Y/N feels like she’s stepped into a dream designed by a hopeless romantic with a billion-dollar budget.

Everywhere she looks is a sea of daffodils and dreamy blue, like she’s walking through a field of flowers under a velvet night sky, complete with soft starlight. The entire ceiling above them is dotted with tiny glowing stars, and she can’t tell if it's the LED panels or just magic.

Probably both.

Chris's hand tightens slightly on her waist as the crowd ahead of them suddenly roars with excitement, and even though he’s smiling with brows lifted in amused awe, she can feel the tension in his grip.

He’s not used to this kind of spectacle.

Not like she is.

But still, the moment feels too big for even her to pretend like she’s not overwhelmed.

She barely has time to process the first flash of cameras before they’re being whisked to the center of the chaos by a poised woman in a head-to-toe black dress with a clipboard and a headset. She smiles like she’s done this a thousand times (she probably has) and gestures for them to pause in front of the press line.

"You look incredible." The woman says to Y/N with a quick wink, then glances at Chris and grins. "And don’t worry, they’ll love you too."

"Am I that nervous for even her to notice?" Chris's high-pitched voice echoed close to her ear, but before Y/N could respond, the wall of photographers ahead erupts.

"Y/N, sweetheart, give us that over-the-shoulder shot!"

"Chris, look this way! First Met Gala, man, how’s it feel?!"

"Y/N, turn to the left- no, left! There you go!"

It’s chaos, overwhelming and loud, and yet Y/N handles it with an elegance that makes her seem untouchable, clutching Chris’s hand tighter for a second.

They continue climbing the daffodil-drenched stairs, pausing every few steps at the designated posing spots. Chris has stopped flinching at the camera flashes, though he’s still squinting like the whole thing is just slightly unreal.

Which, fair.

Chris leans in subtly.

"Is it just me, or do all these photographers sound like seagulls fighting over some bread?"

Y/N breaks into the warmest laugh, her hand flying to her lips just as the cameras go wild, capturing the moment like it’s staged.

It’s not. Not even a little.

She tilts her head toward him and whispers back.

"You’re the bread."

Chris grins, full and unfiltered. The night doesn’t feel so scary to him anymore.

"Miss, over here- no, to your right!"

"Stunning! Absolutely stunning!"

Y/N turns gracefully, refusing to let the heat faze her even though she can feel it building beneath the fabric of her coat. She focuses on keeping her expression soft, her movements fluid, her posture strong.

Halfway up the flower-drenched staircase, Y/N’s eyes sweep across the crowd and then freeze.

Her heart skips a beat.

Because just a few steps above stands Kendall Jenner beautifully dressed in a gray tailoring set, her best friend since she could remember, the one person who knows every version of her.

Y/N gasps softly, her eyes wide, her smile blooming in real-time.

"Oh my- Kenny!" She calls out over the noise, breathless, one hand instinctively lifting as if pulled by pure gravity.

Kendall’s head turns, scanning, and the second her eyes lock with Y/N’s, her whole face lights up like someone flipped a switch, her serious gaze melting away.

"Y/N?!" She beams, her grin going impossibly wider as she carefully steps closer.

They both reach across the velvet steps, fingers finding each other in the middle of the carpet, paparazzi catching every movement. They giggle as if they haven’t seen each other in a decade instead of a few weeks.

Suddenly, a photographer shouts.

"Y/N! Kendall! Together, please!"

Chris immediately steps aside, grinning from ear to ear, pride practically radiating off him.

"Go, babe." He says under his breath, eyes warm as he watches her light up.

Kendall throws him a friendly wave with a glowing smile.

"Looking good, Chris!" She beamed before sliding right into place beside Y/N.

Cameras go into full chaos mode as they pose, linked at the hip, shoulders back, smirks, and sweetness. Kendall leans in just before the next click, whispering against Y/N’s hair.

"You look absolutely unreal. I loved that color."

"Daniel's magic, babe." Y/N laughs softly.

Meanwhile, the same woman in black from minutes before appears again, smiling gently while gesturing for Chris to step back and pose alone to the other side full of paparazzi.

"Are you- are you sure? I don't know if they even know me." He whispers to the woman, blue eyes traveling to the wave of photographers.

"Christopher, what are you wearing?"

"Chris, to your right."

"Mr. Sturniolo, right here! No- to your left."

"Okay, they proved your point." He mutters before stepping back, letting Y/N keep the spotlight with Kendall and walking to the area where the woman pointed, throwing his girl a soft look behind his shoulder.

She’s glowing, absolutely glowing, and Chris... Chris looks like he’s watching a star come to life, his attention snapping back to the photographers as his name was shouted again.

Joana, Y/N’s publicist, is suddenly at the girl's side, effortlessly chic in a black sheath dress, sunglasses perched on her head like she’s immune to the absurdity of the moment.

She leans in close.

"You’re killing it. Keep smiling. Be you. Don’t overthink it. Let them eat it up."

Y/N nods, grateful for the grounding voice, and not even a second after, Joana is already pulling Chris gently back toward her, smiling when Kendall understood and stepped aside.

"I'll see you inside!" Kendall winked, blowing a kiss toward Y/N before walking to the other side of the stairs.

Joana nodded, adjusting Chris and Y/N side by side, making sure they stood just close enough for the camera to catch that he's her date without overshadowing her look.

He falls back into place beside her naturally, hand ghosting along the small of her back again before he leans in, lips brushing just behind her ear, and murmurs low enough that only she can hear.

"You look so fuckin' good it’s making it hard to think, y’know? Looked kinda dumb to those paparazzi back there."

Y/N’s breath catches in her throat, her body reacting faster than her mind can process. She doesn't flinch, doesn't let it show, except for the subtle shift in her smile.

The cameras go off in a frenzy.

Chris straightens up with the most innocent look on his face.

After some more steps, they reach a floral archway signaling the final stop before the inside interviews begin. A guard in a sleek suit gives them a nod, and the clipboard lady reappears, guiding them up the final stretch of the staircase.

"Ready?" Chris murmurs, his voice quieter now that the roars have dulled behind them.

Y/N exhales slowly, a mix of nerves still swimming in her chest.

"I think so." She says, and then turns to him, softening even further. "You’ve been amazing. Thank you."

He shrugs in that careless Chris-way that always makes her heart flutter.

"All I did was stand next to you and look good."

"You did both very well." She replies with a small smile, brushing her fingers against his hand.

The grand staircase faded behind them, the soft golden glow of the Met’s interview platform shining ahead. The plush carpet beneath their feet muffled the paparazzi chaos.

Up ahead, Emma Chamberlain stood in that signature interview nook, stunning in her custom look and microphone in hand. She was mid-conversation with someone from the Vogue crew when her eyes wandered and then locked in.

Her mouth parted slightly, then her whole face lit up.

She turned fully, barely containing her excitement.

"Oh my god." She whispered with a gasp, already stepping forward just a bit, her hand waving subtly toward her team to make space. "They’re here!"

As Y/N and Chris got closer, Emma beamed like she’d just spotted her favorite people in the world. Which, honestly, she kind of had.

"Hi!! You guys-" She laughed, caught halfway between giddy and stunned. "I’ve been waiting for you two. Please come over."

Y/N broke into the biggest smile, face instantly lighting up like she’s been plugged into a charger.

"Emma!" She gasps, turning slightly to look at Chris, but he was already watching her with the softest, most adoring look. "It’s Emma."

"I can see that." Chris chuckles, soft and low, already steering her gently with a palm to her lower back. "C’mon, doll."

They stepped up into the interview space, and Emma leaned in for a hug, air-kissing each side of Y/N’s face, being extra careful with her hat and makeup.

"You- what?! You look insane. Like, unreal. Both of you. I- hold on... okay, wait- microphone." She babbles, fumbling as she resets herself and stands before them. "Okay. I’m collected."

Y/N giggles, looping her arm around Chris’s.

"You also look insane." She replied, a little breathless. "You’re glowing."

Emma lifts the mic toward them, still beaming.

"Thank you! Okay, so, obviously, hi, I love you both. Now, what are you wearing tonight? Because this." She motions to Y/N’s look. "Is actual fashion history, and I’m gonna need, like, a full rundown."

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a hand down the side of her coat.

"I’m wearing a revival of Fath’s Fall/Winter ‘92." She said, glowing. "It was brought back to life by Daniel Roseberry from Schiaparelli, and he just... he really understood the balance between strong and soft. I fell in love with it the second I saw the sketch."

"I mean, I get it." Emma said, genuinely. "It’s literally art. Daniel always does art." Then she turned to Chris, who subtly adjusted his cuff with a smile. "And you, Mr. Chris?"

Chris chuckled, nodding slightly.

"Yeah, so, this is Alexander McQueen Spring ‘23... but it was customized for me by Harry Lambert. He’s a wizard. I didn’t know I could feel cool and classic at the same time, but somehow, he made it work. He adjusted every little detail to make it personal. Like, the fabric has this texture I’m crazy with. It’s just- yeah. I feel good."

Emma leaned in like she was letting the viewers in on a secret.

"They both look unreal in person, by the way. The camera does not do this justice."

Y/N laughed, mouthing 'stop' while visibly glowing under the compliment.

Emma took a small breath, then grinned.

"Okay, let’s talk theme. This year’s is Superfine: Tailoring Black Style. When you first found out about it, what did you think?"

Chris glanced at Y/N again, giving her space to speak first. She caught the cue and smiled, turning to Emma with that same euphoria in her voice she always had when talking about things that mattered.

"I was honestly really emotional about it." Y/N started, her voice gentle but sure. "It’s a beautiful theme. Because this isn’t just fashion. It’s history. It’s identity. It’s... pride."

She glanced toward the museum for a second before looking back at Emma.

"When you think about the Black community and what it means to take something like tailoring, and flip it, and make it theirs, it’s powerful. It’s this mix of strength, creativity, confidence... even joy. There’s this attitude of, like, 'I know who I am, and I’m gonna take up space loudly, beautifully, and on my own terms'. And that’s what fashion should be, right? Expression. Celebration. Defiance."

Emma visibly softened, her eyes slightly misty.

"Okay. See, this is why I needed to talk to you tonight. You always get it. Thank you for saying that. That’s everything."

Y/N just smiled shyly, glancing down.

"It’s a theme that deserves to be honored properly." Chris slipped his hand into hers briefly, giving it a squeeze, smiling when catching her eyes.

Emma nodded, her eyes traveling from Y/N to Chris and back.

"Alright, I won't be holding you back any longer, but I have to know... are you guys going to the afterparty tonight? Or is this the big finale for you?"

Y/N let out a little giggle, shaking her head.

"No afterparty for us. We’re going back to our hotel room, ordering room service-"

"Probably some pizza." Chris added. "I've heard that our hotel has the best one."

Emma's eyes light up, moving her mic a bit higher against her lips.

"If it's The Surrey, I can assure you that what you heard is the truth."

"It is!" Y/N nodded excitedly. "And we’re gonna FaceTime Matt and Nick and just talk about this night until we fall asleep."

Chris hummed lowly.

"It’s tradition now, since the Grammy's."

Emma laughed with affection.

"That’s so unreasonably adorable. I love it. Honestly, that sounds better than most afterparties."

"I know, right?" Y/N grinned. "And we have an early flight back to LA tomorrow."

Emma sighed dramatically.

"Ugh, you two win. Please go be soft and stunning somewhere else before I start crying."

They all laughed again, and as the camera crew gave the okay to wrap up, Emma leaned in one more time, hugging them both gently.

"I love you guys. You always make my night. Thank you for stopping by."

"Wouldn’t miss it." Chris said genuinely, hand falling naturally back into Y/N’s as they turned to walk toward the museum’s grand entrance.

Their night was just beginning.

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© vanteguccir

[1cewhxre]

Do you take requests?

If you do, could you write more about yandere nerd and maybe getting to know the reader better?

Oh and maybe the reader is actually kind of smart but still a mess? So they can actually kind of keep up with him 🥹

No pressure at all of course

۶ৎ pairing : yandere nerd x reader

a/n : awww that's such a cute request ♡ and yes, i AM currently open to asks. check out pt.1

where were you? why couldn't he find you anywhere? didn't you come to school today? how would he survive all those pests swarming him around without you to keep him going through the day?. . . Vance gnawed on his freshly manicured nails as the overwhelming thoughts clouded his mind.

the clock ticked to 8. you were supposed to be here by now. . . ah there you are! putting a pause to his worries, you finally entered the classroom. it was quite clear from the disheveled hair and uneven breathing that you quite literally ran to class. yet you still looked so breathtaking. . . it was as if he was meeting you for the first time again.

thankfully, your teacher didn't really make a fuss about your late entry to the class but the everyone's eyes still made you feel embarrassed. oh there's an empty seat, you quickly scurried off to the nearest seat to avoid anymore attention. and guess who it turned out to be next to? your infamous admirer, of course.

you were too busy taking out your books to even notice how a pair of green eyes longingly gazed at your figure from a distance. you were so close, yet so far away.

they smells so good too. . . call him a creep but God, he couldn't pass out on this opportunity now, could he?

he doesn't remember how fast time went by. it all felt so blurry to him. all he can remember is how your sweet scent filled his empty senses, the way your hair cascaded down your pretty face as you tried to note down every bit of information from the board ; the way your pencil scratched against the white paper only made him wonder if you'd scratch against his skin like that in the late hours of night.

who cares if he didn't pay attention to his teacher or his peers? he's one of the best in school, so it's not like someone would even dare to come close to him. from a chiseled body to a sharp brain, he has it all. all he wanted to do was shower his attention on his one and only bunny.

a chill ran down your spine. you have noticed how Vance has been looking at you for the past 40 minutes, the way his eyes lingered on your body for longer than it needed it. you didn't understand exactly what about you caught his eyes. yes, you were quite smart yourself but not enough to come close to the star student. ranking within top 10 of your class every year wasn't that bad you guess. but there wasn't anything special about you. you weren't pretty or skinny like the girls in your school, you weren't athletic like the guys either. art wasn't your forte and neither were you rich.

"alright class, there's a group project for this sem which makes up for 30% of your final grades", your teacher's announcement broke you out of your daydream. you inwardly sighed. . . you hated group projects because that meant you'd now have to socialise.

your teacher soon started to call out the names for the groups. and Vance saw it as the perfect opportunity to finally get close to his long term obsession. he liked the reactions you were giving. with your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and the cute pout giving it away how bothersome you found this. don't worry, baby, he knows how to play his cards right. . . and that's when he specially requested for a group of two. with just him and you. there was no way you could avoid him now.

[kxsagi]

hihi ^^

can i request reader and sae itoshi being in a relationship for like years (he asked out the reader right before going to spain since they were childhood friends and they did a long distance relationship) and then they got married like a few months before he played for u20 vs blue lock and the team is shocked to find out he’s a married man at 18 (the reader is also 18) during practice when they see a ring on his finger that he usually takes off when he does practice. shidou doesn’t believe it until he sees the reader that shows up at the end of the blue lock match going up to sae and sees she’s also wearing the same ring

sorry if this is confusing 😔

“𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝”

a/n: dw bae, i totally understood this request! thank you for making it so detailed, it really helps!!

UGH I AM EIGHTEEN I WANT THIS TO BE MEEEE (i am going insane bc this plot is feeding my delulu + yes, this title was based off a mitski song anfkbglaglsk)

also why did this lowkey remind me of antonella and messi’s relationship (i love them sm) 😭

(idk art credits sorry but this fanart hits different)

the day had started like any other – sun shining brightly as it poured through the cracks of the blinds, filling the room with soft, golden light. but as the seconds ticked away, the day would gradually become anything but ordinary. you and sae had been together for as long as you could remember, childhood friends turned lovers. his smooth, calm demeanor had always been a comfort to you, the kind of stability you'd always craved in a world that seemed to change too quickly. 

and somehow, through it all, the two of you had managed to make it work, even with him being halfway across the world for months at a time. it wasn’t easy, of course, long-distance relationships never were. but when he’d asked you to be his girlfriend right before leaving for spain when you were both 14, you knew he meant it. the timing had been strange, but neither of you had cared. the bond was already there, something that felt like it could never be severed. 

over the years, the relationship had deepened. text messages, phone calls, and late-night video chats became your lifeline. you celebrated the smallest victories and the hardest losses, always cheering him on from afar. and then, just a few months ago, when both of you were 18, he had proposed. it had been an intimate moment, just the two of you, with him holding out the beautiful ring of your dreams. the engagement had felt like a natural progression, something the two of you had always known was inevitable, yet it still took your breath away. you hadn’t been able to wipe the grin off your face for days. 

you had gotten married shortly after, in a small ceremony that was only attended by those closest to you both. it was nothing extravagant, just the way you had always wanted it – personal, quiet, intimate. sae was a pro soccer player, and the last thing he needed was the paparazzi breathing down his neck during his most vulnerable moments. 

and yet, here you were, standing in the midst of an entirely different world. sae was in the thick of things, playing for the U-20 team in a match against blue lock’s best. the atmosphere was tense, the boys on his team pushing themselves to the limit, and you could only watch from the sidelines. but today, something felt... different. something in the air was thick with curiosity. 

at the start of the match, sae thought he had made sure to take off his wedding ring. he always did when he played, keeping it tucked away in the small, secret pocket of his bag. it wasn’t that he didn’t love you or wasn’t proud of you, he was. but he liked to keep his private life just that, private. soccer was his job, his passion, and he never wanted to mix it with personal matters. but today, the ring wasn’t left behind in his bag, and the team noticed. 

everyone gathered around after the final whistles, still buzzing with the intensity of the match. shidou, as always, was talking too loudly, making sure his voice was heard across the field. he had a way of stirring the pot, always getting under people’s skin just for fun. 

"hey, sae!" shidou called out, his grin mischievous as sae takes off his gloves. "you got something on your finger or what?" 

it took a moment for everyone to realize what he meant. sae’s hand, which was usually bare during practice, now had a noticeable glint on his left ring finger. it wasn’t anything extravagant, but it was enough to catch their attention. the atmosphere shifted, whispers rippling through the team like a wave. they were all wondering the same thing: why hadn’t they noticed before? 

"hey, wait, that’s a wedding ring, isn’t it?" oliver chimed in, squinting at sae’s finger. "you’re married?" 

"married? no way, this guy’s only 18," sendou added, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "how could he be married at this age?" 

the team went quiet for a moment, eyes wide as they turned to sae for an explanation. and then, as the tension grew, sae simply shrugged, his face unreadable, but his eyes betraying something more – something soft, something that only you ever got to see. 

"yeah," sae said casually, his voice unbothered. "got married a few weeks ago." 

the words hung in the air for a moment, and then all hell broke loose. 

"no way!" shidou barked, his shock turning into laughter. "i can't believe it! who’s the lucky girl? did she trick you or something?" 

sae rolled his eyes, clearly used to shidou’s antics, but something about the tone in his voice made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for the usual banter. 

"we’ve been together for years," he said, his voice steady but serious. "long before all of this." 

the rest of the team looked at each other, still processing the revelation. some were nodding, others were staring at sae like he had just confessed to something completely bizarre. it wasn’t that they didn’t believe him, it was just hard to imagine someone as young and reserved as sae tying the knot so early. it was a lot to wrap their heads around. 

but it wasn’t until the match was over, and you made your way onto the field, that the full impact hit them. 

they had seen you in photos, of course. sae had shared the occasional picture, his usual stoic expression softening when he was with you. but seeing you in person, walking toward him with a confident, loving smile, was an entirely different experience. and when you reached him, you held out your hand, showing off the big, beautiful diamond ring on your left finger, it became undeniable. 

"so, you’re the one who got him to settle down," oliver said, his voice full of awe as he stepped forward. 

you smiled softly, taking sae’s hand in yours. "yep, that’s me." 

"damn," shidou muttered, crossing his arms. "i guess we were all wrong about you, sae." 

you could feel sae’s subtle shift in posture, the way his body relaxed as he stood next to you. this was his world now, and he didn’t have to hide the truth anymore. you were his, and he was yours, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could change that. 

the team stood there for a few more moments, processing what they had just learned. for a few, it was a revelation that shattered their understanding of who sae was – a cold, distant prodigy now revealed to be a devoted husband. but for you and sae, it didn’t matter. this was just another chapter in your long journey together. 

you leaned into sae, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you like a comfortable blanket. "ready to head back?" you asked softly. 

"yeah," sae murmured, his voice warm against your ear. "let’s go." 

and with that, the two of you walked off the field, hand in hand, leaving the stunned team behind to sort through the revelation that their quiet, aloof teammate was far more complicated, and far more taken, than they had ever realized. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[matchpointfaist]

hii! could u write art comforting a reader whose afraid to voice their needs/wants? like when they want or need something, they're too scared to say what it is since they think they're annoying?

can be smut, fluff, or anything else u want! luv ur fics <3

stanford art x shy reader

i love this request i hope you enjoy!!! she is so me anxious girls rise

tw for mild smut, mentions of mental illness. short n simple!

you'd always known you were a bit, well, different. as a child, you'd hide behind your moms leg as she ordered for you at restaurants, blush so deeply your skin burned when people sang you happy birthday, bite your nails raw when you had to speak to more than just your family. it got better, in time, as you forced yourself out of your shell. by college, you had it down to a science. you could hold it together near constantly, only breaking under particularly stressful situations, but you never quite mastered speaking up for yourself. that's where you were mentally when you met art. relaxed enough to go to parties, but too shy to talk to anyone but your small circle of friends, too nervous to drink more than one beer, too antsy to go home with anyone.

everyone knew art donaldson. he was stanford's golden boy, tennis phenomenon, blue eye and blonde hair angel. he was outgoing, bordering on loud, always the center of attention, always smiling. so when he walked over to you that night, smiling and eyes sparkling, red solo cup in hand, you had to tamp down your confusion. “hey,” he grinned, “i’ve never seen you around, you new?” “no,” you tried not to stutter, a long formed habit, “i just don’t usually hang out much,” “i’m art,” he shook your hand, confident and breezy, as if you wouldn’t know who he was. that was the start of it all, cocky boy and blushing girl, hand in hand.

after that night, the two of you were inseparable. you sat courtside at all of his matches, smiling and clapping when he inevitably won, his bag at your feet. in return, he stayed up with you for your frequent study sessions, rubbing your shoulders as you thumbed through page after page. you had a good little system going, a perfect little bubble just big enough for you two.

when you went out, he’d order your drinks and bring them back to you, satisfied like he’d done something grand each time. he stayed glued to your side, hand in hand, his thumb running over your knuckles when he could sense you getting worked up. he was doting and constantly observing you, soothing your nerves, calming any thoughts you let get out of hand.

you had a bad habit of picking your lips raw, biting at them as you spoke, and art developed a little habit of his own; carrying around a tube of chapstick, running it over your lips and chasing it with a gentle kiss, wiping away any dots of blood you’d bring to the surface. he kept band aids in his tennis bag for when you’d get carried away picking at your nails and the skin around them, little pink ones just for you. his friend teased him at times, poking fun at the way he fussed over you, but he waved them off each time. you were his girl, light of his life, who cares if you were a little antsy? everyone had their things, their ticks. you just happened to have a few more than him, thats all.

you worried, often, about the female attention he got. practically every girl on campus wanted him, not even bothering to hide it, fawning over him at his matches and flocking to him at parties. your biggest concern was tashi, patrick’s girlfriend and art’s sort-of coach. after her injury, she spent most of her free time helping art’s game, and the countless hours they spent together wore you down, ate at your mind. he’d come back to his dorm one night to find you crying, the sleeves of his hoodie pulled over your hands, your face red and eyes bloodshot. “baby,” he dropped his bag at the door, rushing over to you, “hey, angel, what’s going on? what happened?” “it’s okay,” you sniffled, wiping your eyes, “i’m okay, sorry, i just didn’t feel good,” “hey,” he wiped your face gently, tilting your head up to look at him, “don’t do that, don’t shut me out. talk to me, please?”

you told him, hesitantly, about your worries about tashi, about the nagging thoughts you couldn’t push away, assuring him that he didn’t have to do anything differently, you were just scared. “baby,” he murmured, “need you to tell me what you want, alright?” “nothing,” you said quickly, “it’s okay, art, you didn’t mean to,” “hey,” he frowned, “come on, angel. remember what we’ve talked about? need you to tell me what you need, or else i can’t make it better,” it took convincing, but slowly you nodded, biting the inside of your cheek, “just, maybe could you not spend so much time with her? or maybe could you bring me too, sometimes? just get worried, and i know it’s just tennis, but still,”

“see, that’s all you had to do, honey,” he crawled into his single bed beside you, pulling you to his chest, “of course you can come. i just didn’t want to ask because i thought you’d be bored. but you can bring your books, yeah? sit n watch me play while you read?” “yes please,” you sniffled, “sorry i’m so much,” “you’re not, baby,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “just perfect,”

when you calmed down, he pulled you into his lap, kissing you slow and steady for what felt like hours. you were always distracted like this, too caught up in the feeling of his lips to worry about anything else. he pulled away, grinning when you whined in protest, “tell me what you want, baby, like we talked about,” you buried your face in his shoulder, shaking your head, and he ran his fingers through your hair gently, “come on, angel, tell me,” finally, after all his coaxing, you worked up the nerve. “want you to fuck me,” you mumbled into his neck, “please?”

“see, there you go,” he hummed, “i’ll always give you what you want, long as you ask,” he took his time with you, knowing you were still on edge, fucking you slow n gentle, one hand holding yours and the other in your hair, rubbing at your scalp soothingly. when you were finished, he showered with you, running the warm water over your back and pressing kisses to your cheeks until you laughed. “can i stay over?” you asked, all wrapped up in a towel. “of course,” he smiled, kissing your forehead, “see? told you, you don’t have to be scared to ask. not with me, angel,”

[ayyy-pee]

𝕄𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕀𝕥 𝕊𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕜

Discord 18+ - Twitter

Pairing: Tomioka Giyuu x Female Reader

Summary: Will he survive this war? 

Will you be alright without him? 

Will you be lonely if he never returns?

And arguably, the most important question – will his line end with him?

The clock is ticking and who knows if he will ever make it back to you.

He’d never given much thought to children, but Giyuu had also never given much thought to marriage before he’d met you.

or

Giyuu and reader get to work on making a baby.

Story Warning: BREEDING KINK GIYUU, LACTATION KINK GIYUU, Smut, Giyu and reader are secretly married, P in V sex, Profanity like yall should know, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Giyuu is a munch, Unprotected Sex, Multiple Creampies, Mating Press, Freaky ass Giyuu fr

Art by: michi_ia (Twitter)

A/N: This was a request from one of my amazing readers! This one shot takes place in the same universe as Hidden Affairs (Sanemi x Reader fic!) They can both be read as standalones as they involve different readers! Hope you enjoy!

It’s eerily quiet tonight. Just as it’s been for the past several weeks. A storm is brewing, slowly but surely. Giyuu feels it, they all feel it. It’s like a simmer just under the surface, waiting to boil over at any moment. That’s why all of them were called to Ubuyashiki mansion. The plan has been set in motion and Giyuu knows what his role now is.

But will he make it back alive?

That’s the question that plagues his mind at this very second as he approaches his home. He can see the dim candle lighting illuminating the space through the windows and he knows he won’t be alone once he’s inside. No, he’ll be able to see you. And it’s all he’s been looking forward to since he stepped foot on the mansion grounds.

“I’m home,” Giyuu murmurs as he slips out of his haori. He lays it carefully on the table beside the front door.

“Welcome back, my love,” your voice floats through the air like a song, calling him to you. You’re in the bedroom and when Giyuu enters, he sees you’re already snuggled into the futon on the tatami, clearly ready for bed. “How was the meeting?”

Giyuu sighs, crossing the space and falling to his knees at your bedside. He leans forward and kisses you softly, reveling in the way that you, as always, can melt away his worries with just your skin on his. “It’s…” He debates on telling you the truth. That it’s not looking good. That he and the other Hashira, the Master, are all in imminent danger and that it’s likely to come soon. But as he watches you, so sweet and caring, he knows he can’t lie to you. “I’ll have to leave…to be close. He will come soon.”

He, being Muzan. Though Giyuu doesn’t dare speak his name in his home.

“I see…”

You recover quickly, but Giyuu has already seen it. The sadness and concern that flashes across your features. He feels guilty that he’s the cause.

“And the others?” You question, trying to change the subject. You know Giyuu hates talking about matters like this with you. You dislike it as well. Because he can’t be as honest as he wants to be with you. It’s for your safety and honestly to protect your sanity. It’s enough that you’re fully aware of the position he holds as a Hashira, and yet you insist on staying with him. Not that he could ever let you go. Even though he knows it’s selfish for him to have you, he would rather be a selfish man than be without you.

“Same old, same old. Still a little strange without Uzui, but we are managing.” Giyuu kisses you again before standing. Just as you do every night, you’ve got a bath waiting for him, and he’d like to get in and soak so that he can get back to you before sleep takes you for the night.

“That’s good. Everyone is well?”

“Yes.” He purses his lips as he fiddles with the rest of his garments, debating on whether or not to tell you this. But he thinks you may find this amusing. “Shinazugawa looked as though he was seconds away from ripping my head from my shoulders before the Master appeared.”

He hears your soft giggles behind him. “Were you sitting too close to his lady again?” You tease.

Giyuu shrugs, though you can hardly see the movement. “For Hashira, they are very bad at concealing their secrets. They smell of sex every time they arrive.”

“Yes, but it’s very cute to see. I’m happy she continues to keep our secret even though she has no idea we know hers.”

Ah, yes. Shinazugawa believes Giyuu is interested in his beloved, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. See, what the other Hashira (aside from Shinazugawa’s love) doesn’t know is that Giyuu is married - happily, at that. His colleague only found this out after running into you in town, carelessly dressed in Giyuu’s haori as yours were in the wash. And when she confronted you about the very familiar garb you were wearing, you just “felt that you could trust her with their secret”. It’s worked out for you both so far. It’s made you and Giyuu’s fellow Hashira closer, and Giyuu is simply glad you have a friend who you can confide in. He doesn’t even mind playing the messenger between you two, typically passing along stories and jokes from you to his associate when you’re all called together for a Hashira meeting. 

But it’s also placed a large target on his back, a certain white haired psychopath surely waiting for the right moment to shove his blade down Giyuu’s throat.

“He believes I have feelings for her, you know? Almost blurted out their secret in a jealous rage in front of us all.”

“What?!” You gasp, scandalized. “You’re kidding.”

“No. He hates me because of it. It’s quite obvious.”

You hum, mind going a million miles a minute as you mull over this information. “Maybe it’s due to you being so unapproachable and distant. You don’t spend much time with the other Hashira. Perhaps it makes you unlikable.”

Giyuu winces, your words touching a sore spot because this isn’t the first time he’s been told he’s not liked among the Hashira. Kocho once said something similar.

“I’m not unlikable…” he grumbles, lips curling at the corners when he hears your laughter again. You tease him too much. “I’m going to take a bath. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

++++++++++

“Shall we try for a child?”

The question leaves Giyuu’s lips before he can talk himself out of it. He debated on saving this question for the morning as he joined you beneath the blankets, but his bath left him to sit in silence with nothing but his thoughts.

Will he survive this war? 

Will you be alright without him? 

Will you be lonely if he never returns?

And arguably, the most important question – will his line end with him?

The clock is ticking and who knows if he will ever make it back to you.

He’d never given much thought to children, but Giyuu had also never given much thought to marriage before he’d met you.

The prospect of a child never appealed to Giyuu before, but the closer he gets to this inevitable battle, the more it’s on his mind. If anything were to happen to him, he would not want you to be alone. He would want to leave you with something of his, something that you’ll be able to look at and be reminded of him if worse comes to worse.

“What brings this on?” You ask, more quiet than normal. “I mean you…you’ve never discussed children before.” You roll onto your side, propping your head up on your elbow. The moon casts almost an ethereal glow over you, your beauty clear even in the dim lighting of your bedroom.

He shrugs. “I suppose I’ve never thought about it.” His blue eyes gaze into yours. There’s something there, something behind your eyes that you’re not saying. If it were a no, you would say so. You’ve never been one to mince words. If it were a yes…well, you’d say that as well.

“Is this truly what you want?”

“Yes.” He sits up, pulling you into his lap. His fingers play with the strings that hold your top together, gently tugging. It loosens, exposing your collarbone to him and he can’t resist placing a gentle kiss there. “Wouldn’t you enjoy it?” His lips ghost your skin lightly, and the sigh that rushes past your lips is music to his ears. “Caring for this small person, a perfect mixture of you and I?”

You place your hands on his shoulders, head tilting to the side to make room for Giyuu as his lips explore your neck, your throat, the swell of your breasts. “Yes,” you whisper. The sleeves of your top slip from your shoulders, a new part of you exposed for Giyuu to now claim, and you let him. You let Giyuu do whatever he wants with you when it comes to this. You’re always so pliable as soon as his arms wrap around you.

“I want it,” you breathe, hands pulling Giyuu from your shoulder and cupping his face. You press a soft kiss to his mouth. “Let's have a child.”

Wide eyes beam at you in the moonlight, a look of appreciation swimming in them. How did Giyuu get so lucky to have a wife like you? His hands guide your top down, revealing your smooth skin to the night air. His lips caress your breasts, breaths ghosting over your slowly hardening nipples. He takes one into his mouth, groaning at how the soft flesh fills his mouth. Your body is beautiful — a face that would bring a god to their knees, curves in all the places Giyuu appreciates, a form that molds perfectly to his, made for him and only him.  

Giyuu lets his mind wander while his mouth presses sweet kisses to your chest. What will you be like when you’re pregnant? Will you crave for certain foods? He’s heard that that is common. What will you look like when you’re months into your pregnancy? Will Giyuu be there to witness your belly grow round with his child?

Something clicks in Giyuu’s mind at that moment. And while he’s not usually rough with you, he can’t seem to control himself when a guttural moan bubbles from deep within his chest and he wraps an arm around you, flipping you both over. He settles his hips between your legs, rolling his hips against your core, reveling when your back arches off the futon as you moan. And Giyuu dips down, capturing your mouth with his and swallowing each and every sound you make.

It’s all dry humping and moans, whispered “I love you’s” and peeling each other’s clothes off until you both lay bare. Giyuu listens to the way your breath hitches as he kisses his way down your body. His lips brush over all of your sensitive spots on the way down, only stopping when they reach the most sensitive. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths as Giyuu peers up from between your legs. This is one of his favorite views, particularly at night when the soft glow of the moon illuminates your body in such a way that he can’t help but be painfully erect.

Giyuu is a man of very few words. Everyone knows this. Even with you, he is not particularly talkative, but as Giyuu takes in the sight of you, legs spread wide and the puffy lips of your pussy coated with your arousal shimmering in the moonlight, he must let it be known. “You are so beautiful”. He licks his lips, groaning because he is eager to have you, eager to taste you, feel you, breed you.

“Wider, my love,” Giyuu commands, and you do as you're told, spreading your legs to further expose your aching cunt to him. “Perfect,” he whispers, hands coming up to caress the inside of your thighs where he plants tender kisses along the plush flesh. He leans forward, burying his nose into your core and inhaling deeply.

And this may seem odd to those whose jobs don’t revolve around breathing, but there’s something about your scent that has changed. Giyuu can’t place his finger on it. Maybe your scent smells sweeter? Or perhaps your scent is simply more intoxicating because Giyuu has reached a level of arousal that is new to him. But there is without a doubt something different.

He decides not to dwell on it any longer when a desperate and hushed “please” reaches his ears. He realizes then that your thighs are shaking, eager for him to proceed. So he presses a soft kiss to your glossy lips. You gasp quietly, back arching immediately and Giyuu takes that moment to lick a fat strip through your folds.

The groan he lets out is deep, animalistic almost. It vibrates through your core and the sensation makes you reach down, weaving your fingers through Giyuu’s dark tresses to grab hold.

“O-oh, Giyuu…” You gasp as he presses his tongue to your clit, his eyes roll back when he feels the slick pour from your core and straight into his mouth. He laps it up eagerly.

“You taste divine,” he groans into you and you moan in response, hips rolling up to grind your cunt against Giyuu’s mouth, begging for more. And Giyuu obliges, lips sealing around your clit and sucking, licking, nipping at your swollen bud until you’re practically fucking yourself on his tongue.

“Giyuuuuu,” you keen, back lifting off the futon again. You moan loudly, fingers clutching Giyuu’s hair and pulling him further into your pussy. “Right there–” you pant. “Right there! Please don’t stop–”

Giyuu grunts, wincing because his cock is throbbing painfully against his abdomen. He can feel the moisture beneath him, his tip leaking with his arousal. Surely this will stain the fabrics, but that doesn’t matter at the moment. He brings a hand to your pussy, pressing his thumb to your clit and rubbing tight circles. You’re thrashing, moaning his name over and over, damn near about to pull his hair out when Giyuu plunges his tongue into your clenching hole, and he has to will himself not to cum when you cry out and your soft walls clamp down on his tongue immediately. Your hips come up to meet his mouth, grinding your soaking cunt against Giyuu’s face. And he loves it.

Giyuu loves the taste of you. He’s not much of a drinker, he’ll admit. Never much cared for the taste of liquor and has never experienced being drunk in his life, but he imagines it feels similar to the way his head is swimming just off the taste of you.

By now, the futon is sticky with his precum, and it doesn’t help that Giyuu has now been mindlessly rutting against the fabric to find some sort of friction. He longs to make you cum on his tongue, but he also longs to bury himself inside you. But you make the decision for him, tugging his hair until Giyuu finally pulls his mouth away from your center. He crawls along your body, the echoing sound of his length separating from the stickiness of the bed filling the room.

He’s face to face with you, his lips and chin glistening with your wetness and it takes him by surprise when you run your tongue from the tip of his chin, all the way to his mouth where you press your lips to his in a passionate kiss. He groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you murmur against his lips, “how do you plan on putting a baby in me if you don’t fuck me?”

Giyuu thinks that if Muzan doesn’t end up being the death of him, you will be. He puts a hand to the back of your neck, pulling you closer and whispering, “Forgive me, my love. I got carried away.” He slips his free hand between your bodies, a fiery heat blooming in his cheeks when he feels the way his cock is dripping onto your cunt. This is it. There will be no going back once he goes forward with this.

“When I’m done, you’ll be with child,” he says, seriously, as though it’s a fact. Because in his mind, it is. Giyuu grips his length, stroking himself slowly, rubbing his tip against your clit as he lets his mind wander briefly, and lets your moans fuel his runaway thoughts. 

His head is consumed with the image of your breasts, swollen and dripping with milk and he has to halt his strokes to stave off the sudden urge to blow his load. He’s a little surprised, actually. Giyuu has seen and rescued his fair share of pregnant women, and didn’t think twice about it. Forgot about them the moment they weren’t in his direct line of sight. But you…you who consumes his every waking thought…the idea of you with leaking nipples, allowing Giyuu to taste the delicious nectar that your body has produced? It’s a thought so arousing, he has to tuck it away mentally, save it for when he’s alone on his missions so that in the late hours of the night, when he’s wrapping his hand around his cock, the image is still fresh.

He’s not sure when he slipped inside of you, let alone flipped you both over again so that he’s now on his back while you ride him. You take him all the way to the tip, moaning loudly every time you sink onto him. The intense waves of pleasure bring time to a standstill. Your nails are sunken deep into Giyuu’s abdomen, steadying yourself as Giyuu’s hips thrust into you at a bruising pace. On a typical night, Giyuu wouldn’t be so rough with you, so greedy with you. But tonight, while his mind is focused on a single goal – ensuring he leaves you with his offspring growing inside your womb – he feels like a crazed man.

Your cries grow louder, more high pitched and your movements stutter momentarily. When you cry out that you’re going to cum, riding him faster and faster, walls fluttering around him, breasts bouncing beautifully, Giyuu’s mind is back on his prior thoughts – dripping, swollen and full…

And then Giyuu is crying out with you, gritting his teeth as he fucks up into you, emptying his balls to the point that he’s lightheaded. His vision blurs as he keeps pumping into you. He hears the squelching, feels the splashing of his seed dripping from you and onto his abdomen, and Giyuu pulls you down to take his entire length again and again until he finally comes to a halt. His hands grip your hips tight, eyes honed in on where you sit flat against him as your sweet pussy cradles his cock.

“Don’t move,” he growls, surprising himself with the gravelly sound that just left his lips. And you nod, whimpering above him. Within your walls, Giyuu can feel his length still pulsing, spurting pathetic, weak strings of his seed. This orgasm has his chest heaving, hands shaking. He grits his teeth, using his hands to rock your hips back and forth.

“You’re going to be an incredible mother,” he coos, finally releasing his hold on you. His fingers ghost along your skin, from your chest, over your nipples, down to your abdomen where he places his hands flat against your stomach. He focuses on fucking you deeply, burying his cock as far as he can, pushing his seed as deep as possible. “Our child will be so lucky.”

“Yes, my love,” you breathe, eyes closed while you continue to take all of him so well. “And you’ll be an amazing father.”

Your words turn him on, more than he’s ever been. He rolls you both over once more and when you’re on your back, Giyuu takes a moment to pull out and admire his work. His eyes are locked on your core, dripping with evidence of him, pulsing and hungry for more. And he’s still so hard. He wants to give you more, needs to give you more. So Giyuu slips back into your pussy easily, the lubrication from the mixture of both your releases making you both shudder.

He’s so fucking sensitive, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when your greedy cunt is still squeezing down on him, trying to milk him for all he’s worth. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pushing forward until a knee rests on either side of your head. And Giyuu thinks he may black out, because he doesn’t know that he’s ever been this deep inside of you before. He can feel his seed spilling from you, slipping down to your ass where his balls are pressed so hard, it keeps the thick liquid from flowing any further. 

“One more…” he grits out, brows knitted together in determination. “Need to make sure it sticks.” Then he’s fucking you again, one palm resting on the back of each thigh, balls smacking loudly against your ass with every rough thrust.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” You gasp, fingers gripping the bed sheets tightly, and Giyuu whimpers in response. Your pussy is tightening around him, a vice grip already greedily trying to pull whatever he has left to offer from him.

“I want your baby,” you murmur into Giyuu’s ear and he groans, voice rough with desire. His thrusts pick up speed, searching for more pleasure.

“Do you?” He moans against your shoulder when he feels himself hit a particularly soft spot within your walls. “I’ll give you one. I swear I will –”

“Yes!” You practically scream. “Right there, Giyuu–”

“Fuck –” His eyes are closed, mouth slack as he pumps wildly into you. You’re so wet, so tight, so soft and as much as he wants to keep fucking you like this, he’s about to cum embarrassingly fast for the second time tonight. He can feel his balls get a little tighter with each sticky thrust. “Shall I b– ah…shall I breed you once more? Fill you up…ngh…until you’re dripping with my seed again?”

“Please–”

You hardly have to finish your words, because Giyuu is grunting loudly, bottoming out just as he spills himself into you, giving you every drop he has to offer. “Stay still,” he tells you, still thrusting into you, even though he can go no further. He pulls back once more, then sinks balls deep inside of you, breathing heavily as he empties himself. “Need you to take it all, my love.”

“I will,” you pant, his perfect little wife.

You stay like this for some time, Giyuu plugging your pussy until his cock softens inside you. Then he pulls out slowly when he has no other choice. You sigh in relief when you’re able to finally put your legs down as Giyuu lies beside you. He scoops you into his arms, kissing you all over your face, silent apologies for being so aggressive with you. You’re both catching your breath while Giyuu softly runs his hand up and down your spine.

“I wonder if we’ll be successful.” Giyuu mutters when the silence is too much and his thoughts become so unbearable he has to share them with you.

You wiggle out of his hold, sitting up to look down at him. You’re smiling, a cute and goofy smile that Giyuu only sees when you’re up to something. Or when you have a secret that you’re finding impossible to keep from him. So Giyuu sits up as well, brow raised in curiosity.

“What is it?” He asks suspiciously. His eyes narrow when your smile widens.

“It was successful…” You take Giyuu’s hand and press it to your stomach. “about two months ago.”

Giyuu is confused. His eyes are stuck to where you have his hand. Two months ago? Successful?

You can see the confusion clear as day, even in the darkness. “My love,” Your hand cups his cheek and like instinct, Giyuu leans into the touch. He still hasn’t torn his gaze from your joined hands. “Giyuu…look at me.”

And he does, back rigid as he stares at you with wide eyes. The cogs are turning, finally. He thinks he may have figured it out. But there’s a teasing smirk sitting on your lips, and Giyuu doesn’t know if he should believe you or not.

“A-” He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “Are you…?”

You pull Giyuu towards you to place a sweet kiss to his lips.

“I’ve been with child for some time. I just wanted to wait to be certain. I planned on surprising you today, but your meeting ran so late and…” Your hand covers your mouth, hiding the small giggles threatening to bubble up from your chest. “Well, it’s just so cute when you get all serious and focused like that.”

You fall back onto the bed, your pretty laughter filling the room, and Giyuu can’t help it. He laughs, too. Your laughter is so infectious he can’t resist.

It’s a strange mixture of elation, fear, maybe relief. He’d accomplished his goal before he even knew it. But with him leaving to go to the mansion tomorrow, knowing what is planned, he’s now got a new sense of dread seeping into his bones.

But it also gives him a new sense of purpose, outside of returning to you. 

Giyuu must defeat Muzan. 

Giyuu must survive. 

Giyuu must get back to his wife, to his child, to his family.

No matter what.

[agathasfamiliar]

hi!! I just found your blog, can I request g!p detective!agatha railing reader in a missionary position and has a bulge kink (poking the bear🤭🏃‍♀️)

thank you so much for this request it was very fun to write, i hope you enjoy it!

fuck the police:

detective agnes o'connor x fem!reader

You fucked up and finally got caught for your long-running streak of graffiti artistry. What's worse than being arrested, however? Being interrogated by the one detective in town who causes you to question your all out hatred for the profession.

word count: 6.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, agnes is trans/intersex/has a penis, penis in vagina sex, power bottom!reader, service top!agnes (but agnes still needs a little control of course), handcuffs, breeding kink, bulge kink, agnes loves reader's tits, smut

author's note: trans butch agnes, my beloved. also i probably could've done more research into a more realistic set up/i know this isn't how someone being arrested/interrogated would work but it's porn so...hopefully you can look past that

You never thought you’d find yourself here, arrested and waiting to be questioned for your crimes. Perhaps you should’ve seen it coming, your graffiti art has steadily risen in popularity over the last few months, ever since one particularly evocative piece got featured on the local news and allegedly inspired a number of protests throughout the city of Westview.

Not that you had anything to do with that.

The police department has issued several requests for information on you, even offering a pretty handsome reward for the proven identity of “Hex”, the name you tag every piece with. A rumor has even reached your ears about a copycat artist getting arrested over in Eastview. Serves them right for using your signature, but it at least has kept the feds off your trail for a bit. 

Admittedly, you’d gotten cocky thinking you could get away with tagging the squad car stationed at the busiest intersection in town. In your defense, it had looked empty. How were you supposed to know the deputy on duty was napping in the back seat? You’d made it halfway through the looping pink pig face you were sprawling across the windshield before he woke up and chased you down four blocks.

If you were wearing your usual running shoes instead of having slipped on an old pair of slides in your rush out of the house, you probably would’ve outrun the middle-aged cop chasing you, another mistake you won’t make again.

  Now, you sit shivering in nothing but a sheer white tank top and sweatpants so spattered in all the vibrant colors of your, now confiscated, cans of spray paint, that you can’t even remember what color the pants originally were. You weren’t an idiot, you had a black hoodie on when you went out to do your work, but the rookie cop that booked you at the station also insisted on taking your sweatshirt for “evidence”.

You’re pretty sure he just wanted to see you suffer in the refrigerator-like temperature they keep the precinct at, clearly only recently having graduated the academy and already taking a shine to abusing his power. Pigs, indeed. 

The interrogation room they brought you to well over 30 minutes ago sits at the very back of the building, a windowless box that somehow looks and smells both musty and sterile. A large one-way mirror covers the wall opposite the door, the only noise in the confined space being the tick-tick-tick of the clock above it that reads just past midnight.

You rattle the short chain connecting your handcuffed wrists to a bar on the heavy metal table in front of you, just to disrupt the suffocating silence. Have you seriously been forgotten here?

Just as you have that thought, as if summoning another person into existence with it, the door, opposite the corner where you sit, opens briskly. 

Twin sighs of irritation drop from both your mouth and the supposed detective’s as she enters. You can’t make out too many details of her appearance at first because of the dim lighting that mostly just illuminates the table you sit at, as well as the fact that she has her head down looking over what you assume is your intake forms. 

“I want a lawyer.” Are the first words out of your mouth once the woman has turned to shut the door behind her.

“Ha!” She laughs dryly and it has you simmering with rage already, but something about it also sounds familiar.

 “Well, sweetie,” The still concealed detective continues as she finally steps into the light, “not likely to find a public defender that’s available at this hour, but if you insist on staying overnight…” She trails off amusedly, finally stepping into the light and causing your prepared reply to die in your throat as you connect the recognition of the voice with the blue eyes that meet yours.

“Detective O’Connor.” You greet, trying to keep your tone even. 

Fuck.

Of fucking course, of all the detectives in the goddamn city, this is who had to come question you. The same detective you’ve served coffee to every morning for the better part of three years at your shitty cafe day job. The same detective who barely acknowledges your existence, but when her fingers brush yours as you pass her usual over the counter, you think about it for the rest of the day. The detective you berate yourself for fantasizing about, because she’s everything you despise and your friends would never let you hear the end of it if they found out, especially with how often you’re spouting your “radical” political beliefs (not that you see them that way.)

Detective Agnes fucking O’Connor…

This is not how you imagined it would look if you ever got her in a room alone.

“Huh? Do I know you?” She questions, almost offended, and now you’re the one to let out a dry laugh.

“Here, let me help jog your memory.” You say, picking up the small, paper cup of water that had been left on the table for you in one bound hand, holding it aloft and reciting her order.

 “One large hot coffee with two sugars and half a pump of vanilla.”

She looks unaffected at your display, only raising both eyebrows once in sudden recognition before sauntering over to the chair on the other side of the table and sitting down casually. 

“Impressive, that how you’ve avoided custody so long? Charming Westview’s finest by memorizing their coffee orders?” Her questions are laced with condescension.

“Nope, just yours. Why? Is it working?” You smirk despite your better judgment. You hadn’t planned to try the flirting route to get out your charges, but hey, the best schemes have an element of truth to them. Plus, if this is the only chase you’ll have to speak to the detective alone, you might as well make the most of it. 

She doesn’t answer, instead leaning back in the rickety metal chair that lets out a squeal at the motion. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that’s tied low at the base of her skull. Blue flannel sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and it’s all you can do not to think about tracing your tongue over the veins that snake over her strong forearms.

The jeans she’s wearing strain with the way she sits, legs spread apart, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from letting out a gasp when you notice how it puts the delicious outline of what’s beneath the denim on display. Fuck, you do not need to be thinking about straddling the woman where she sits and grinding down against her bulge right now, but you are anyway.

Mercifully, she leans forward again in the seat to ask another question and the view is gone. You need to focus if you’re going to get out of this without incriminating yourself.

“What were you doing tonight?” She asks flatly, getting down to business. You know better than to provide anything resembling an answer, true or false.

“This whole thing seems pretty excessive, all things considered. I mean, an interrogation? Really, Agnes?” Her first name slips out before you can catch it, but you don’t really care.

“Just answer the question. And it’s Detective.” The flare of anger in her eyes only spurs you on.

“Sorry, Detective Agnes,” you correct yourself, purposefully using her name this time, just to see that flash of heat again. 

“If you were so curious about where I was tonight you could’ve just asked me out.” Now that you’ve opened the floodgates, the suggestive remarks just keep coming out.

For Agnes’ part, she remains still and draws in an angry breath. Her blue eyes blaze with irritation at your lack of cooperation more than the intrigue you were hoping for, but that just means you’ll have to turn up the dial on this improvised plan you’ve laid out for yourself. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Listen, if you’re going to keep wasting my time I’ll just lock you up now and wait ‘til morning.” She threatens with a glowering expression, voice raising every few words in an attempt to intimidate. It’s kind of cute, actually. 

You think she might hear just how her phrasing comes out and anticipate your next response, because she almost looks remorseful. The slightest pink tone that rises to her cheeks and the way she pokes her tongue out to wet her bottom lip when her eyes flick down to your barely covered chest don’t escape your careful observations either. 

“Ooo,” you start, falsely scandalized, “now you want me to spend the night?” A slight giggle escaping you at your own words and the way you lift your handcuffed wrists in front of you playfully. 

With the action, you’re sure to press your biceps against either side of your body to even more obviously display your tits, and she can’t help but look down with the movement, eyes raking over your nipples that stand at attention beneath the thin fabric in the cold space.

Heat is practically rolling off her in waves and you can’t tell for sure if it’s arousal or fury that is threatening to boil over, or what will happen when it does, but you have always been the type to take risks. Why stop now?

“Can’t you just get me off with a warning? I mean- let me off…” You ask before she can recover from your last question, attempting a simper at the intentional slip up in your speech. 

It seems that this is what finally pushes her over the edge as she slams her hands loudly against the metal table and stands up, causing it to vibrate with the impact. Her chair goes clattering to the ground behind her, but she doesn’t seem to care. The satisfied expression you wear drops for a second at the forceful display, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, that’s enough!” She shouts, leaning over so you can practically feel her breath on your face before she rounds the table quickly.

“Do you really wanna keep poking the bear?!” She asks, furious, now standing at your right side and heavily folding at the waist to shout into your ear. 

You have to lean away slightly at the volume that threatens to burst your eardrum and it provides just enough space to look the detective up and down where she stands. 

That’s when you see it. 

Unmistakable and pressing against the zipper of her jeans so forcefully that it’s a wonder they haven’t burst; Detective O’Connor is hard. 

You can’t drag your eyes away from the tented fabric, so obvious that it nearly casts a shadow onto the denim in the odd light of the room. As you are still seated, you’re practically at the perfect level to just lean over and mouth the length through her pants. It’s all you can do not to let your head dip where it wants to most, as if you’re a magnet being drawn by its opposite charge.

“I- uh.” You stutter, unsure of your words for the first time since she walked in. The amount of saliva that has accumulated in your mouth at the sight in front of you forces you to swallow before you speak again.

“I think I’d rather have the bear poke me.” You breathe, sounding wrecked just at the thought.

When you finally drag your gaze back up to hers, her face is burning red, but this time you can tell it is much more out of embarrassment than anger. She looks self conscious in a way you’ve never seen and it’s so, so pretty. 

“It’s okay I c-” You start, reaching out uselessly in your confines, but you’re cut off from your attempt at a rare comforting word when Agnes seizes your right shoulder and lifts you to your feet. She then immediately folds you over and presses you against the table on your stomach, handcuffed hands pinned beneath your chest. You let out a grunt at the forceful action as well as the freezing cold metal that almost stings your skin that has warmed at your flirting.

The position is much like the one you were put in a few hours ago upon your arrest, only now it causes you to ache with desire instead of seeth with fury. 

“You think this is funny?!” She questions, but it sounds strained and unsure. Your own hesitance at her intentions keeps you from muttering out that it’s actually not funny, it’s really fucking hot.

It dawns on you then that she probably turned you over like this so you aren’t able to see the blush that’s probably still spreading over her skin, or the bulge in her pants that’s no doubt only getting worse, especially with how you purposefully arch your back in her grasp.

She has you pinned beneath her hands, one still on your shoulder and the other holding your waist, the perfect placement for her to pull you back against her. Instead, a shaky breath sounds from behind you. It seems like she’s deciding what to do next and you can almost feel the heat radiating from between her hips that begs her to choose the option you’re hoping for too.

You start pressing back yourself, impatient and using any amount of leverage possible to reach your destination. To help her decide.

“Come on, detective. Let me help you out.” You nearly whisper in the most convincing and sweet voice you can muster. Her hands loosen ever so slightly at the soft sound and you use the opportunity to slide the last inch backwards, your ass just barely brushing her front, aware also that if she had wanted to stop you she would’ve easily been able to.

You feel the hardness and heat of her cock against you through both your clothing and nearly release a whimper at the sensation, at the idea of her finally being inside you like you’ve fantasized about so many times. 

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Her hands release you entirely and she steps away without a word, leaving you feeling even colder than the steel table you’re slumped against. You drop your head to the metal in defeat. That’s it, you think. Your efforts haven't worked and you’re not only going to spend the night in a cell, but you’re going to do so while very uncomfortably wet and wound up. Plus, she’s probably going to try to add attempted bribery or harassment to your charge sheet. God, this was a dumb idea. Why couldn’t you have just gotten some old guy detective whose questions you would have dodged coldly and without a second thought?

All these thoughts flash through your head in the few seconds it takes Agnes to step away from the table and turn you by the hips to face her, the chain keeping you there being just long enough to allow such movement. 

You look down immediately, as if out of instinct, to find the large bulge still present, possibly even more so somehow. A bolt of desire strikes through your core at the small dark spot you notice has formed on the crotch of the already dark jeans. The evidence of your effect threatens to turn your legs to jelly. Finally, your eyes raise to meet Agnes’ with a curiosity, who stands less than a foot from you, hands still holding your hips loosely. The thrill of not knowing what she’ll do next makes your already racing heart beat even faster.

You find that she looks as weak as you feel, drinking you in like you’re an ice cold glass of water she’s found in the middle of the sahara. It’s clear that she’s used up every last thread of restraint she has to resist your offer, and it still has proven to be insufficient. Her blue irises have nearly been swallowed by blown black pupils that bore into you as she speaks her resignation to her rapturous fate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you,” she breathes the words out like she’s just run a marathon, “it’s gonna be while looking at those pretty tits.”

You lean back into the table in favor of collapsing straight to the floor at those words. How is this actually happening?

Seeing you stumble into the table, her right hand shifts down to your thigh and lifts, helping you to sit on the ledge as she steps closer to let your knees bracket her body. She looks so much more confident in this moment, and not in the same stone-faced way she had while you prodded at her before. It brings a soft smile to your lips and she looks away, somewhat coyly, at your noticing. It’s hard to decide if you prefer her shy or assertive.  

Blunt nails graze gently over your covered thighs, to your hips, then your waist, before finally settling over your scarcely contained breasts. Your own sharp intake of breath meets your ears as you lean into the warm touch and she squeezes them with a smirk playing on her lips.

  “I might not remember your face…” she rasps, leaning to speak directly into your right ear, “but I definitely remember these.” Both thumbs move to brush over your already pebbled nipples, causing them to harden further. You roll your eyes, both at the comment and at the thread of pleasure that tugs right from where she touches you all the way down to your pulsing clit.

For all the humor in it, you can’t help but notice just how sincere her comment sounds and flashes run through your mind of every low cut top you’ve ever worn to work, wondering which one’s are her favorite.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You exhale with a chuckle against her cheek, momentarily forgetting your binds and trying to reach around her shoulders to pull her closer. The chain rattles loudly and you jerk with the reminder of your limited movement.

Agnes shakes her head and laughs at your needy but firm command as well as your inability to move.

“Here, let me.” She continues laughing gently as she reaches for the key ring you somehow hadn’t yet noticed swinging from her hip. 

“No.” You blurt before you can think better of it. 

“Leave them.” 

It’s a daring statement and you run your tongue across your teeth mischievously while the implication works its way through the woman’s mind. Her lower lip disappears into her mouth with how hard she bites into it, looking at you in disbelief and utter need. 

“Fuck,” is all she says, dropping the keys back to her side and moving instead to undo her belt with a clumsy haste. 

You would be scrambling to remove your own pants as well, not wanting to waste anymore time, but your own request has left you unable to do so. Instead, you’re left in awe as the black leather belt is unlatched and left hanging loosely open while Agnes works at her zipper. Even less is left to the imagination when denim is pulled aside to reveal cotton boxer briefs protruding with the tension of her arousal.

Her cock is pressing tautly against the soft, grey material and the way the underwear clings to her body causes you to gape at the implication of how much the secure garment is still concealing. 

The dark spot you’d noticed on her jeans is even darker and more centralized to its origin on the grey cloth. Saliva fills your mouth again at the sight, the only thing better than seeing her from beneath that last layer of clothing will be when it is finally removed.

As if reading your mind and wanting you to suffer a moment long, she pauses her motions of undressing any further. Before you can argue or make a snide remark, her hands are on your own waistband, tugging the paint-covered article down as much as she can while you’re still seated. You can’t very well lift yourself with your hands at the moment, so you slip off the table quickly to help get them the rest of the way down, hopping back up just as swiftly and letting her pull them off your legs, shoes falling to the floor one by one in the process. 

The cold table under your mostly bare ass draws the breath from you momentarily, only a black pair of boyshorts now protecting you from the metal.

“Do you ever wash these?” Agnes asks down at the rainbow vomit littering your clothing before dropping the pants to the floor, a real dry humor in her voice replacing the stern, mocking one from when she first entered the room.

“What’s the point?” You ask, because seriously, why would you wash them if you’re just going to get paint all over them again?

“Do you answer every question with a question?” She fires back, moving back between your knees from where she’d stepped back to help undress you. Her fingers play again at her own waistband, dipping into them slightly before meeting your eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Do you always stall like this when a girl wants you to fill her pussy?” You ask with an exaggerated expression of curiosity, as if you are genuinely awaiting the answer and not just communicating your impatience. 

Her cheeks pink again at the response, any clever comebacks quickly forgotten. You remove your gaze from her face and shift it back to her arousal to allow her to blush in private.

In your peripheral vision, you see her eyes flick up to watch your face as she dips her left hand into her underwear and grasps herself so gently, right hand pushing the material down to reveal what you’ve been waiting for.

You’re first met with a mess of dark curls that trail all the way up to her belly button, which you only catch a quick glimpse of with the way her shirt momentarily gets caught by her arm. You stifle a moan at the reveal of her thick cock; rock hard, reddened and still beading pre-cum, as you saw evidenced on the front of her jeans and underwear.

Now you slightly regret having her leave the cuffs on, as you long to reach out and take the length in your hands, or better yet, your mouth. Heat takes your face at the idea of getting on your knees before the detective and gagging on her length, and now you’re the one blushing and biting your lip.

Painfully tearing your eyes from the beautiful sight to catch Agnes’ expression, you find her still looking for your reaction. She finds exactly what she’s looking for in the way your eyes soften and you use one finger, your hands still bound at the wrists and settled in front of your chest, to beckon her forward.

Loose strands of brown hair that have escaped her messily tied back tendrils brush the side of your face as she leans in close to catch your message.

“I need your cock inside me, detective.” You husk, more than speak, into her ear, the lust dripping from the title she insisted on minutes ago causing a physical and auditory shudder through the woman. Looking back down, you see Agnes stroke herself once, as if your words have rendered her unable to resist.

Maybe she notices that you’re about to make a comment about it, because in one swift motion Agnes’ right hand flies up to your left shoulder, shifting you fully to your back on the table. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement, metal tabletop clattering at the impact and drowning out the sound. Just as quickly as you’ve adjusted to your new position, you’re being pulled by the thighs to the very edge of the table and towards exactly what you want, Agnes then guiding you to wrap your spread legs around her hips for support.

“You need this, huh?” She asks, hungrily looking over your body from her new perspective. You’re about to answer her question with your own when she slowly and teasingly drags the head of her cock from your clit to your entrance, over your underwear. Her timing is getting a little too convenient.

You groan at the feeling of your own wetness being pressed against you by her hardness. It makes you ache knowing it’s so close to being consumed by your heat, only a thin shield of fabric left between you. If you had full range of motion of your hands, you would have already ripped the rest of your clothing off, but the quick and dirty way you’re both still mostly clothed almost turns you on more. 

Desperate to maintain the dizzying contact, your hips grind upward as your legs become a vice, pulling her ever closer. The clear enthusiasm only spurs her on, gliding back up and down again, circling your clit three times with her cock on the last pass until you're squirming beneath her and hopelessly trying to contain your whimpering. You would rather wait a lifetime for your orgasm than beg a cop.

You’re so sopping wet, though, that when you look down between your bodies you can see the way her cock shines with your arousal despite not having yet made full contact. It’s almost too much to bear, your clit throbbing in time with your pounding pulse. Something has to give or you’re soon going to be a blabbering mess. 

“Just fuck me, Agnes!” You bark out, hips rising insistently and your voice verging on a whine.

The room goes still for a moment, even the clock ticking away on the wall seems to pause for dramatic effect as she quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head dangerously at your outburst. That same feeling from before washes over you, when you thought you might’ve really fucked up, but it only lasts for half a second before a hand is shoving your ruined underwear to one side and you feel the tip of her resting at your entrance.

Your eyes meet her blue ones, which are actually still mostly black, especially in this light. They burn into you like before and you don’t know whether her silence is a good or bad thing. 

You draw in your own shaky breath, waiting for her next move, and on the exhale she sheathes herself to the hilt inside of you.

Even she can’t contain her half of the guttural growl that comes from both of you at the perfect feeling. You don’t even have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about just how fucking soaked you are that she was able to slide all the way in with one thrust, because the way her cock is filling you up so completely has rendered every other thought irrelevant.

A moment passes where you both breathe, adjusting to the stretch and squeeze respectively. You feel her throb once within you and think, at this point, with enough determination, you could come just from that small amount of friction.

You don’t need that determination, though. As if mocking that passing thought, Agnes skips any unnecessary build up and starts at a positively bruising pace. Just one moment ago she was panting over you, looking like she might not even make it two thrusts in before unraveling, and now she’s slamming into you with a literally breathtaking force.

No intelligible noises are able to come out of your throat at first, only broken, reedy gasps. Your eyes roll back in your head as the glorious, slapping sounds of your joining sexes fill your ears. Her length jabs over and over again at the perfect spot inside you, just where you need her. 

Doing your best to focus your vision, you look up to see the red face of a woman clearly holding on to her composure for dear life. Her finger nails are short, but still able to bite into your hips ever so slightly as she practically slides you up and down along the table while also moving against you herself, which deepens her thrusts even more.

This also seemingly provides quite the show for Agnes, who you observe is splitting her time between watching your face contorting with pleasure, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy, and most of all, the way your tits are bouncing considerably with her every movement.

“You like these? You should fuck them.” You make out between gasping breaths, nodding down at your own chest.

Agnes takes a moment to respond, her laser focus causing her to not even register your words at first. When she does however, and notices your gesturing, her thrusting falters only for a moment, as if the idea alone has made her nearly swoon with desire. Crystal irises scan you over again and you can tell she’s thinking about it by the way her eyebrows knit together in a desperate sort of way.

“Maybe next time.” She decides, smirking down at you and ramming herself into you particularly hard once before returning to her rhythm, while her left hand comes up to grip your right breast greedily.

“Mmn- next time?” You ask around a moan, trying not to sound too hopeful, but it’s also such an unexpected sentiment from the detective you can’t help but question her further.

“I’d bet good money this won’t be your last arrest,” is all she says to satisfy your curiosity. While it’s also a subtle dig at your evading skills, your imagination still runs wild with the unspoken promise of how a future slip-up might turn out for you. It almost makes you want to get caught again.

“Right, because you’d love to f-fuck, fuck! Oh my god!” Your response turns into a moaning curse when her hand shoots down from playing with your tits so her thumb can land firmly on your clit and press down with flawless pressure, never letting up consistently filling you in the process. 

“Oh fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..” The mantra spills from your lips while your orgasm mounts within you and you know you’ll be toppling over the edge any minute now.

If your hands were free you would be locking your fingers behind her neck and pulling her even closer to you to ensure you get what you want, but the burn of the metal chafing your wrists is a delicious alternative. The pain only sharpens the pleasure you’re feeling everywhere else and you throb at the idea of waking up tomorrow and seeing angry red and purple bracelets of evidence.

At your emphatic request, she doesn’t stop. You’ve never been so full before and when Agnes’ cock throbs within you after every couple of pumps, stars explode behind your eyes. There’d better be a next time because you’re pretty sure nothing and nobody has or will ever make you feel like this.

“I’m so, so close. Fuck!” You shout, unsure what possesses you to tell her, but her response only drives you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, yeah, fucking come for me. Come on my cock, come on my c-cock…” She huffs, the exertion that you were already impressed with her maintaining finally shows in her voice, but she still never lets up. It almost sounds like she’s begging, a “please” barely contained behind her lips, and that’s what makes you really want to come for her.

Chasing your orgasm, you redouble your efforts of rocking your hips up and it makes her length press even more fully against your front wall until you’re practically screaming with pleasure. The new angle caused by your rocking coupled with the way your walls are tightening around her in anticipation of your release is also clearly doing something for Agnes.

Her breaths are coming in short puffs and she is completely unable to stifle the loud whimper that bursts out of her when you clench around her even harder, your orgasm just seconds away.

That’s what finally does it, that mewl that you were able to pull from the tough detective. It sends you flying, every muscle tenses and wave after wave of pleasure causes you to buck against the table and Agnes, but she holds you firmly in place, fucking you through it and moaning herself the whole time as she marvels at your release. The aftershocks go on for what feels like forever while you float in your euphoria, never wanting it to end.

After your release, Agnes’ thrusts quickly become short and frantic, almost rutting into you with a fervor. The throbs you’ve felt are coming on every pump and you’re content to lie back in your blissed out state and let her take whatever she wants, until she starts to pull out of you, one trembling hand releasing your hip and clearly intent on finishing herself off. 

You’re suddenly more lucid than ever, quickly locking your ankles behind her from where they’d fallen limp, and shoving her back into you until she bottoms out. A surprised breath leaves her at the action, a sheen of sweat breaking across her forehead as she stutters out her reasoning.

“I-I’m gonna-” She can’t even get the words out and it’s the second time in so many minutes that you feel your heart squeeze at just how adorable this usually grave woman is. 

“I know, I know. Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is thick with desire and you’re still lingering bliss, the pet name slipping out like water, but you need her to know just how badly you want it.

Her eyes widen slightly as a deeper blush somehow takes over her already red face, unsure but so very full of want. You feel her twitch within you despite herself and her hips roll just at the words. 

You don’t break eye contact, making clear how serious you are to quell her doubt.

Tentatively, after a beat, she starts up a slower pace, pulling almost out of you before thrusting all the way back in, like she’s giving herself time to think again.

“You can do it baby, I know you want to. Fuck, you feel so good inside me.” You gasp out the words while she fucks back into your pussy and you think you could come again just from the way she looks at you when you say them.

You repeat your cooing encouragements and it doesn’t even take three more of those slow thrusts before she falters and stays sheathed inside you, rutting weakly. 

“Come on, baby.” You repeat, and you know she’s done.

More of those beautiful whimpers fall from her lips as you feel one stronger throb and then warmth explodes into your walls. You can’t help but moan yourself at the feeling of being filled by her. Spurt after spurt of her cum coats your insides while she holds you tighter and tighter, as if you’ll float away if she lets go. Her desperate moans die down eventually and she slumps against you, still inside, and draws in one big breath before releasing it slowly. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is now resting against your restrained hands on your chest. 

It’s probably good they're restrained, you think, because if they weren’t you’d be having a very hard time resisting running your fingers through her long hair, tenderly scratching your nails against the nape of her neck.

Another beat passes where the two of you breath against one another and come down from your respective highs. The delicious mix of your and Agnes’ cum has started to drip out of you onto the table below and it’s a hot enough thought that your sensitive clit gives a weak twitch and you clench around Agnes unintentionally, causing her to crane her neck to look up at you.

Her eyes are clear again and softer than you’ve ever seen them; you let your coursing endorphins carry you away on a cloud of imagining leaning the six inches it would take to capture her lips in yours, but you don’t dare actually do it.

She starts to shift, maybe shaking herself from some similar thought, you can’t tell. Her soft sex pulls out of you slowly as she pushes up on her hands and waits for you to release her from the grip your legs still have her in. You unsteadily unravel yourself from her, shuddering slightly at the loss and trying not to think about how empty you feel without her.

Now free, she tucks herself back into her briefs and makes quick work of finally undoing your cuffs. Her hands rub at the raw skin absently, using her hold there to pull you into a seated position. She then reaches down for the balled-up mess you call a pair of pants and slides them back onto your trembling legs easily. After you’re relatively put back together, cum still leaking out and coating your already ruined underwear, she looks you over once more with hunger along with something else you can’t place. 

She looks thoughtful, like she wants to say something else but thinks better of it, instead letting a sly smile pull at her mouth and a different comment sneak through with a soft laugh.

“Consider that your warning.”

[sim0nril3y]

Call from the Captain

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: Captain Price has to tick some boxes and make a call to the next-of-kin Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), very soft, canon-typical swearing.

It had been a good couple weeks since Simon had been deployed. There was no denying that it was difficult to be away from him, but mixed with no contact it was miserable. There was only one thing for you to do and that was bury yourself in your art, fill the time with doing something creative as Simon would be entirely unimpressed if he’d found out you were simply moping around.

It was so difficult not to have your mind be occupied by him, worrying for his safety, worrying about his whereabouts, worrying that there were people out there that were actually shooting at your husband, aiming to kill. It made you sick to your stomach; it made you want to crawl under your duvet and not emerge until he’d returned safely… but for his sake you pushed on.

 At the sound of your buzzing phone, you rapidly dunked your paintbrush into a jar of water and then reached over to snatch your phone from the table besides all your paints – the very same table that Simon had attempted to label and line up in colour order and much to his disappointment that hard work seemed to last for half a day before the labels were covered in paint and they were moved out of their places.

“Hello?” You asked then before sneering at the mess. “Oh bollocks – one second…” You requested your face away from the device as you used a nearby cloth to dab it down of the excess colours, then placing it on speaker before talking again. “I’m sorry about that. Are you still there?” You quizzed to the unknown person on the line.

It was then that your full name was asked back towards you, a rough yet authoritative voice. “Is that you?” He’d asked, wanting to confirm you were the correct person. “Oh, yeah. That’s me.” You answered easily, feeling anxiety building up inside of you, bubbling and mixing in your stomach as your brows etched together. “Who am I speaking to?” She’d asked.

“My name is Captain John Price and I’m the superior officer of Lieutenant Simon Riley?” Oh well, that made that bubble of anxiety burst as utter dread filled you. Why were you getting called by his Captain? What was this all about? “Is he okay?” The question slipped out before you could manage to alter the panic in your tone. “Simon is fine.” He answered with an ease then, his tone was soothing and utterly apologetic as he said. “I’m sorry for worrying you…” He understood how these calls to families could bring along a great deal of panic with them. “I’m actually calling as more of an administrative task. Simon filled out some paperwork and requested that we contact you as a next-of-kin if anything should happen regarding…” The words were caught in his throat. “Him.” You could understand entirely and it made your eyes water the thought of him not making it home. “I’ll just need your verbal confirmation that you are aware of this and that you agree to it.”

You voice was barely a whisper in return. “I wasn’t aware…” This made John chuckle in response. “Now, doesn’t that sound like a very Simon thing to do…” Then he let out a small joking tut which made you laugh wetly before replying. “I wasn’t aware, but I agree to it. Completely. I want to know… I need to know everything that is going on with Simon. Everything that I’m allowed to know anyway.” You spoke clearly with intent. “Will that be okay? Is that what you need?” “It’s fine, love.” John replied and you could hear the soft scratching of a pen jotting down some details.

There was a long beat before you finally built up the courage to finally ask. “Is he okay?” And without hesitation John answered. “He’s doing fine. I got report from him this morning.” He explained but that was the extent of the details he was allowed to give. “Simon may not have mentioned this, but there was support groups for partners in the services.” He explained. “To help you through this transition or with support for anything, or if you ever need anyone to speak with.”

“Thanks.” You answered with a little bob of your head, these were a lot of emotions to deal with alone. A moment later you blurted out clumsily. “Oh, and I’m really sorry for saying bollocks earlier.” Then you cringed in embarrassment as you made the realisation. “And for saying it again just then…” You grumbled out covering your face in horror. “Don’t worry about it, love.” John laughed, a true genuine moment. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.” He informed her. “Thanks for calling.”

Masterlist | Ask | 19-01-2025

[aconstantstateofbladerunner]

Fanfic Thieves on Youtube

A collection of youtube channels have been uploading preexisting fanfictions in videos with little to no credit to the original authors. These are not podfics, these channels copy-paste the fics into text-to-speech readers then upload the unaltered audio over static or unrelated backgrounds, either art that is also stolen or mobile game footage. In addition to not naming the authors, they alter the title to make it that much harder for readers to recognize or find the original uploads. Some go so far as to pretend they themselves are creating the fics in question. Many claim that their stealing actually helps give fics "exposure" despite the intentional steps they take to conceal the origins of the fics they profit off of. However, this practice has lead many authors to discontinue fics after the frustration of having their hard work stolen. Many of these channels claim they will remove videos upon request, but will either argue with the author in order to keep it up, or simply unlist the video for a time until they think the author isn't paying attention anymore. And their solution to receiving strikes against their channels in the past has been to further obfuscate the origins of their content instead of even considering asking first.

”I got caught stealing, so instead of not stealing anymore, I’m doubling down on stealing even more so it’s harder for people to find out and prove I’m stealing. Stealing doesn't count if the specific person I stole from didn't call me out. I am the real victim.”

That, plus the incessant tag scumming in all the videos (spamming unrelated tags in order to appear in more search results) proves to me that these are lazy attention seekers who don't want to put in creative effort when they could just leech off of the passion of others.

In order to report them, go to their channel's "About" page and click the flag icon. Said icon might be behind the three dots in the top bar on mobile. Go to "Report User" at the bottom and tick the "spam and scams" button. This will allow you to list multiple videos as offenders instead of reporting them individually. Youtube's policy states that video spam constitutes:

Massively uploading content that you scraped from other creators.

Auto-generated content that computers post without regard for quality or viewer experience.

If you recognize one of your fics among the stolen, say so in the additional comments box, and perhaps call out the channel directly in the video's comments. If you recognize someone else's fic, please let the original author know so they can report the channel as well. Many have been confronted for stealing previously and refuse to admit wrongdoing.

Most of what I've found has been My Hero Academia fics since that's my fandom and those are the ones I can recognize as stolen, but there are many other channels that steal from other fandoms, so I invite anyone and everyone to reblog this with their own findings.

The reality is that this extremely low-effort content and new youtube channels are both very easy to make, so most likely they'll start new channels once the ones on this list are run through. But hopefully, if we all work together and keep whacking these moles, perhaps we can instill that same defeatism they caused so many creators who didn't deserve it, and eventually they'll give up.

My sincerest thanks to everyone who helped bring additional channels to my attention. A special thanks to ao3 user InArduisFidelis who brought the initial attention to the issue, and @owlf45 whose work was stolen.

Links under the cut.

YurikoFanfics - Not only stole content, but acted in comments as though they were the one writing these stories.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@YurikoFanfics

What-IF-Anime - Has the exact same "disclaimer" about not being the original author as the one above. Either they're the same person or the thieves are stealing from each other.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@What-IF-Anime

quirkywhatif7 - Either an alt of the above, or all these people are talking to one another because this one made a community post identical to a comment the one above made in response to being called out (the above screenshots).

https://www.youtube.com/@quirkywhatif7/about

DekuFanfic - It's the same fucking guy again.

https://www.youtube.com/@DekuFanfic/about

InfiniteParadoxfanfics - Nothing notable, same deal as the others.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@InfiniteParadoxfanfics/about

WhatIfAnimeChannel - Admits in their community posts that other people write the fics they post but still doesn't give credit. Migrated to a new channel after issues with youtube, likely being flagged previously.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@WhatIfAnimeChannel/about

WhatIfAnimeAll - Alt of above.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@WhatIfAnimeAll

FWNWorld - Makes sure to tell you that the videogame footage is theirs, but can't bother to credit anyone else.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@FWNWorld/about

WTFW - Claims to have "[A] team of talented writers, voice actors, and artists work together to create immersive fan fiction stories that are sure to captivate your imagination." Just the same test-to-speech stolen content over videogames. So straight up lying claiming that everything is theirs (and that anything they make is quality).

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@WTFW

MHA2.0Fanfics - Lots of crossover theft.

https://www.youtube.com/@MHA2.0Fanfics/about

Collerwhatiif - Pretty sure this one is the same guy as the previous 2, also has one for another fandom.

https://www.youtube.com/@Collerwhatiif/about

https://www.youtube.com/@GoJoFanfiction/videos

ko_sensei - Another that claims to have a "team" that makes the stories they steal: " passionate about creating compelling and engaging fanfiction that explores the various "what ifs" in the anime universe."

https://www.youtube.com/@ko_sensei/about

FantasticWhatIf - Multifandom stealing, uses the exact same bs disclaimer as many others.

https://www.youtube.com/@FantasticWhatIf/about

LettuceHeadFanfics - No credit, no acknowledgement of anything. Next one is an alt.

https://www.youtube.com/@LettuceHeadFanfics/about

brocollifanfics - Alt of above, once again admits to stealing with a declaration of "☆If you want to takedown any videos. You can mail us or leave a comment below the video☆"

https://www.youtube.com/@brocollifanfics/about

whatifofficial786 - Focuses on MHA/Naruto crossovers. Identical format.

https://www.youtube.com/@whatifofficial786/about

NotWhatIf - I've lost track of who's an alt of who but yet another identical format, descriptions, and bullshit claims of "enhancing the viewer experience" by putting a robot voice over bootleg fortnite footage.

https://www.youtube.com/@NotWhatIf/about

weebxds - Same again.

https://www.youtube.com/@weebxds/about

ItachiFanfics - Naruto channel, we can at least confirm that this one is run by a human given the rare different descriptions and a real voice at the beginning of videos before the robot comes back.

https://www.youtube.com/@ItachiFanfics/about

WhatIfDN - As if mockingly, a bunch of videos have a "credit" section in their descriptions that is of course blank.

https://www.youtube.com/@WhatIfDN/about

SpiceandBooks and spiceandfiction - Apparently Youtube itself has started picking up on the bullshit, because this multifandom channel is being dinged as ai spam so they started a new one.

https://www.youtube.com/@SpiceandBooks/about

https://www.youtube.com/@spiceandfiction/about

theoriginalastra - Doesn't even bother with disclaimers, the following are multiple alts/potential alts for different fandoms.

https://www.youtube.com/@theoriginalastra/about

SillySenpai12 - Highschool DXD alt.

https://www.youtube.com/@SillySenpai12/about

RosieRealms - Naruto alt.

https://www.youtube.com/@RosieRealms/about

DekuWhatIfs - Potentially another astra alt but not sure, doesn't matter because all these channels do the same thing anyway.

AnimeStark688 - No credits or disclaimers.

https://www.youtube.com/@AnimeStark688/about

Please take the time to report these channels, spread this post around, and reblog with any additional offending channels you find.

[smutmind]

Are you taking requests for the "How She Pays" series? Because I think that Twice´s Chaeyeong would be a great fit

Something like paying for an expensive modern art piece with sex because it way more expensive than what she thought it would be and she´s not carrying enough money, or something like that connects with her artsy style

Appraised and Claimed

Twice Chaeyoung X Male OC The pawnshop smelled of tobacco wood and forgotten time.

Chaeyoung stepped inside like she owned it, boots clicking over mosaic tiles, black hair spilling down her back like ink. The air clung to her skin—thick with heat and history. Every shelf brimmed with character: brass compasses, pocket watches, velvet boxes hiding tarnished secrets. This place wasn’t just old; it had teeth.

She moved like music, hips rocking with subtle intent. The denim on her thighs clung desperately, paint-streaked and threadbare. Tattoos licked out from under her crop top, curling up her ribs, over collarbones, blooming into a garden of rebellion.

"You sell stories, or just the leftovers?" Her voice came out dusky, flirtatious.

Terrance looked up from behind a mahogany counter. Broad-shouldered, skin deep cocoa, a salt-and-pepper beard that framed lips like a carved secret. He wore a simple black tee, sleeves rolled tight against biceps. Late 30s, maybe 40, with eyes that'd seen too much but judged nothing.

"Depends what kind of story you're chasing."

She lifted a rusted music box from a shelf. Delicate engravings. Tiny ballerina, faded pink.

"This one," she said. "It’s mine now."

Terrance shook his head slowly. "That piece isn’t for sale."

Her brow lifted. "Everything has a price."

"Not this."

Her smile faltered for a blink. "Seriously? Do you know who I am?"

"I know what you think that means."

"It means I can pay ten times what it's worth. Hell, I could buy this whole shop."

He nodded slowly. "And still not enough."

The air went taut. She stepped in close, her chin tilting up, challenge sharp in her gaze. "You must really like old junk."

"It's not junk," he snapped, voice like gravel. "It was my sister's. She played it every night until cancer stole her voice. It's the last sound I have of her."

Her mouth parted, expression softening. "That... okay. That's something."

He turned back to his ledger, the dismissal clear.

Chaeyoung didn't move. Then: "What if I gave you a memory worth more than the past? Something unforgettable."

"Flirting won’t work."

"Who said anything about flirting?" Her smile turned wicked. "I’m offering you a trade. Body for a box."

He exhaled, slow. "You're really not used to hearing 'no,' are you?"

She stepped even closer, so near their breath mingled. "You’re kind of turning me on with it."

He hesitated. Her bravado was fraying now—a hint of fire licking at her ego. Her eyes searched his face. "You don’t want me?"

"Wanting’s not the problem. It's what happens after."

"Then stop thinking. Just want."

The clock behind them ticked. Her knee brushed his arm. Electricity.

"Lock the door," she whispered.

He moved.

Click.

The sign flipped. CLOSED.

Her smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "Good boy."

She slid from the counter and circled him, fingers trailing down his spine.

"So what happens now, Mr. Sentimental?"

He crossed the floor slowly, each step grounding. Controlled. Watching her. "Now? Now you try to make yourself unforgettable."

She kicked off her boots, one foot bare on polished wood, the other on hand-woven Persian. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her crop top. "You think I'm bluffing?"

"I think you're dangerous."

"Good. Because I bite."

He pulled her close, his grip bruising. She gasped, her fingers curling into his shirt.

"Then show me."

She dropped to her knees, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. Hands moved with purpose, unfastening his jeans. Her lips parted.

"You going to remember this?"

"Every goddamn second."

She wrapped her fingers around him, breath catching. "You're huge."

"You can back out."

She smirked. "I don’t run."

Her mouth closed over him, tongue working, slow and wet. She took him deeper, inch by inch, until he groaned and his hand tangled in her hair.

"Fuck, Chaeyoung. Just like that."

She moaned around him, the vibration sending him spiraling. She gagged, adjusted, then went back down. He hissed, voice rough.

"Goddamn, you're going to make me come just like this."

She pulled back, eyes shining. "Not yet. I want all of you when you do."

He lifted her effortlessly, laid her back across the velvet-lined display case. Her legs parted, eager. He slid fingers down, teasing her through soaked lace.

"You're dripping."

"For you. Only you."

He slid inside in one thrust. She cried out, head thrown back.

"Jesus, you're thick. Stretching me so full."

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he thrust harder, driving her hips into the rattling counter, palms flat on the glass behind her for balance. Her breath hitched, a sharp gasp turning into a moan as his rhythm found something ruthless.

“Shit—okay—” Her voice broke around the words, torn between pleasure and overwhelm. “You’re… really not playing tonight.”

“Not when you sound like that.” His voice was gravel, his grip bruising. “So fucking wet for me.”

She tried to reply but another slam into her soaked center stole the air from her lungs. Her head tipped back, throat exposed. The sound she made was raw, guttural.

Then it happened—an uncoiling heat deep in her gut, rushing outward. Her body tensed, spine arching as a sudden wave gushed free from her, soaking them both. Her eyes flew open, shocked.

“Oh my god—I—fuck, I haven’t—” she stammered, trembling. “I haven’t done that in years—”

He stared down, soaked and grinning. “Look at you. Fucking perfect.”

Her legs were still shaking, her voice caught between breath and need. “Don’t stop,” she managed. “Don’t—”

He bent over her, dragging a kiss along her collarbone, and thrust again. She choked on a sob of pleasure, then bucked under him, her entire body tightening. Her nails found his back, digging deep.

“I’m cumming—fuck, I’m cumming again—”

Her orgasm tore through her, thighs locking around his waist as her body pulsed around him. She rode it with abandon, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, lips trembling.

When she came back down, blinking through the haze, her voice was hoarse but clear. “Your turn,” she whispered. “Come for me. Use me.”

He hesitated, just a moment.

She reached up, tugged his hair. “Please. Don’t hold back. I want it.”

That was all it took. He pulled out, breath ragged, and she shifted upright, guiding him back between her thighs even as her body still twitched. She straddled him again, his length stretching her too wide.

“Still too big,” she gasped, bouncing. “But I don’t fucking care—”

He grabbed her ass, lifting her with both hands as she bounced on him, their bodies slick, obscene sounds echoing in the tiny shop. Her breath hitched with every impact, arms looped around his neck, mouth open in a grin that bordered on madness.

“Fuck, you’re strong,” she gasped, voice shaking. “You like throwing me around, don’t you?”

“You like making a mess all over my dick,” he shot back, hoisting her higher before slamming her down again. “God, you’re tight even soaked.”

“Mmhm,” she moaned, biting her lip. “I’d rather sock this cock than take home that stupid antique anyway.”

He snorted, lips brushing her ear. “Is that so?”

“Dead serious,” she breathed. “That box? Might’ve been priceless before—but now it smells like sex and desperation.”

Laughing, he spun them and set her down on the glass counter with a clatter of trinkets. “Then let’s finish ruining it.”

She leaned back, breasts rising and falling, legs spread lazily. “What are you waiting for, Mr. Sentimental?” she teased. “Come on me. Mark your territory.”

He stared, jaw clenched, chest heaving. One hand worked his length, slick and furious, the other resting on her thigh. Her eyes locked on his, challenging.

“You wanna see what you do to me?” he growled.

“Every last drop,” she whispered.

And he gave it to her—hot spurts painting her collarbone, her chest, even her chin. She didn’t flinch. Just watched him, lips parted, loving every second.

When it slowed, she dragged her fingers through the mess across her stomach, then licked one clean. “Guess I am the treasure in this shop.”

He chuckled, breathless, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. “No fucking doubt.”

She grinned up at him, smug and glowing. “Think anyone’ll still want that box after this?”

“Only if they’re into scented antiques,” he said, brushing her hair back.

She laughed, breath still uneven, then reached for her bag. “Here,” she said, scribbling something onto a receipt with a swipe of her lipstick. “My number. In case you feel like appraising something else next time.”

He reached out to take it, still dazed, chest heaving.

But instead of heading for the door, she slid down to her knees in front of him, her smile slow and wicked.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Her fingers wrapped around him again, guiding him to her lips. “Saying goodbye like a proper girl should,” she murmured. “Don’t get sentimental on me now.”

Then she took him into her mouth—soft, wet, reverent. He groaned, hips twitching as she sucked him slow and deep, tongue circling, moaning softly like she missed the taste already.

“Damn…” he breathed, hand tangling in her hair. “You’re fucking unreal.”

She didn’t stop until he pulsed again, just enough for her to hum approval and swallow, licking him clean with practiced ease. When she stood, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking.

“Told you I’d rather suck cock than take home that box.”

He could only nod, spent and stunned, watching her walk to the door.

The bell jingled as she slipped out into the night, hips swaying, leaving behind a ruined counter, a destroyed antique—and him, cock twitching, still aching, her number in his hand like a promise.

-----

added a little spin to your idea.

[bamfkeeper]

Missions Suck.

RQ: 'Since you’re open to requests, I have some ideas that you’ll hopefully enjoy writing, this being the first. The idea is that Kurt is gone on a mission, of which is taking longer than expected, and as such the bamfs and yourself miss him a lot and are anxious without him. So, you and the bamfs organize a little surprise for Kurt when he returns, and of course, a lot of mischievous bamf antics too, along with a tidal wave of them crashing down in Kurt when he returns lol. Just fluffy bamf stuff, along with some romantic kisses and such to Kurt since the reader missed him. Also, take your time with writing anything; burnout is awful so take all the time you need with whatever you write 💙' - @hulkingharbor

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x GN!reader

Warnings: None <3 .. WC: 3.1k

A/N: I tried to write more detail than my usual works, so I hope that shows ;; I love any scenario with the bamfs, I was really happy to write this one <3

It had been several days since Kurt and the team embarked on a significant mission, leaving you behind at the mansion with the mischievous bamfs. The waiting seemed interminable, each hour stretching into eternity as you anxiously anticipated their return. Initially, you had anticipated a lengthy mission, given that their destination was clear across the country. However, you had reasoned that the team's advanced jet would facilitate a relatively swift journey. Despite this logical assumption, their absence extended far beyond your expectations, each passing day amplifying your concern and restlessness.

As time wore on, you couldn't help but notice a parallel between your own growing unease and the increasingly erratic behavior of the bamfs. These impish creatures, usually a source of playful chaos, seemed to be mirroring your mounting anxiety. With each day that ticked by without word from Kurt and the team, the bamfs' antics escalated in both frequency and audacity. Their usual pranks and mischief-making took on a new intensity, as if they too were feeling the strain of the prolonged separation from their teleporting brethren.

You found yourself constantly torn between amusement at the bamfs' increasingly elaborate hijinks and genuine worry about the state of disarray they were leaving the mansion in. It was clear that their escalating troublemaking was a direct result of their own anxiety and boredom in Kurt's absence. As you attempted to maintain order and keep the bamfs in check, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something must have gone awry with the mission to cause such an extended delay.

Those mischievous little blue creatures hadn't intended to create additional work for you, but their overwhelming anxieties were proving difficult to manage. Their deep attachment to Kurt had left them feeling lost and restless, causing their typically playful behavior to escalate into something more chaotic. Even for someone as patient and understanding as you, their antics were beginning to push the boundaries of what you could handle.

Bamfs, by their very nature, were creatures of boundless energy and enthusiasm. Their penchant for play and their constant scampering about were endearing traits, but they also came with considerable drawbacks. Wherever the blue imps went, a trail of disarray and mess inevitably followed in their wake. You had gone to great lengths to alleviate their stress and channel their energies in more constructive ways.

Your efforts were nurturing, as that was all you could think to do - you'd introduced a wide array of activities designed to engage their curious minds and active bodies. From art projects that allowed them to express their creativity through painting, to an assortment of toys meant to captivate their attention, and even challenging puzzles to stimulate their intellect. However, the bamfs' short attention spans and seemingly insatiable need for novelty meant that these diversions were often short-lived.

They would either master the tasks too quickly, their natural aptitude for mischief allowing them to breeze through what you had hoped would occupy them for hours, or they would simply lose interest, their restless spirits already seeking the next source of excitement.

Kurt's continued absence was palpable, and its effects were evident in the demeanor of the bamfs. These small creatures were not only still visibly anxious but also profoundly sad. Their usually vibrant yellow eyes had taken on a somber appearance, wide and glossy with unshed tears. The depth of their distress was such that some of them appeared too melancholy even to find solace in sleep. As you gently guided them towards their resting places, their movements were slow and labored, a stark contrast to their usual energetic behavior. Their tails, typically held high and swaying with life, now dragged listlessly behind them, creating a poignant visual representation of their emotional state. Observing their profound sadness, you felt a deep ache in your heart. The sight of these usually cheerful creatures so utterly dejected hurt your heart terribly.

"It's going to be okay... I know you miss him terribly. He'll be back soon, I promise you that. Kurt wouldn't leave you little rascals behind for long," you hummed softly, your voice gentle and soothing as you tried to comfort them. You spoke in a calm, reassuring tone, hoping your words would help ease their distress. Deep down, you knew that mere words couldn't fully alleviate their sadness, and you could see the lingering sorrow etched on their faces. It was clear that your attempts at consolation weren't having the desired effect.

A wave of empathy washed over you as you witnessed their dejected state. Your heart ached seeing them so forlorn and melancholy. Unable to stand their sadness any longer, you reached out and gently petted one of them, your touch conveying the comfort that words couldn't. "It's alright, little ones... I know, I know. It's sad when Kurt goes away, isn't it? I understand how much you want to be with him right now. But you have to remember, they said the mission was far too dangerous for you to join. Kurt cares about your safety above all else."

As anticipated, the bamfs reacted unfavorably to the news. These diminutive creatures had a well-known tendency to respond negatively when faced with any form of denial or refusal. Their sensitivity to disappointment was particularly evident in this instance. Consequently, you experienced a pang of guilt when you observed some of them beginning to weep, clearly longing for Kurt's presence. The sound of their tiny, mournful cries intensified your feelings of remorse, prompting you to take immediate action to console them. "There, there... it's alright... everything will be okay," you murmured in a soothing tone, your voice barely above a whisper. You delicately stroked their small heads with a tender touch, your fingers moving in slow, comforting circles. While comforting them, you carefully tucked them into the soft, warm blankets, ensuring they were snugly enveloped in the cozy fabric.

Finally, the bamfs had already settled in, their small forms nestled comfortably on the bed. With a heavy sigh, you lowered yourself onto the mattress beside them, feeling the soft give of the bedding beneath you. As you lay there, your eyes gradually drifted closed, and you felt yourself slowly slipping into slumber, surrounded by the comforting presence of the bamfs.

The absence of Kurt was hard on all of you, a void that seemed to hang in the air around you all. You couldn't help but dwell on the fact that this particular mission he was on carried more risk than usual, a thought that gnawed at the edges of your mind and left you feeling uneasy. So many thoughts ran across your mind, so many things that could go wrong. You tried to ignore them. Despite your own worries, you made a conscious effort to maintain a calm demeanor for the sake of the bamfs. You didn't want to burden them with the full extent of your concerns, so you carefully downplayed the situation, offering reassuring words and gentle smiles whenever they looked to you for comfort.

As you drifted off to sleep, your subconscious mind continued to process the day's events and your lingering anxieties. Your slumber was punctuated by brief moments of restlessness, your dreams tinged with vague unease. Despite these occasional disturbances, you managed to make it through the night.

The subsequent days were filled with the same worry. Despite your best efforts to maintain a calm demeanor for the sake of the bamfs, they possessed an innate ability to perceive your growing anxiety regarding Kurt's return. Those little things had keen intuition, which allowed them to sense your inner turmoil, even as you attempted to mask it. In Kurt's absence, the bamfs looked to you for guidance, support, and reassurance. Their bright yellow eyes, brimming with innocence and need, gazed upon you with an intensity that both touched and burdened your heart.

As the weight of responsibility settled heavily upon your shoulders, you found yourself giving a deep, weary sigh. Slowly, you sat up from the comfort of the couch, your movements betraying the emotional exhaustion you felt. Turning to face the expectant bamfs, you addressed them with a voice tinged with regret and frustration. "I'm sorry, little ones... I still haven't received any word from him," you muttered, your tone conveying the disappointment and concern that had become all too familiar in recent days.

Even as you spoke those words, a part of you knew, with a mixture of resignation and hope, that you likely wouldn't hear from Kurt until the moment he stepped through the door, returning home once again.

You were leisurely preparing a meal for yourself in the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate as you chopped vegetables and stirred pots on the stove. Your mind had drifted into a zoned out, almost meditative state, focused solely on the rhythmic motions of cooking to distract from the anxieties you had felt the past few days. Suddenly, the sharp vibration of your phone on the counter jolted you back to full awareness, breaking through your culinary reverie. With a slight start, you reached out and grasped the device, your fingers wrapping around its familiar shape. As you lifted it to eye level, the screen illuminated, revealing a notification that made your heart beat faster. Your eyes quickly scanned the message preview, and a small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you saw that it was from Kurt.

'On the way back, liebe...should be back by tonight. xo <3'

You couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief and joy wash over you. The news you had been impatiently waiting for had finally arrived – he was okay, and he would be returning home soon! Your heart swelled with excitement and anticipation. Unable to contain your enthusiasm, you found yourself instinctively beginning to tidy up the house, eager to create a welcoming atmosphere for his arrival.

As you bustled about, your gaze fell upon the bamfs, those adorable little creatures currently engrossed in whatever was playing on the television. A warm smile spread across your face as you decided to share the wonderful news with them. "Kurt's coming home tonight," you announced, your voice brimming with happiness and barely contained excitement. You paused for a moment, an idea forming in your mind. "So... why don't we work together to make this place a bit neater to welcome him? I'm sure he'd appreciate coming back to a tidy home, don't you think?"

The bamfs, upon hearing the news of Kurt's imminent return, all simultaneously broke into the biggest, most infectious grins you had ever seen. Their eyes lit up with excitement, and without a moment's hesitation, they leapt to their feet, their previous TV-induced stupor completely forgotten. It was clear that they were not only ready but eager to help, their enthusiasm matching your own. The prospect of preparing a warm welcome for Kurt had energized them.

They were all pitching in, diligently sweeping floors, wiping surfaces, and tidying up various corners of the house. To an outsider, the home might have appeared to be in a state of disarray, but you understood that there was a method to the apparent madness. The organized chaos was actually a well-oiled system in motion, each participant playing their part in the grand scheme of cleaning.

As a thoughtful gesture, you decided to bake a special German treat for Kurt to enjoy upon his return, one of his favorites. The bamfs were eager to assist in any way they could, though their help often bordered on playful interference. They showed particular interest in the baking process, their eyes widening with excitement at the sight of the mixing bowl filled with tempting batter.

As you mixed the bowl, the bamfs began squabbling over who would get the coveted privilege of licking the mixer attachments. Their enthusiasm quickly escalated, and before long, two of them were engaged in a spirited tussle on the kitchen counter. Gentle nips and acrobatic tumbles came from the pair of brawling bamfs, it was an amusing spectacle that you couldn't help but find endearing, despite the potential mess.

"Hey, hey! That's quite enough of that..." you intervened, carefully separating the two squabbling bamfs. With a patient smile, you addressed them, "You can both have some. There's plenty to go around. Now, let's sit down and behave ourselves, shall we? We just cleaned up after all." You handed them each a spoon laden with leftover batter, hoping it would satisfy their sweet tooth and curb their exuberance.

As you watched them eagerly lick their spoons, you couldn't help but let out a small sigh. The love you felt for these energetic imps was undeniable, but you had to admit that their hyperactive nature was starting to wear on you. The thought of Kurt returning home and lending a hand in managing the lively bunch brought a sense of relief.

That evening seemed to stretch on endlessly, the minutes ticking by at an agonizingly slow pace. You found yourself gathered on the couch with the blue babies, anxiously awaiting any sign of his return. The tv played something you only half paid attention to, your mind more focused on Kurt coming home than anything else. The air was thick with anticipation, and every small noise made you perk up in hope. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, there was a familiar BAMF - a sound that never failed to make your heart skip a beat. In an instant, a cloud of dark, sulfurous smoke materialized in the room, dissipating to reveal that cheeky German standing before you.

Kurt Wagner, in all his blue-furred glory, had returned at last.

He looked utterly exhausted, his posture slightly slumped and his golden eyes a bit dimmer than usual, but otherwise, he appeared to be okay, no injuries that you could see. A wave of relief washed over you, and your heart swelled with joy at the sight of him. Without a moment's hesitation, you sat up quickly, your voice filled with excitement and relief as you exclaimed, "Kurt!"

The reaction from the bamfs was instantaneous and overwhelming. Like a tidal wave of blue fur and enthusiasm, they surged forward en masse, their tiny forms blurring together in their haste. With surprising speed and coordination, they converged on Kurt, tackling him with such force that he stumbled backward, barely managing to keep his footing. In seconds, he was completely engulfed by the swarm of miniature teleporters, each one vying for the best position to snuggle as close as possible.

They climbed over each other, chirping and cooing in delight, their little hands grasping at his costume and fur. It was a heartwarming yet slightly comical sight - the tall, lean figure of Nightcrawler almost completely obscured by a writhing mass of adoring bamfs, all competing fiercely for his attention and affection. You could see his tail wagging up from the pile, which made you laugh lightly, that was all you could see of your darling boyfriend.

"Okay, okay, my turn! I missed him too!" You exclaimed with a mixture of excitement and impatience, slowly but determinedly wiggling your way into the welcoming pile of bodies until you finally found him. As your eyes met his, a warm smile spread across his face, his sharp fangs peeking out endearingly from beneath his upper lip.

"Liebe...oh, how I've missed you..." he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. In one swift motion, he enveloped you in his strong arms, pulling you close against his chest in a tight, all-encompassing embrace. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize your scent all over again. The weariness in his movements was extremely noticeable; you could sense how utterly exhausted he was, yet there was an unmistakable joy radiating from him at finally being home.

You pulled back just enough to kiss him, your lips meeting his gently, lovingly, tenderly. The softness of his lips against yours sent a shiver down your spine, and you both savored the precious moment of reconnection. Time seemed to stand still as you basked in the warmth of each other's embrace, your hearts beating in perfect synchronization. As the seconds ticked by, the initial gentleness of your kiss gradually transformed into something more intense and passionate. You felt a growing urgency in his touch, a desperate need to be closer to you after your time apart. His hands gripping your hips with increased fervor, pulling you closer against him. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking entrance, which you gladly granted.

As your tongues danced and explored, the world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you in this bubble of passion and desire. Just as you were losing yourself completely in the moment, a small, unexpected chirp pierced through the haze of your passion. One of the bamfs had inadvertently interrupted your intimate moment. The sudden sound startled you both, effectively breaking the spell that had enveloped you. Reluctantly, he pulled back, his eyes still clouded with desire but now tinged with a hint of embarrassment at getting a bit too carried away.

"Ach...apologies, liebling...I...I just missed you so much..." he murmured, his accent thicker than usual, betraying the depth of his emotions. His golden eyes searched yours, filled with a mixture of love, longing, and a touch of sheepishness at his loss of control. Despite the interruption, the air between you still crackled with unresolved tension, a testament to the strength of your connection and the depth of your feelings for each other.

"It's alright, my love," you whispered soothingly, gently squeezing his hand. "You've had such a long and tiring journey. How about we get you to bed for a little while? All the bamfs and I are absolutely thrilled to have the chance to cuddle up with you again..." Your voice was filled with warmth and affection as you spoke. You leaned in and gave him a tender, lingering kiss on the cheek, then carefully helped him to his feet. Kurt didn't hesitate to agree, gratitude evident in his weary smile. The dark circles under his eyes were a clear testament to his exhaustion, hinting at the many sleepless nights he must have endured during his time away.

"Ja, okay..." he replied with a soft smile, his golden eyes twinkling with affection. Kurt eagerly followed you to bed, his tail swaying gently behind him as he walked. He was looking forward to getting some well-deserved rest after a long mission, he’d give you all the details later. The thought of being surrounded by the love of his life - you - and his beloved bamfs filled him with a warm, comforting feeling. As he settled into bed, he could already feel the stress of the day melting away, you curled beside him and the bamfs all around. He couldn’t be any more comfortable as sleep quickly took him.

"Sleep well..." you gave him a sweet, soft kiss on the forehead, letting him nuzzle into your chest and sleep.

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight

Cover Image: Nightcrawler (2014) #2