#trying to pry some words loose

[talshiargirlfriend]

Don’t mention it.

Here is an estrangement vignette that literally no one asked for.

Follows an Unnamed Disaster. Could be set between Home and Kir’Shara (or elsewhere per your imagination) Read it on ao3

Commander Tucker steps onto the bridge, the emergency lighting a glaring reminder of how much work remains to get the ship functional again. Travis Mayweather has a knitted cap pulled over his ears and a grim expression on his face as he sits in the center seat. He makes to stand, “Sir-”

Trip waves him off. “Just passing through, Travis. You hold onto the hot seat. So to speak,” he adds wryly.

Travis gives him a look. Damage across multiple systems has made maintaining any sort of climate control outside of Sickbay impossible for the time being. Engineering is hotter than the Forge while the bridge feels like Andorian spring.

“She in there?” Trip jerks his head toward the command centre.

“The Fortress of Solitude,” Travis nods with a show of his usual good humor, and Trip chuckles in appreciation.

T’Pol looks up from the array of damage and casualty reports, star charts, repair projections, and god only knows what else she’s poring over when he enters the room. Two mostly empty mugs lie neglected on one side of the table.

“Commander,” she greets him. The coral velour collar of her catsuit peeks out over the neck of her Starfleet jumpsuit. She also has a silver crew jacket layered over the top. Unlike most of the bridge crew she has chosen to forgo wearing a hat, leaving her flushed ear tips visible. The effect should be comical, but somehow she still looks compelling.

“Hey.”

“How is the captain?”

“Better,” Trip answers slowly. “Awake. And grumpy. I think Phlox might release him to quarters this afternoon just to get a bit of peace.”

They share an amused glance.

“How about you? When’s the last time you actually took a break?” He raises his eyebrows.

Her eyes dart away from his. “Ensign Sato brought me tea,” she deflects softly.

After a pause, T’Pol changes the subject, “It is warmer on this deck this morning.”

“Huh. Maybe a little.”

She looks at him sharply. “I wasn't aware Climate Control was back online.”

Trip laughs darkly, “Oh, it’s not… but I needed to vent some heat from the plasma relays on B Deck and gave it a little redirect. No sense in you freezing your ass- asses off up here. Win-win.”

T‘Pol stiffens, “I am perfectly capable of enduring–”

“I know that! I know. But it really was useful, and…” he sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Whatever we are - or aren't, I’m still gonna care about you. Maybe you shouldn't always have to endure things just because you can.”

She looks at him with those big sad eyes, and suddenly Trip is grateful for the space between them and the solid obstacle of the table to prevent him from doing something they might both regret. Or, possibly worse, might not regret.

He swallows and tries for a light tone, “Maybe it’s a human thing, but sometimes the best way to work out how to solve a problem is to think about something else for a while.”

T’Pol glances at the stacks of PADDS in front of her, then closes her eyes and nods, “I believe I understand.”

“Speaking of solving problems,” he says as he steps behind her to activate the wall screen. “I believe I've worked out how to get propulsion and sensors both back online ASAP.”

Trip talks her through his plan, having already anticipated most of her questions and objections. Arguing through all the details is second nature to them, the rhythm safe and familiar.

When she flicks back to a previous schematic, their fingers brush together.

Oxygen makes itself scarce.

Neither of them moves for a few heartbeats.

T’Pol recovers first and withdraws her hand to grasp its mate behind her back.

“Commander, this is incredibly impressive work.”

“‘Incredibly impressive’ eh? Careful, T’Pol, or people will start to think you like me,” Trip overshoots his teasing mark wildly, and it tastes like boot leather.

T’Pol wrings her hands - a gesture she has picked up from her human crewmates.

“Commander - Trip, everyone in this room already knows how I feel about you.” Her voice is as low as a whisper, weighed down by all she can’t say.

He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds hoarse, “Yeah.”

“I, uh - I should go get things moving.”

“Agreed.”

T’Pol removes her jacket and places it carefully on the back of her chair. “Trip … thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

They don’t.

[shortnfreaky]

Please I need a one shot of Bucky as a boy dad, I did a survey on Twitter and the option of a girl dad is winning but I think Bucky looks better being a boy dad soooo please please <3

ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

a/n: omg, i'm so undecided, i feel like i could see him as both.

warnings: the word "mama" is mentioned once

word count: 1k

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

The Softest Soldier

The sound of giggles breaks through the sleepy quiet of your apartment.

You glance up from your spot on the couch just in time to see Bucky sprint past the doorway, a toddler in footie pajamas slung under one metal arm like a sack of potatoes. Your son is shrieking with laughter, legs kicking wildly, fingers trying to pry Bucky’s arm loose.

“Help, Mama!” he squeals, breathless between giggles. “Daddy’s being a villain!”

Bucky peeks back into the room, eyes bright. “Don’t help him,” he warns you, mock-serious. “He’s committed crimes against bedtime.”

You try not to smile, failing instantly. “What’s the charge?”

Bucky adjusts his grip, tucking your son’s little body snug to his chest. “Conspiring with a known accomplice—his stuffed dinosaur—to escape bedtime. Again.”

You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees solemnly, then blows a raspberry on your son’s cheek.

Your boy lets out another high-pitched squeal, squirming like crazy.

It’s a scene that shouldn’t look natural—an ex-assassin turned supersoldier wrestling a three-year-old while wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that says #1 Dad (your Father’s Day gift, cheesy and perfect). But somehow it fits. Completely.

You’ve seen Bucky in a lot of roles. Friend. Fighter. Fugitive. Lover. But this one—boy dad Bucky—is your favorite by far.

He’s all softness with your son. No trace of Winter Soldier in the way he kneels down to tie tiny sneakers or sits cross-legged in the living room building Lego towers. He’s not afraid to get messy, to get silly. To be the kind of man who reads bedtime stories in character voices and carries a sippy cup in his tactical bag “just in case.”

He doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. That he’s healing. That every moment like this is proof.

“Alright, punk,” Bucky says now, swinging your son gently into his arms and cradling him against his chest. “Say goodnight to Mommy.”

Your son twists toward you, lip wobbling. “But I’m not sweepy…”

“You can not be sleepy in bed,” you say, brushing a hand through his hair. “That’s allowed.”

He considers this. “Okay. But Daddy has to cuddle me.”

Bucky kisses the top of his head. “I was gonna do that anyway.”

And he does. You follow them to the bedroom and watch from the door as Bucky settles your son beneath the covers, adjusting the nightlight just so. He lays beside him, metal arm stretched protectively around his small frame, voice low and gentle as he starts telling some made-up story about a boy and his dinosaur on a mission to save the moon.

You watch until your son’s eyes drift shut. Until Bucky’s voice trails off.

Later, when he eases out of the room and closes the door behind him, you’re waiting in the hallway with a smile.

“What?” he says, pretending not to notice the look on your face.

You just wrap your arms around his waist. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?” He rests his chin on your head.

“Being a dad. Being his dad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second, and when he finally answers, his voice is soft in a way that hits something deep.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever have this. A family. A kid who looks at me like I hung the stars. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

You tilt your head up, hands cupping his face. “It’s real.”

He kisses you like he believes it.

You kiss him back, slow and sure, and when you pull away, he still looks a little dazed — like he’s not quite used to having this. To being this.

“Come on,” you say gently, lacing your fingers through his. “Let’s sit for a bit. He’s out cold — you earned at least one couch snuggle.”

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh and lets you tug him back to the living room. He drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling out and tugging you down with him. Your head ends up on his chest, his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You ever think he’s too good to be real?” he murmurs after a while, his fingers drifting idly over your back. “Like, he’s this little perfect human and we somehow didn’t mess him up yet.”

You smile into his shirt. “He tried to put a jellybean in the outlet today. So… maybe not perfect.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Okay, reckless. Like his mom.”

You poke his side. “Excuse you. I have never attempted to electrocute myself with candy.”

“No, but you did try to climb on top of the fridge to hide the Halloween stash from me.”

“That’s called strategy.”

“Dangerous strategy.” He kisses your forehead. “Just like him.”

You fall into comfortable silence again. The kind that comes easy with Bucky now. No tension, no guarded edges. Just warmth and the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath you.

Then, softly: “Do you ever think about having another?”

Your head lifts slightly, just enough to look at him. His face is open, unsure. He’s not pressuring — just wondering. Hoping, maybe. You think about your son’s laugh. His stubbornness. The way Bucky looks at him like he hung the damn stars.

You smile. “Yeah. I do.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. He needs someone to share the Halloween candy with.”

Bucky grins, that crooked, boyish thing that still knocks the breath out of you. “I can’t believe I get to do this with you.”

“I can. You’re kind. You’re patient. And you do all the bedtime voices.”

“Yeah, but the dinosaur gives me a sore throat.”

“Worth it.”

He leans down and kisses you again — soft and slow and full of promise.

You fall asleep on the couch together like that, tangled up in each other, the quiet sounds of your home wrapped around you like a blanket. In the next room, your son snores lightly, the nightlight casting gentle stars on the ceiling. And Bucky, boy dad and bedtime villain, smiles in his sleep like maybe — just maybe — he’s finally home.

[kwilquib]

Red String: Tangled

Word Count 4.6k

Liz - I’ve (🐈‍⬛) x Yeji - Itzy (🐈) x MReader 📖

a/n: i was going to post this after the part 4 of promised 9, but it might take a while so i decided to post this one first instead.

The coffee table was already a battlefield of indulgence—half-eaten strawberries bled onto napkins, the rim of a cake sagged from being sliced unevenly, and the growing graveyard of empty bottles clinked whenever someone shifted. Warm, golden light from a lone floor lamp softened the chaos, casting shadows that swayed gently across the walls.

You were sunk deep into the couch, the alcohol dulling your senses into something languid and warm. Liz, draped against your side like a sleepy cat, had long stopped sipping her wine and started murmuring nonsense into your shoulder. Her fingers loosely hooked around your arm, her hair tickling your jaw with her every breath.

On the floor, back resting against the couch, Yeji nursed the last of her only bottle for the night, as she stared at the flickering candlelight.

“Shall we call it a night?” you asked low.

Yeji looked up at you, then sideways at Liz nestled against you. A short scoff escaped her lips, sharp but not exactly hostile.

You shifted carefully, slowly prying your arm free from Liz’s hold. She mumbles a trifling protest in her sleep but doesn't wake as you lay her down gently across the couch, sliding a pillow to rest her head.

“She didn’t last,” she muttered, with just enough bite for her meaning to latch.

You smirked despite yourself. The tension between them was unspoken but undeniable—at least on Yeji’s part. Liz floated through the days with effortless charm, never rising to Yeji’s jabs, while Yeji simmered, her competitive nature flaring in little comments, lingering glances, subtle one-ups.

“She had more than you,” you said, lightly teasing. “You were sneaking her your shots.”

Yeji raised her chin defiantly. “Not my fault she’s that susceptible.”

“She’s gonna be hungover and dramatic tomorrow.”

“She’s always dramatic.”

Chuckling for a moment, and the silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just… quiet. Safe. The night had dulled at the edges, the candle’s aroma roamed the space, soft and warm, the alcohol warming your veins. But Yeji’s gaze lingered now—longer, steadier. You noticed.

“So…” you started, tilting your head toward her. “You really don’t like losing to her, huh?”

Yeji didn’t answer immediately. She stepped closer. Then another step. Before you realized it, she was standing directly in front of you, her expression unreadable, but her eyes holding yours without flinching.

“You’re always trying to one-up her,” you said, gentler this time. “Like you’re in some kind of race.”

“I’m not competing,” she shot back, voice tight.

You didn’t push. Just looked at her.

Her glare wavered, and something behind it faltered.

A sigh, then she dropped down to sit in front of you, settling between your legs, her arms resting casually across your knees. “I just… this was different to what I expected when I signed up for the program.”

“How different?”

“I’m not gonna tell you—” She hesitated, then smirked faintly. “How about you go first?”

“Oh wow,” you said, grinning. “Curling it back to me. Real smooth.”

You leaned back into the couch.

“Where do I start? Shitty life, barely surviving, scraping by. Then I heard about the program—matchmaking, state incentives, guaranteed housing, government support if you start a family. Sounded like a dream. A new life handed to you on a silver platter.”

Yeji listened quietly, eyes on your face.

“I didn’t have the luxury to dream about love or family,” you went on. “But if some algorithm could give me a guaranteed match? Sure. Seemed easier to believe in data than in people.”

“The Red String Algorithm,” Yeji said, her voice quiet but undeniably proud. “It extracts every meaningful signal from your history—psych profiles, communication patterns, even the way you process conflict—and uses it to find a true match. Ninety-nine point six percent success rate.”

You snorted. “Right, sorry—Miss Researcher.”

She shot you a look. “You’re living with one of its core developers. You should at least remember the name.”

There was a pause. Her tone softened.

“I always knew the algorithm could work. I just didn’t expect it would… work on me.”

You glanced at her. “It saved my ass, I’ll admit that. But if I’d known back then we’d be matched as a trio instead of a pair…”

You trailed off.

“Then…?” Yeji prompted, cautious.

“Are you saying you regret it?”

“No.” You answered quickly. “Definitely not. Just… it caught me off guard. That’s all. But one thing’s for sure—I’d never go back to before this.”

A silence settled. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.

“…Well,” you said, nudging her lightly. “Your turn. Remember?”

“Same as you.”

“Wow, I feel cheated.”

“Okay, not exactly the same,” she relented. “But I also joined because it made sense. When I applied, they told me my research would get priority status—more funding, less red tape. I didn’t have time to date. The idea of some system finding me a perfect match felt like… a neat solution. Just another algorithm doing its job.”

She gave a short, dry laugh. “And the benefits weren’t bad either.”

You didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

“I thought I knew exactly what I was signing up for,” she said, voice softer now. “I prepared for everything—sharing space, building habits, managing intimacy like a checklist. But the system knew better.”

Her gaze flicked up to you.

“I didn’t expect… you. Her. Us.”

Your breath caught slightly. There was something flickering in her eyes—uncertainty dressed in composure, like she wasn’t quite sure how much to reveal.

You were about to respond when a soft groan broke the moment.

Liz.

She stirred beside you, shifting slightly, her arm flopping over the couch’s edge.

Both you and Yeji turned to look.

“She’s gonna whine tomorrow,” you said, chuckling under your breath.

Yeji tilted her head. “Assuming she waits till morning.”

a small chuckle.

You smiled, the last threads of laughter still lingering in your chest, and without thinking, you leaned forward—closer to Yeji, who was still sitting on the floor between your knees.

Your arm brushed against her shoulder.

She didn't flinch. If anything, she tilted her head slightly, as if encouraging the contact.

Your laughter faded, leaving behind a sudden, charged silence.

Yeji shifted, angling her body to face you more fully. Her hands came up, resting lightly on your thighs—steadier than her breathing.

Her voice dropped, low and coaxing.

“We still have tonight.”

The weight of her words sank deep into you.

Your breath hitched.

The distance between you was barely anything now, measured only in heartbeats. Her thumbs brushed slow, thoughtless circles against your legs, a touch so featherlight it made you hyper aware of every nerve ending.

“Yeji—” you began, but it came out rough, unsteady.

She smiled—small, almost mischievous—and leaned in.

Close enough that her breath fanned against your mouth.

Close enough that you could count the tiny flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

“You’re drunk,” you whispered.

“Weak excuse,” she murmured, brushing her lips against yours. “You know I’m not.”

Her lips brushed yours, soft, almost there, a ghost of a kiss that left you aching for more.

“We can’t do this.”

“We’re married—on paper,” she replied between kisses. “This is exactly what we’re supposed to do.”

“I mean not now—not here.”

A soft groan broke the moment—Liz, stirring restlessly on the couch.

You both turned to look at her, your hearts tripping over themselves.

But when you looked back, Yeji was already watching you again, emboldened by the interrupted moment.

“Liz is here—”

“You're picking favorites?” with her voice low, almost a warning.

“What? No—”

She kissed you again, firmer this time, her hands sliding a little higher along your thighs, anchoring herself to you.

You should stop this. You knew you should.

But when her tongue teased at your bottom lip, asking—no, daring—you to let her in, your resistance cracked completely.

You kissed her back.

Yeji shifted—settling back down to her knees, now between your legs. Her palms slid smoothly over your thighs, grounding you in the moment as her eyes locked with yours.

The warmth of her hands seemingly seeping through the fabric. Her thumbs brushed a small, absent circle through the fabric. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but words dissolved in your throat when her fingers moved to your waistband. Slow. Testing.

“Yeji…” a futile warning, knowing it's not you who’s in control.

She glanced up, lips parted, eyes locked. “If you want me to stop, say it.”

Your silence was her permission.

A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips as her fingers undid the button, then the zipper—slow, methodical—and peeled your pants away with a patience that only made it worse.

And better.

Your breath caught in your throat as the cool air hit you, the warmth of her hand came after—then the heat of her mouth.

She widened her mouth, opening to welcome you deeper, her head bobbing with growing urgency. Wet sounds filled the room—the slick slide of her lips, the soft, breathy gags as you hit the back of her throat, the faint brush of her hair against your stomach as she leaned in harder, more desperate.

It was overwhelming—too much, too good.

And maybe that was why, somewhere in the fog of pleasure, a sharp thread of worry slipped through.

Your chest tightened. You turned instinctively to your side, the sudden need to check, to make sure—

“Fuck. Yeji!” You shoved her mouth off your cock, not far, not harsh, just enough to break the seal of her lips—just enough to expose her slick grin and the spit-slick strand still connecting her tongue to your tip.

Liz.

She was awake.

Hands covered her face like she was trying to deny what she was seeing—yet her fingers parted just enough for you to catch her eyes, wide and shimmering, veiling its shame. Caught between wanting to watch and wanting to flee, flushed.

“Liz, it���s not—” you stammered, cock still wet, still hard, still twitching under the ghost of Yeji’s mouth.

“For someone touchy, you’re surprisingly shy.” Yeji cuts in before you could reason.

“It’s normal to be shy in situations like this!” Liz croaked, voice cracking mid-protest, eyes locked on you as if she was calling for you to be on her side.

Yeji only laughed softly, the sound dripping with knowing amusement. “Is it also normal to be shy when it’s just you two, too?”

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out. Words tangled in your throat, hot and useless. “How—”

“The walls are thin, you know,” Yeji said, voice lazy, almost indulgent. Then she glanced at Liz—deliberate, slow. “Plus, you’re awfully loud.”

A tiny sound escaped Liz behind her hands—a muffled whimper, not fear, not disgust. Something else. Excitement, tangled with shame, twisting hot and helpless in her gut.

Yeji stretched her arms languidly behind her, a cat waking from a satisfied nap, then leaned in, voice sultry and slow. “Well,” she said, her gaze locking onto Liz’s, “are you just going to stare?”

“Yeji—” you warned, already knowing it was too late.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, all liquid confidence, and purred, “Maybe you should head back to your room, little voyeur.”

The words wrapped around Liz like smoke—seductive, heavy, inescapable. But Liz didn’t move.

“I—I’m not going to leave,” Liz stammered, voice so small it barely reached across the couch. But it did. Every syllable landed like a drop of oil on fire.

Her eyes narrowed, gleamed like a predator’s in low light—sharp, cutting, approving. She sat back on her heels, head tilting slightly as if appraising Liz under new light. Her hand didn’t leave your cock. She held it steady, fingers curled at the base, glistening with spit, the exposed length twitching under her grip.

“Cute,” she finally said, slow and velvety. “Come here, then.”

Liz hesitated only a heartbeat before leaving her hoodie on the couch. Shoulders bare. Tank top clinging to soft curves. No bra. Her nipples pressed like little beads against the fabric, hard from watching. From wanting. From finally deciding.

.Yeji watched her approach without blinking.

You sat frozen between them—cock soaked, heart pounding, thighs trembling from restraint.

Liz knelt beside Yeji, movements quiet, cautious, like she was stepping into a hot bath—both terrified and aching to be swallowed.

“Ever done this?” Yeji asked, without malice, just curiosity sharpened by thrill.

Liz shook her head, biting her lip, cheeks blooming red. “No… not like this.”

“Oh princess.” Yeji’s smirk deepened. “Follow my lead.”

And just like that, Liz lowered herself.

Her hand reached first—tentative, warm fingers brushing your shaft like you might disappear. Her touch was featherlight, reverent, like she was holding something sacred. Yeji guided her, sliding her hand on top of Liz’s, the contrast striking—Yeji’s grip firm, Liz’s trembling.

You groaned.

Yeji started stroking again, this time with Liz’s hand moving under hers, both palms working you together, one bold and commanding, the other shy and curious. Flesh slid slick and smooth under their hands, your hips twitching against the sensation of two women touching you at once.

“Go on,” Yeji said, voice a breath against your thigh now. “Try it.”

Liz leaned in.

Her lips parted just slightly, tongue flicking out like she was testing temperature. She kissed your tip, soft, barely there, then pulled back with wide eyes.

Yeji’s hand never stopped moving.

“Again,” Yeji coaxed. “Open wider. No teeth.”

Liz nodded. Obedient. Blushing.

She leaned in again and wrapped her lips around your head, warm and wet and cautious. She sucked gently, cheeks hollowing slightly, dimple flashing as she bobbed forward—then pulled back, letting your cock pop wetly from her mouth.

You gasped.

Yeji growled, something primal. “Not bad.”

Then she dove in again.

Her mouth engulfed your length beside Liz’s, taking more, taking deeper, her tongue a skilled, relentless force. Liz followed with wide eyes, licking the side of your shaft Yeji wasn’t occupying, kissing the base, moaning softly every time she tasted you.

Their mouths moved in tandem. Yeji’s deep and possessive, Liz’s light and fluttering.

You were being devoured.

“Fuck—shit, girls—ah—” Your voice shattered, your thighs spread wider, hips rolling into their mouths, body caught between Yeji’s dominance and Liz’s eager submission.

Yeji sucked harder. Her eyes snapped up, locking with yours. Commanding.

Liz’s tongue curled around your base, her hand cupping your balls, soft fingers trembling with effort and excitement. Her lips were pink and swollen now, a line of drool running down her chin as she moaned against your skin.

Yeji pulled back and let a long string of spit fall from her tongue to your cock, coating it more. “Good girl,” she muttered to Liz, then slapped her ass gently. “But don’t just play. Take him. Like this.”

She shoved her mouth down again—deeper, fiercer, throat clenching around you as she gagged slightly, then pulled back with a slurp, gasping. “That’s how you suck cock.”

Liz’s eyes sparkled, wet and wide. She swallowed nervously. Then she tried again, this time deeper, more committed.

You could barely hold on.

“God, you’re both—fuck—” you groaned, voice barely there, one hand buried in Yeji’s hair, the other tangled in Liz’s.

They licked you like it was a competition. A dance. Heat and wetness and rhythm. Yeji guiding Liz, licking the underside while Liz took your tip, her lips wrapped around it so gently you thought you might lose it. Then they’d trade—Yeji taking you all the way, Liz licking what she couldn’t reach. Spit soaked your thighs. Their mouths met at your base, licking each other’s tongues, sharing the taste of you.

You were shaking.

Yeji grinned against your cock. “Cum for us,” she whispered.

Liz whimpered. “Please…”

Your breath caught—lungs seized like a misfiring engine, every nerve in your body tightening to a razor’s edge. Their mouths moved in perfect sync now, wet, rhythmic, obscene. Yeji’s tongue flicked just beneath the head as Liz suckled the tip, cheeks drawn in with hunger and awe. You could barely tell whose hand was whose—soft skin wrapped around your shaft, stroking in tandem, squeezing you up toward the inevitable.

“F-Fuck, I’m—” The words barely left your lips before your hips bucked, spine arching off the couch.

Yeji pulled Liz back at the last moment, hand gripping the base tight, lips parting as your cock erupted.

Hot, thick spurts of cum painted Yeji’s tongue, her mouth, her throat. She moaned, her eyes rolling slightly, lashes fluttering, her throat working as she swallowed it down. But not all of it.

She didn’t swallow it all.

She held some—warm, white, thick—pooling on her tongue like a decadent gift.

“Ahhn…” she exhaled, eyes flicking to Liz. Still kneeling. Still flushed. Still trembling from watching you explode.

Yeji grabbed her by the jaw.

Firm but not cruel. Her fingers pressed into Liz’s cheeks, and Liz gasped as Yeji leaned in—mouth open, cum heavy inside—and kissed her.

No time for hesitation.

Their lips met in a sticky, messy, desperate kiss. Yeji pushed it into her. Tongue sliding in, sharing the load. The mix of slick spit and seed spilling from one mouth to the other in thick, slow dribbles.

Liz’s eyes went wide—but she didn’t pull away.

She moaned.

Yeji groaned back, fingers now buried in Liz’s hair as she deepened the kiss, mouths locked, tongues swirling, swapping the taste of you like something sacred and filthy all at once.

You watched, dazed, cock twitching even in its aftershock.

Yeji pulled away finally, a thin strand of cum still stretching between their lips, shining in the low light.

Liz swallowed.

Hard.

She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then smiled at you—shy, glowing, a little breathless, dimple showing even now.

Yeji licked her lips. “Now that,” she said, voice hoarse with triumph, “is how you share.”

Liz giggled—sweet, almost innocent—but her thighs were pressed tight together, her chest rising fast.

Yeji turned to you again, stroking your thigh lazily. “Bedroom?” she whispered, licking the last drop off her thumb.

Your cock twitched.

You weren’t done. Neither were they.

They stood, both of them still licking their lips—one smug, the other dazed—while you slumped back against the couch, cock twitching from oversensitivity, slick with their spit, your legs weak with afterglow. But for Yeji, for them it had just started.

She grabbed your hand. “Come. Now.”

Yeji stood first. Confident. Graceful. She rose like sin personified, the wet gleam on her lips catching the low light. Then she turned, reached out, and grabbed your wrist. “Bedroom,” she said, no room for argument in her tone. She was already moving, pulling you off the couch with Liz scrambling up after, nervous but burning with adrenaline, her thighs rubbing as she followed you both down the dim hallway.

Your room was barely lit—warm shadows, rumpled sheets, faint perfume in the air—but it didn’t matter.

Yeji pushed the door shut behind you with her foot and turned to Liz.

“Well?” she asked, voice low, like a dare wrapped in silk. “You’ve been watching. Want to feel it now?”

Liz hesitated, biting her lip again. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Yeji smirked. “Clothes off. On the bed.”

Liz obeyed. Her tank top peeled up over her head, revealing soft, pale skin and pert breasts tipped with flushed pink. She shimmied her shorts and panties down together, stepping out with one leg at a time, her movements hesitant but fluid, like a dream she wasn’t sure she was awake for.

She lay back, legs closing instinctively. Yeji clicked her tongue.

“Open,” she said, climbing onto the bed beside her. “Don’t hide now.”

Liz parted her legs, slowly, her pussy glistening already, folds pink and puffy with anticipation. She covered her face for a second with one hand, but peeked through her fingers just like before—watching you.

You were already hard again.

Yeji crooked her finger at you. “Come here,” she said. “She’s ready.”

You crawled up between Liz’s spread legs, your cock bobbing, already aching again from the scene you’d just watched unfold. Yeji knelt beside her, hand sliding up Liz’s inner thigh, spreading her gently, two fingers brushing over her slick entrance.

“She’s soaked,” she said, glancing at you with heat. “Give it to her slow.”

You nodded, guiding yourself to Liz’s entrance, the heat of her making you groan before you even pushed in. The first inch was heaven. Wet, tight, squeezing you like she’d been made for it.

Liz gasped, her back arching, hand flying to your arm. “Oh my god…”

You went deeper, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around you. She was snug, fluttering around your cock like her body was shocked by how full she felt. Her eyes fluttered, mouth parting in a moan she tried to swallow.

Yeji leaned in, kissed her neck. “Breathe. Let him in.”

You bottomed out with a grunt, hips pressing flush against her, Liz’s breath catching in her throat as her nails dug into your shoulder. You held still, letting her adjust, your cock twitching inside her walls.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” you whispered.

Liz whimpered.

Yeji’s hand slid over her breast, pinching a nipple, making her buck slightly beneath you.

“Move,” Yeji ordered you. “Let her feel it.”

You started to thrust—slow, deliberate strokes, dragging along her slick walls. Liz moaned louder now, hips rising to meet yours, the tension melting from her limbs as pleasure took its place.

Yeji watched you both, her hand dipping between Liz’s thighs, fingers finding the little pearl at the top of her slit. She rubbed it in slow circles, matching your thrusts.

Liz cried out—short, breathless sounds that only made you pound harder.

“You like that?” Yeji purred into Liz’s ear. “You like being fucked while I touch you?”

Liz nodded frantically, eyes glassy, mouth falling open in a silent moan as her legs locked tighter around your waist.

Yeji leaned in, kissed her—slow and deep—her fingers still working between Liz’s thighs, circling faster now. Then she pulled back, lips slick, eyes glowing, and turned her gaze on you.

There was a glint in them—mischievous, luring. She leaned closer to you, a breath’s warmth brushing your lips just before she claimed them in a kiss.

It was deep. Hungry. Her mouth molded to yours, tongue sliding against yours with deliberate control, a slow burn of desire made real. Her fingers curled into your shoulder to steady herself as her body pressed against yours.

Your hand, once gripping her thigh, faltered—drifting upward instead to cup her jaw. You kissed her harder, pulling her in, drowning yourself in the heat of her mouth.

Everything else blurred—until Liz moved beneath you.

A soft whimper broke through, her hips rolling upward again, slick heat clenching around you, desperate for motion. She hadn’t stopped.

Your eyes cracked open as Yeji pulled back just enough to see.

She followed your glance. Saw Liz writhing below, breathless, impatient.

A smirk bloomed across her face. “Faster,” Yeji murmured, voice like silk catching flame. “She can take it.”

You obeyed. Your hips slapped against her thighs, your cock plunging deeper with every thrust. Liz was gasping, writhing, caught between your rhythm and Yeji’s touch. Her body trembled under the intensity, and her eyes locked with yours—wide, pleading, filled with wild pleasure.

“Y-Yes, fuck—ahh, please—” Liz sobbed, her back arching, body clenching around you so tight it stole your breath.

“She’s close,” Yeji said, licking her fingers before sliding them back down. “Don’t pull out.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you growled.

You drove into her harder, faster, relentless now. Her wet heat clung to you with every stroke, and the sound of skin slapping, Liz’s cries, and Yeji’s breathy moans filled the room like music.

Liz shook, her thighs trembling, hands clawing at the sheets. Her pussy squeezed around your cock like a vice, milking you as her orgasm crested.

“Cumming—oh god—fucking—!” she screamed, her whole body snapping taut beneath you as she came, walls fluttering and pulsing.

Yeji didn’t stop touching her. She kept rubbing, helping her ride the wave while watching your face.

You weren’t going to last.

Not with Liz gripping you like this, still spasming, not with Yeji’s eyes on you like she owned you.

You buried yourself as deep as you could, every muscle tensing, balls drawing up.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—!”

And then you were spilling inside her.

Thick, hot pulses of cum shot into her womb, and she gasped as she felt it, body still twitching around you, milking every last drop. Your hips jerked with each burst, and Yeji moaned softly, her hand slipping down to press lightly against Liz’s belly as if she could feel your cum filling her from the outside.

“Good boy,” she whispered, eyes dark and satisfied. “Fucking bred her good, didn’t you?”

You collapsed forward, panting, still buried in Liz’s quivering body, her pussy sucking on your softening cock like it didn’t want to let go.

And Yeji?

She wasn’t done.

Yeji shifted atop you, still catching her breath, your cum dripping from her slowly with every subtle movement of her hips. Her fingers pressed into your chest as she sat upright again, grinding once more just to feel it—feel you still inside her, thick and twitching, softening slightly but not quite done.

She clenched.

Hard.

Your body jolted under her.

“Still got more in you,” she whispered, her voice low, husky, coaxing. “I want mine.”

She leaned forward, bracing herself on your chest, rolling her hips with practiced control. Slow, deliberate circles that pulled sounds from you like wringing a soaked cloth. Your hands gripped her thighs, slick with sweat, watching her move like liquid heat above you—hair plastered to her face, eyes locked on yours with fire and intent.

Liz stirred beside you, still flushed, her fingers resting at her slick entrance, too tender to touch but too affected to stop watching. Her gaze flicked between your face and the way Yeji rode you, her lips parted in silent awe.

Yeji slammed down again. And again.

You choked on a breath, overstimulated but captivated, your cock responding to her no matter how raw you felt. She twisted her hips on each downward thrust, her pussy still impossibly tight, her insides sucking you deeper, using your last reserves.

She moaned—deep and feral, each sound dragging from her throat like a battle cry and a prayer at once.

“I want it,” she said again, breathless. “All of it.”

You couldn’t stop if you tried.

Your nails dug into her ass as you started thrusting up into her, meeting her pace, driving harder, faster, the slap of skin echoing through the room. Yeji's back arched, hands splayed against your chest as her body began to quake. She was close—so close you could feel it in the way her walls fluttered, clamped.

“Right there,” she hissed. “Fucking—yes—don’t stop—”

You slammed into her.

Once. Twice. Deep.

And you broke.

Hot cum burst inside her again, thicker this time, pressure building in a final desperate wave. Yeji screamed—actual screamed—her orgasm snapping through her like a whip, her body locking up as her pussy milked your cock for everything. Her head tossed back, spine a perfect bow, mouth open wide as she came hard, spilling over you.

You pulsed inside her, filling her again, until she collapsed forward, full, dripping, her breath hot against your throat.

“Fuck…” she whispered, barely audible.

Your arms wrapped around her without thinking. Liz curled tighter into your side, her fingers lacing with yours. Yeji lay across your chest, one hand resting on Liz’s hip, all three of you tangled, sweating, sticky and still twitching from the echoes.

The room smelled of sex—thick, raw, heady.

None of you moved.

Yeji shifted once, just enough to sigh, cum seeping from her slowly, spreading warmth between your thighs.

Liz murmured something soft, a barely-there breath of contentment, her head tucked into the crook of your neck.

You could feel the last of your strength ebbing away, your muscles too relaxed to hold anything but this—this perfect, fucked-out stillness. A puddle of limbs, moans fading, breath evening out.

The dark wrapped around you all.

And then sleep took you.

A/n: Part of Woolly's prompt event!

[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, reader implied to be shorter than sylus now playing: congratulations (piano version) - goated part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

The downside of having a roommate? You can’t walk around your house pantless anymore. 

The upside? You know when he’s home.

Hell, the whole neighborhood knows. 

There’s no mistaking the distinct roar of that motorcycle engine. How it echoes through the cul-de-sac, causing dogs to bark and ornery Boomers to bitch about the racket.

You peek through the blinds of your bay window like a nosy housewife. Try not to get too ahead of yourself as he sweeps into the driveway, the late afternoon sun bouncing off the sleek trace of his bike and helmet, limning his silhouette in gold like a halo. 

Your heart rabbits in your chest, throat thickening. Dry. 

Relax. 

It’s only been three weeks since you last saw Sylus, your roommate. Not like he up and left without a trace. And it’s not like he hasn’t disappeared for longer bouts of time before.

So, you try to play it cool like you didn’t halfway miss him—his stupid dad jokes, his rich bastard laugh, his sassy takes on your taste in booze—as you pry the front door open.

Clad in your hoodie, sweats, and house shoes, you bound down the steps towards him, hands shoved in your middle pocket. And man, it’s like the world stops spinning, working in his favor. Like you forget what breathing is, as the ambient sounds of your neighborhood fade into obscurity.

Because he’s cool without trying to be, donned in his black riding leathers, like something out of a dark romance novel. The real kicker comes when he tugs off his helmet, shaking out that riotous mop of white hair, and his scarlet-spun eyes crease with an untold joke when they land on you.

You watch him kick out the stand and kill the engine. Pull a long leg from over the seat, tousling his hair with slender fingers and meeting you halfway up the driveway with an easy swagger, helmet tucked beneath his pit.

He’s close. So close, the heat of the sun absorbed by his jacket—or is that just him—permeates your clothes. He has to crane his neck to look down at you, the tall bastard. You want to wipe that smug look off his face, but you’re too busy trying to remember how the English language works. 

“Miss me?” he asks in that deep gravel. So deep, so unintentionally gritty, you feel it playing up your spine like a xylophone. 

He pats your head like you’re his little admirer. You jerk away, remembering yourself, scoffing. 

Crossing your arms and hip poking out, you say, “About as much as I miss a hernia.”

Your roomie shakes with laughter. A chuckle smooth as velour streaked by sunlight. It makes you all warm and prickly, and you’re smiling for real this time, caught in this comfortable pocket of space with a man as mysterious as the depths of the ocean. 

Conveniently, the wind kicks up when his laughter dies down. It stirs the leaves on the ground, the scent of petrichor and summer, and it snatches some hair from your messy do, pushing it into your face. 

You watch his expression morph from amusement to something unreadable with bated breath. Stiffen when he tugs one of his gloves off, fingers curled loose towards his palm, knuckle brushing just beneath your waterline to sweep some hair back.

You burn where he nudges you, and his fingers linger. Hover, not really touching, but the static between skin is enough to make your pulse rocket. 

He looks like he might say something. Like he’s grappling with words he’s been keeping to himself for a while. But your quiet little reprieve is short-lived when your neighbor greets you both from across the street.

You spring apart like you touched fire, smoothing down your hoodie with sweaty palms. Remember how to breathe, blinking away that sweet little haze. Sylus keeps his eyes on you for a few beats, taking in every little feature as if he’ll never see you again, before turning to acknowledge the old man with a two-fingered salute.

He’s a veteran, your neighbor, his telltale black cap with his ribbons settled on his head. A little rough around the edges. War-torn. Alone, but where most everyone on your street hates Sylus for the din of his bike, your neighbor loves him for stirring the shit pot. 

You wave as Sylus shoulders past you, starting towards your house. And you follow after your roomie once your neighbor hobbles back into his home, two of your steps to keep up with his one.

—

You pause at the foot of the stairs leading up to the attic. Gnaw on your lip, arms crossed, brows pensive, socked toes nudging the floor. 

The sun’s long since sought refuge behind the horizon, making way for stars littering the sky like glitter spilled over a violet tablecloth. It’s quiet, save for dogs barking somewhere far off, the errant sounds of your house settling on its foundation, an occasional car sweeping by, and Mephisto’s wings fluttering every now and again upstairs in Sylus’ room.

You didn’t want to badger him right away. Not as soon as he came back, figuring he needed some time to settle in. Unpack. Readjust to the humdrum of suburban life. 

You’re always like this when he returns—antsy, vibrating like a golden retriever, eager to yap his ear off. To see what he’s been up to, though he’s always cryptic about it.  

But he looked more exhausted than usual when he came home, eyes rimmed purple, shoulders lax. So you left him to his own devices while you scrolled through the catalogue of your mind for what to make for dinner.

Not much you can make with what little’s in the fridge���you haven’t had time to go grocery shopping with work kicking your ass. And it’s late, and you’re hungry, so you use your stomach as an excuse to bug your roomie. 

You finally work up the gumption to knock on the handrail—how you signal to him you’re around—and it’s quiet for all of five seconds before you hear footsteps, and he pokes his head from around the partition. 

He reveals himself fully at the crest of the stairs, dressed in something cozy. Something loose that doesn't detract from the power his body houses. 

Lips rucked up in a smirk, he leans against the rail, massive in the entryway, folding his arms. Cocks his head to the side, the shadows cast beneath the ceiling light glazing over chiseled features. 

“What’s up, sweetie?”

Your eye twitches. Before, the pet name used to make you cringe. But you’ve grown more accustomed to it with time, accepting it’s a part of him that’ll never go away. 

And maybe a side of him reserved just for you.

Propping your hip on the rail to mirror him, you try for cool. Casual, like your heart isn’t on a mission to leap out of your chest. 

“You hungry?”

He shrugs. “I could go for something. What’s on the menu?”

You absently scratch your cheek, looking off to the side. “It’s late. Thought about ordering out or something. I don’t know.”

He considers your offer before he nods his head. You relinquish a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“Sure.”

Sylus begins descending the stairs like he intends to join you downstairs in the kitchen. He makes it halfway before something stops him. You glance at his pocket as it vibrates. Back at him.

His expression bleeds ruefulness as he pulls out his phone and brings it to his ear. You watch his brows knit together, and he turns away, starting back up to his room, hand cupped around the mic like he’s partaking in a world-ending secret. 

You catch a familiar name on his lips before he’s out of earshot. 

Shrugging, you venture to the kitchen alone to snatch your phone up from the dining table. Cue up the DoorDash app, swiping through options for food, but not really focusing on any one thing. 

Because you’re too busy wondering who’s got Sylus on the phone, all urgent and stone-faced like Bruce when Rachel calls him with bad news. 

[pome-seed]

Just Rest ★ Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky X Engineer!Reader

Summary: The Soldat's metal arm is damaged during sparring.

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: Mention of knives and violence.

Authors Note: Based off The Soldier's Keeper, but an engineer/mechanic instead of a doctor. Idk, just trying to get out of my writing rut.

Masterlist Soldier's Keeper Masterlist.

The door slams shut behind you, the sound of metal echoing through the chamber. You stumble forward, your dazed gaze stuck on the writhing bodies in the center of the room.

“Idiot jammed his knife into the dog's gears, go check on him.” A soldier says from behind you. 

You nod instinct, but when your eyes find his, your stomach drops.

The Soldat stands in the center of the room, his breathing ragged as he clutches his metal arm. His jaw is locked shut in that familiar black mask, the neck of it buckled into the rest of his uniform. 

Cold blue eyes find yours before he lowers his head in shame. 

Your teeth ache as you clench, swallowing your own dread. You approach the man carefully, your bag of supplies hanging heavy at your side. You step over defeated soldiers, dodging their grumpy limbs. 

“Hey, can I see that arm?” You mutter, looking up at the sweaty man. 

He huffs quietly against his muzzle, struggling to catch his breath. Contrary to popular belief among his keepers, the Soldat does get tired. He feels pain, he feels exhaustion, and he slows down. 

But they still use him as their training dummy. They still think of him as the iron soldier who never waivers, perfect for beating their rookies into shape. 

But he gets tired.

And he feels pain.

The Soldat lowers his gloved hand, exposing the knife jammed between the plates in his shoulder, the blade pointed towards his collarbone. 

You grimace. “Any pain?”

He tilts his head at you, his brows twitching together. 

You shake your head. “Sorry- I mean in your shoulder-” you gather his whole body must ache from the constant beating he’s been receiving. “I need to know if the blade got down to the bone.”

He shakes his head slowly, subconsciously leaning forward, his body sagging with exhaustion. 

“Okay, that’s good.” You whisper, offering him a sad smile. “I’m gonna take that out now, sound good?” He nods, his gaze slowly drifting to your hands. You grab hold of the handle and carefully pry it from between the mechanics. 

The man makes a quiet sound in his throat, but he stays still for you. 

You dig through your satchel and pull out your tools. “I still don’t get why they make you do this with real knives…” You mutter, peeling off the scraped panel to see the mechanics beneath. “Seems like pointless blood spilt…”

The large man just tilts his head at you, watching you- not your hands. He didn’t often get the chance to speak with you. You were rarely left alone. But he aways listened. 

Because you were the only person who spoke to him like he was still human. 

You pick through faded wires and loose bolts, but find no notable damage- or so you think. 

You use a thin metal tool to lift another interior panel- the Soldat flinches hard. You freeze. “Did that hurt?” You frown.

He nods mechanically. “Mm…”

“Okay, just bear with me then,” you mutter, shifting the panel carefully. You shine your light between the metal and see faint red staining the cool steel. “Looks like he did knick something…” You sigh and turn back to the man guarding the door. “I need to take him to the lab, looks like there's some damage.”

The soldier visibly groans, then mutters something into his radio. “Alright, go on.”

“Come on,” you turn to the Soldat. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

His lashes flutter in a slow blink. He nods slowly and steps into your space before you even start moving. You smile and slowly take his hand. His gloved fingers are still in yours as you lead him into the hall. 

The walk to the lab is a short one, but you’ve memorized it by now. 

You’ve been with Hydra for over a year, and no matter how much you may have hated it at first, you quickly accepted your circumstances. They needed you to do a job, so you did it. In return, you got to live. 

You spent most of your time in the lab, waiting, or working. The rest you spent in your small room.

“Sit on the table please.” You release the man's hand and tug off your satchel. He obeys without a thought, like always. When you finally sit down at his side, you take a quick look back at the doors. You’re alone. 

So you slowly cupped his metal jaw and tilt his head up. Blue eyes latch onto yours. You slide your hands back into his hair and unbuckle his muzzle. The clast comes loose after you struggle with it,  then you finally pull it free. 

“Since we’re alone,” you whisper, smiling up at him. 

The Soldat shifts his jaw carefully, working the locked up muscles. “Thank you.”

You pat his knee. “Now let’s get that arm fixed, huh?” You pull your tray of tools closer. 

While you work, the Soldat watches you, his body swaying every time he blinks too long. You wonder how long he’s been running drills today. How many other men he had to fight, for the sake of training. But you don’t ask, because you just want to let him rest. Besides, his time with you was usually the only relaxed moments he got. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” You mutter, twisting wires back into shape. 

His head jolts up from where he’d been dozing off. “What?” His deep voice questions close to you.

“There isn’t much damage, I knew you’d be fine.” You glance up at him. “But I wanted to get you in here, so I lied.” 

His soft frown makes him look confused. “You did?” He glances at his shoulder. 

“Mhm,” you nod. “Just wanted to make sure they gave you a moment to rest.”

“Oh,” he huffs, his shoulders sagging as he sighs. 

“If I gave you the all good, they would have had you jump right back into sparring.” You mutter, sealing over chipped metal.

“Yeah…” he whispers. “Thank you…” He licks over his dry lips.

“Shush, just catch your breath.” You adjust your light to see deeper. 

He obeys, taking your words literally as he goes quiet. You smile to yourself and continue working. 

There isn’t much blood, thankfully. The tip of the knife must have just barely sunken into the muscle fused to metal. But it was enough that moving those internal plates stung. So you’re careful.

You’re always careful with the Soldat. 

And he knows it. So he lets his tired eyes fall shut. He lets his body sag a little further, until his head is dropping heavily onto your shoulder. 

You stiffen, but you don’t wake him. You just continue to work, until you're sealing the exterior plate back in place. And when you do, you stay put, allowing him to rest. 

You sit there, his metal hand resting in your lap. Your frown curls deeper as you feel his soft breath flutter against your exposed skin.

You wish there were more quiet moments like this. You wish he was allowed such a pleasure. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your fingers carefully raking through his long hair. “Just rest…”

A/N: Can you tell I kinda miss the Hydra era of the soldier's keeper...

Taglist:

@a-world-with-pure-imagination @frog-fans-unite @1967barracuda @akkklys @cherryheairt @lonelyghosts-stuff @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @devilslittlehelper @miss-chuchu @dollface-xoxo @natalia42069 @thuul-box @local-crazy @justachillgirllui @pleasecallmeunhinged @cookies-and-music @fallen-w1ngs @unicornqueen05 @bloodmocha @sleepysongbirdsings @fadingcollectivenightmare

[moyazaika]

have your cake (and eat it too)

yandere! L Lawliet (death note) x gn! reader

cw; L is his own tw, imposter syndrome, explicit nsfw, mdni 18+

genie's notes; yayyy commissioned piece for @ozzgin !!! thank you ozzy my beloved for giving me the opportunity to write about my man ♡ if this feels long that's bc it is LOL i was having sm fun writing it got to 4k words,, can you tell i'm bonkers for this guy,, nevertheless, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing :D

“Take a picture,” you murmur. “It’ll last longer.”

“I know.”

You spare the man sitting besides you a quick glance. Despite the numerous dossiers emptied out onto the oak table before you, the detective’s attention is transfixed solely on you. Has been, for the past few hours. 

“Ryuzaki?” You try again, hoping he’ll get the hint this time.

Stop fucking staring at me.

No such luck. He only tilts his head to the side expectantly and you wonder, not for the first time, whether he enjoys playing the fool, or if he’s just truly ignorant of your discomfort. 

You don’t know which answer would be worse.

What you do know is that you can count on both hands the number of times you’ve been alone in a room with L. After all, it’s the exact same number of times that you’ve silently prayed for Kira to do you a favour and take you next.

The memory of the rest of the task force’s departure is still vivid. Yagami’s sympathetic smile. Matsuda’s shameless commiserations. 

You can barely think. The sensation is strangely claustrophobic. Even now, you can feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like a burden. 

With a weary sigh, you turn back to the pictures you’re thumbing through. All images of Kira’s most recent victims; their pale faces and milky eyes stare back at you with accusation. Months have passed without any sufficient leads and sure, you pull at loose threads when you can—but the mystery never quite unravels itself the way you hope for it to. There are no frayed edges. No loose seams. 

Whoever this guy is, you can tell the smug son of a bitch takes pride in his work. Has you working overtime, too. 

The wall clock across the room reads twenty minutes until five, but you didn’t really need to check the time to know that. With how high up you are, you can already glimpse the makeshift beginnings of dawn through the narrow gaps between Tokyo’s neon-lit buildings. 

Screw this.

You’re going to cut your losses; already know you’re not getting any work done in these conditions. Better to mull over the details in the privacy of your own space—far from prying eyes. 

You take the opportunity to flick through the pictures of civilian corpses once more, committing the details of the dead men’s faces to memory before finally tossing the alarmingly heavy file down onto the desk in front of you, where it lands with a resounding, strangely satisfying thud.

L doesn’t even flinch. 

“I’m going home,” you announce, actively making an effort to avoid meeting the man’s eyes. Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand, and the noise is unbearably loud within the otherwise silent room. 

“So soon?”

You laugh at that. “It’s four in the morning, Ryuzaki.”

“Hm. So it is.”

“Time flies,” you shrug on your coat. “When are you going to leave?”

You ask out of politeness rather than any genuine curiosity. The question mumbled absently as you rummage around in your pockets for your hotel keycard. 

You’re not from Tokyo. Just staying here for as long as the task force needs you to. Called in months ago from a nearby prefecture because of your stellar track record. You like to think you’re intelligent, and that Japan’s top minds recognised that about you. You suppose it doesn’t really hurt that you’ve got some connections to the national police force. 

Though you’re glad to be trusted with the case, and happy to be here—you’ve never really cared much for the city of Tokyo itself. You miss the humdrum of the countryside; the constant chirping of cicadas hidden amidst tall blades of grass. A clear, blue sky unblemished by the fine points of soulless skyscrapers. Weaving through crowds without wondering whether one of them might be the mass murderer you’re hunting down.

L’s monotonous drawl snaps you out of your thoughts. Brings you back to exactly where you are right now and not necessarily where you’d prefer to find yourself, instead.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“Yes,” he repeats. Enunciates the syllables as if speaking to a child. No further clarification.

“I’m sorry.” You’re really not. “Are you seriously going to sleep here again?” You honestly don’t mean to sound disrespectful but the incredulity in your tone is difficult to mask. Much less in the presence of the world’s greatest detective. 

The stories are true. You found them difficult to believe at first, but since then, you’ve confirmed the extent of L’s genius with your own observations. The man before you can function perfectly without any sleep for days on end. You remember the first time you’d left the office; come back the next morning to find L hadn’t moved an inch from where you’d left him last night. 

Even still, it’s hard not to notice the prominent bags under his black eyes. The state of his clothes, all crumpled. The greasy, unkempt hair that frames his face. Despite his intellect, he’s still only human.

Even if it can be alarmingly easy to forget that.

“Why?” L asks blankly. “Are you offering me an alternative?”

Briefly, you think of the deputy director learning, come morning, that you’d left L to his own devices; The hard lines of disappointment marring his features. The disapproval in his otherwise polite gaze. He can’t be left alone. Something about being far too valuable, if you recall correctly. Or did he say vulnerable?

Regardless, you already feel like some charity case, even though you know that you’ve clawed your way to be here; called in favours and kissed the feet of men far beneath you. You deserve to be on the Kira task force as much as everybody else. Yet, you know what your answer will be long before you’ve even said anything. 

Something tells you L knows, too. He’s never been the sort of man to ask questions that serve him no greater purpose. 

Sometimes, you detest people like Matsuda for the ease with which they inhabit such unwelcoming spaces so boldly. The ability to exist so openly, without inhibition. But you detest yourself most of all, especially in moments like this where you’re burdened by the need to prove your belonging.

Well– 

Are you offerring me an alternative?

–Shit.

“Yes.” you concede, not even bothering to look back at him as you reach to call for the elevator. Press the button with considerably more force than you should. “I suppose I am.” 

You’re not nice. You’re certainly not charitable. But you are easy.

You spare him an exasperated glance over your shoulder when the doors finally slide open with a yielding sigh. From behind you, L makes no indication to move. You begin to doubt if he’s even heard you. Or, more specifically, whether he was ever really listening to begin with. His black eyes can feel so fucking vacant, sometimes.

“You coming?” you impatiently tap your foot against the carpeted floor as you hold the elevator open with narrowed eyes. “Or do I need to send you an invitation, Ryuzaki?”

“No need.” At that, L finally stands. He offers you one of his rare, private smiles; “I believe you already have.”

-

There are a couple of things you come to notice about L that day, when the ongoing investigation isn’t at the forefront of your buzzing mind.

It’s there, of course, because it’s difficult for any person to forget all of those dead faces; the list of unanswered questions growing by the hour—but the moment you slide your key into the lock and it turns with a satisfying click to open right into your little hotel room, it feels like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders.

Take, for example, L’s penchant to be barefoot. He immediately steps out of his shoes the moment you kick the door shut behind you. Sinks his toes into the carpet (stained, and scratchy) with a blissful sigh. 

You're choosing to ignore that.

Better not to drive yourself up the wall by paying attention to every little thing he does.

“Hungry?” you shrug off your coat and toss it onto the sofa.

“Sure.” And it’s not exactly a response, but you think this is the best you’re going to get from the man. Go rummaging through the fridge straight away, as you wave for him to take a sit in the tiny living room across from you. 

“I know you have a sweet tooth,” The leather sofa crackles beneath his weight as he perches right on the edge, legs tucked up against his chest and his head resting over his knees sideways; so that he’s watching you in the kitchen. “So I’m cutting you a slice of some cake I made last weekend. Couldn’t finish it by myself if I tried.”

You eye him wearily as you set down the plates on the coffee table before the sofa, making sure to leave as much distance as is possible between the two of you when you sit down.

He sort of reminds you like a cat when he's like this, all curled up and comfortable. When he tries his first spoonful of sponge cake, he might as well start purring with delight. “This is good,” he mumbles between bites. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

“Yeah?” You impatiently drum your fingers against the armrest. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

The moment stretches for longer than it should. 

You meet the detective’s eyes head on, find they’re as wide as saucers, staring back at you; and peering right inside. It feels downright voyeuristic and so fucking violating, the way you can feel him peeling back everything that you are to assess something nestled much, much deeper within. 

You look away first, and the moment you do, you hear L hum approvingly—he sounds pleased, almost.

And though you know he would never seriously consider you competition, you still can’t shake the strange feeling that you’ve lost at something.

“No." L concludes. "No, I don’t think so.”

He sets his plate down on the table with a clink and you’re not surprised to find he’s already finished eating. All that remains is a single cherry; so violently red against the pale porcelain it sits on. 

“Tell me,” He pinches the stem between his forefinger and thumb, and it’s the first reprieve you’re gifted from the weight of his calculating gaze; as his attention shifts to the sweet fruit he holds. “Why do you hate me?”

Shit, you realise your fingers are digging into the cracks in the leather armrest; flex your hand a few times before making an attempt to calmly fold them in your lap. Maybe because you make me feel like a fucking failure?

“I think you’re too smart for your own good.”

He gives that some thought. “As are you.”

It’s laughable, really. L is leagues above you in terms of intelligence. Prestige. Power. Who are you standing next to one of the greatest minds in the world? Who are you to deign that he recognises you?

You refuse to even recognise yourself. 

“You don’t believe that,” you scoff. 

“I do. I knew it from the moment you were first introduced to me.” 

You pick up on something strange about the way he phrases it; the necessity of awareness required from both parties in a first introduction.

I'm losing it.

You shake your head, abandoning the tendrils of something akin to unease that had just begun to creep up on you. When else would he have first known you? It's a stupid thought. You’re not exactly the sort of person preceded by some magnificent reputation. 

“Sure,” you decide to entertain him nevertheless, if only to see how far he’ll go. You wonder whether this is as close to gratitude as L can express, but is it for the hospitality or for the cake or for something in between? “And why was that, Ryuzaki?”

“L,” he corrects you. “Because even then, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“And that’s what supposedly makes me a genius?” you scrunch your nose, “because I don’t like you?”

“So you insist on maintaining,” he drawls. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you know, detective,” L ventures thoughtfully, “your heart rate always spikes quite dramatically whenever you’re alone with me.” His black eyes flicker to meet yours as he breaks off the stem—pops the cherry between his grinning lips. 

You dig your nails into the skin of your palm. Focus on the sharp sensations of precise pain; imagine the little indents of crescent moons that will litter your skin later on. 

“Ah,” your voice is unfamiliar even to your own ears. “Is that so?”

He eats the stem next, and you notice, not for the first time, that the man's skin is so pale, it’s like a thin sheet has been stretched tight over brittle bones. You can easily trace the jagged lines of blue and purple veins that curl around and underneath his face.

L’s lithe fingers reach into his mouth where the dark stem sits between his teeth. You catch a glimpse of his tongue as he pulls out the stem, now damp, and examines it between his fingers; holds it up to the light.

It takes you a few moments to realise he must be admiring his efforts. Or, rather just observing them. You’re not really sure if L is capable of awe. Whether he cares for it, given how easily he earns it; must not mean much to him.

(You’ll find out later that he is capable of awe, though there are more important things he hopes to garner.)

The cherry stem’s all folded up on itself; he’s tied it into a knot with his tongue. 

Instinctively, your eyes dart to his mouth. “I didn’t know you could do that,” you confess lowly. “Neat party trick, huh?”

And the moment you voice the thought, you wish you’d stayed silent. The curl of his lips is infuriatingly self-satisfied, as if he’s in on some grand secret you’re not quite privy to; it feels the closest L will ever get to outright mockery, yet even then, there is something you must have mistaken for sincerity in his gaze. 

You’re not sure whether that makes you feel better, or worse.

“There’s a lot,” L confesses slowly, “that you don’t know about me.”

It doesn’t escape you that even something as simple as this sounds truer when L says it.

-

Later, the dishes have been cleared away and though you can barely keep your eyes open, you’re rummaging through your suitcase to pass him a new toothbrush because, you insist, you always carry spares. L admits he's never had to brush his own teeth before.

One hand on his jaw, and another curled around the brand new toothbrush you'd managed to dig out for him, you give him a reluctant demonstration.

You don't think he listens to a word you say; his attention seems to be focused elsewhere.

After his turn, you pad into the attached bathroom and brush your own teeth with the overhead lights switched off.

Tired, you don’t notice as you unscrew the lid of your old toothpaste that your own brush’s bristles are wet, whereas the toothbrush you’d handed to L is still unopened in its plastic packaging, left positioned neatly by the basin. 

-

L is garishly tall. 

It can be easy to forget that considering how often he’s hunched over a desk or curled up in a chair. When he stretches to yawn, his shirt rides up his abdomen, revealing a pale sliver of skin underneath. You avert your gaze. The last thing you need is to be caught staring.

“Take the bed,” you offer, already sinking into the loveseat's cushions.

L stares at you as he scratches his jaw. “I don’t sleep in beds.”

You don’t even want to begin deciphering that statement. You’re beginning to think this cryptic act is purposeful; that he gets off on being evasive. Out of reach. 

You’re not even sure if he can see you, considering how dark it is in the room, but you put on your sweetest smile all the same. It feels vindictive and thrilling and you believe it’s the least he deserves.

“Well, cheers to trying new things, Ryuzaki.”

He says nothing in response, and even though he’s nothing more than a vague silhouette in the absence of light, you manage to make out the slowly way he climbs into the bed—crawls to the edge of the Queen bed that’s closest to your own spot. Pulls up the duvet to his chin, and lies on his side so he's directly facing you.

It’s unnerving. You wish desperately in times like these that you could click his head open like a purse and look inside; it's impossible to tell what he's thinking.

And then he starts talking.

-

Finally, there’s a lull in your conversation that stretches far too long.

You make no effort to salvage the exchange, relishing in its conclusion, and much to your relief, neither does your partner. It’s not necessarily that L’s bad company but it’s also not not that he’s impossibly infuriating to talk to. You just want to sleep. It's been a long fucking day.

You close your eyes, allowing a welcome silence to settle inside the stuffy room. 

…

Then you try to ignore it.

…

You really, really do.

…

Much to your dismay, even your best efforts prove futile. The quiet doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d like. 

“Ryuzaki,” In the face of overwhelming fatigue, all niceties are forgotten and honesty reigns supreme. “Why the fuck can I feel your eyes on me?”

“I can’t sleep,” he simply responds, in lieu of a proper answer. 

You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so tired. Unlike him, you unfortunately do not have the seemingly inhumane ability to function properly without multiple consecutive nights of sleep. So, with a long sigh, you decide to let it slide.

Just one more time. 

Then, with disapproval evident in your weary voice, because it would feel too much like accepting defeat to say nothing at all; “you know, normal people usually just count sheep.”

“Mm." The sheets rustle. "Sleep well.” 

“...Thanks. You, too.”

Behind the heavy blackout curtains of the hotel room, the sky turns a soft, dreamy lilac. 

Outside, some parts of Tokyo wake up to the mellifluous sound of morning’s first birdsong, and others take that as their queue to drunkenly stumble home in search of a warm bed to fall into.

On the busy streets dozens of stories below yours, the city moves as it always does. Vibrant and alive—though waiting with bated breath in anticipation of death; Kira the only constant in this new world.

You don’t even realise you’ve dozed off in the armchair; sleep is simply a welcome reprieve from such a long day. A privilege, and not the routine it used to be.

You dream of running away from something. Of simply falling through a solid floor.

Conversely, though he has taken your advice, L finds rest evades him.

Content with staying awake, he takes the rare opportunity to simply observe you from across the room, and it’s such a fascinating sight, to finally see you so at peace. You usually run on such a short fuse. Well-meaning, but difficult to deal with nonetheless. You like to be seen; hate to be stared at. 

Aren’t you a charmer?

In the pale beginnings of dawn, he is a silent shepherd. He smiles at the thought, whilst gnawing on his thumbnail. 

The sheep he counts all have your face.

-

You’re not sure what exactly it is that wakes you up, but it’s quiet when you do.

Even still, something causes you to stir, and before you know it, you’re pulled out of a sleep you hadn’t even realised you’d fallen into with bleary, blinking eyes that adjust to the dark and land on—

Nothing. A startling absence where L’s body should be.

The bed’s empty, and the crinkled duvet has been hastily tossed to one side. You notice that the warm glow of the nauseatingly yellow bathroom lighting spills out from behind the door, left open just a crack. It strikes you as strange, that the door’s not fully closed. You feel justified in looking in. Call it concern. Curiosity. 

Does it really matter?

“Ryuzaki?” you venture, stepping closer. No answer. The silence is strangely more overbearing when you’re standing right in front of the bathroom door. With a hand resting on the brass knob, you decide to try once more. “Hey. L?” Silence, still and true.

It feels a lot like peering into Pandora’s box, when you inevitably do push the door open. 

Look inside. And, huh—

There is L, hunched over the sink. 

In one hand, he is holding what is unmistakably your underwear. You recognise the soft cotton instinctively, even though it’s balled up tight in his fist and he’s pressing the fabric against his nose; shuddering when he breathes in, languidly long and deep like a desperate smoker's drag of his last cigarette.

The lighting overhead casts sweeping shadows over his pale face, but despite the darkness the rest of his features are enshrouded in, you still manage to make out those black eyes; blown wide, wide open. Thick and heavy like eerily lucid, deep, dark pools of tar you can feel yourself getting sucked into.

His hand works at a methodologically steady pace. His breathing is perfectly controlled as he works at his cock with deft fingers. His tip is flushed a painful pink, leaks pre that’s been smeared down the shaft’s length. Between glimpses, you manage to make out prominent veins that eagerly pulse in response to his touch. 

Proud. Heavy.

Hungry to sink into something far tighter than his fist.

—Your breath catches in your throat. It is impossible to look away. 

The following moments are hazy, at best. Time seems to slow down to a crawl when the scene before you clicks into place, and the world moves in still frames after that; the last one lingering too long and imposing over the next. 

You don’t remember saying anything, but you must have let a gasp slip past your parted lips. Stumbled backwards, perhaps. Some involuntary indication of your presence, peering in behind him.  

Time fractures completely when L looks up; gaze snapping straight to meet yours in the mirror.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection, looking so laughably petrified—clearly just having rolled out of bed. There is not a single thing to be said as he lets his black eyes wander, appraisal silent and shameless as he drinks in the state of you; all tousled hair and crumpled clothes and bare feet. 

His hands work faster then. His movements grow jerkier, breathing shallow. Eyes flutter shut, finally looking away from you, as his grip on your underwear tightens—knuckles white from the sheer effort of holding on, refusing to let go and inhaling your scent—nose buried desperately deep in the dirty cotton. Pathetically fervent. Chasing that blissful high with a new vigour. 

You have been taught by many a smart man to never go seeking answers to questions when you do not wish to face them.

And so, when you glimpse this stranger’s tongue dart out to wet his cracking, dry lips the exact moment they wrap around the shape of a familiar name—hear the syllables repeated with a devotion akin to reverence; something like prayer—the man shudders exactly when you do.

Comes undone just as you slam the door shut.

You’re standing there in what you think might be shock, with a shaking hand resting against the doorknob. You choose to focus on the way in which the hair on your arm stands on end. Because if it’s not that, it’d be the sound of the tap running. 

The door swings open abruptly. The man breezes past you, and quietly crawls back into bed. Rooted to where you stand, it’s all you can do to turn over your shoulder and observe him.

He catches you staring, merely tilts his head to the side from where he’s settled into the sheets, a coy little lilt to his lips. 

For the first time, you’re the one who doesn’t look away. Couldn’t, even if you tried. Stygian strands of hair fall over his eyes, the darkest black they’ve ever been. Despite the fact that it feels like you’re staring at a stranger, facing him is familiar, as it always is; like wading into a thick tar.

Viscous and heavy and clinging.

You might’ve missed what he said if you weren’t so hyper focused on his every minute movement. His words are barely above a whisper, after all, and carry a strange lilt—as if recited, almost. Like he’s reading a line; performing some private joke.

“Take a picture,” L smiles knowingly. “It’ll last longer.”

[lazyjellyfish300]

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 ˖⚘ ༘ ✿｡𖥧

⚘ nanami kento x fem pregnant!reader

⚘ synopsis: on a sunny easter afternoon unlike any other in your home in the countryside, you steal a moment between you and your husband to tell him the unexpected news that your home will be growing by one more. 🌷words~ 4k

⚘ cw: x fem!reader, x scarred post shibuya Nanami, reader is pregnant, family planning, vasectomy mention, light angst, fluff, you have children together, smut(p in v, fingering, cum eating, breast play, creampie)

The indent of your pillow against your cheek felt even fluffier than usual, tempting you with the irresistible invitation to ignore both your circadian and the external alarms from your phone that went off in succession, before your loving husband eventually shut them off for you.

Elusive sunlight poked through the lacey curtains of the farmhouse in sporadic spurts, rainy dew beginning to recede on the windows from the evening showers that ushered in this lovely Easter morning, the faint smell of brewing coffee, baking quiche, and the simmering roast you had marinating in spices overnight wafted from downstairs.

A rattling at your bedroom door almost shakes it off its hinges before it creaks open, the piggytails of your 18 month old skim over the top of the blankets like a shark fin, waddling until she's face to face with her mommy.

"Hey, noodle..." You whisper, trying to ignore the sting on your cheeks as her chubby hands grab at your face, nails like razor blades as she paws at you to get up.

The exhaustion is stronger than usual, but you relent and you pull her into bed with you, and it's not long before she's using you like a personal jungle gym and lobbing herself dangerously close to the edge.

Familiar footfalls pad down the hallway, along with some absurd giggles and squeals mixed in with the stern tone you recognize of your lover.

Kento kicks open the door lightly, followed by his chaotic entourage of your oldest daughter strapped to his right knee, and your middle daughter hanging on for dear life off his shoulder.

"There you are." He grins as he finds the third imposter eluding him under your arm.

You give him a smile stained with relief and grateful exhaustion and he gives you an apologetic look, knowing it's going to be hard to coax her downstairs now that she's found you. He promised you some time this morning to relax to take a load off your plate, knowing you always tend to bite off more than you can chew when it comes to holiday celebrations.

"Come on, now." Kento gently pulls at your daughter stuck on you like a koala made out of velcro, prying her loose, cooing softly as she begins to cry.

"Hmm, I don't think so, darling." He gently chastises as her chubby hands try to grab the hot mug of coffee he left for you on the nightstand. "We have drinks downstairs that are more suitable for you."

Your older two daughters were utterly obsessed with their daddy, but your youngest had been much clingier to you as of late.

"Momma's resting. Let's give her some space to relax, shall we?"

You look on a bit regretfully as Kento lumbers out of the room with his arms full, but sigh as you settle back under your fortress of quilts knowing that at least the next hour or so belongs to you with no interruption, smiling when you hear the disappointed cries of your babies turn into cheers of joy when Kento mutters something about the Easter Bunny.

---

You eventually make your grand entrance a while later, eyes going wide when you see Kento's mother already seated at the table, impossibly overdressed and regal, bouncing your baby with syrupy cheeks and a fistful of bacon on her knee.

"Oh! Morning, Mama."

"Good morning, dear. Happy Easter." She turns her head as you bump cheeks and leave a kiss in pleasant greeting.

"Happy Easter! I didn't realize you were coming so early! God, I'm so sorry about all this..." You mutter in embarrassment, crossing rapidly to the kitchen where you knew the dishes were overflowing the night before, voice tapering off as it was miraculously empty. You pace quickly to the living room where you remembered the girls' metropolis of Littlest Pet Shops were set up yesterday, astonished to discover it had been tidied up with all toys neatly stacked away.

Of course. You realize, shaking your head as the puzzle pieces assembled and you turned your head towards the windows where you saw Kento tending to the animals in the stables. Always one step ahead of you, reading your mind and making your life easier before your feet could even hit the floor in the mornings, unable to help the surge of desire that trickles afterwards as he turns and smiles humbly in your direction, sending him a smoldering look through the glass that says you have every intention of thanking him properly as soon as the entire house goes to bed.

Your mother-in-law just smiles as she watches her littlest grandbaby stuff herself with one more handful of bacon before she's had enough and turns to her with proud chipmunk cheeks. Momma Nanami already knew that Kento would have the place handled, she raised him to do so after all, though she wouldn't have given it a single second thought if he hadn't and the house was still in disarray when she arrived.

"I've got her." She tells you warmly as you approach to take your daughter back. You smile before you round the corner to go back upstairs, grateful knowing that deep down she would've begged you to let her take her grandbaby back with her to Tokyo for the rest of the month.

----

The farmhouse blossoms to life on a few occasions during the calendar year, Easter being one of them.

The solitude of the rainy pocket you lived in transforms into a bustling hub where familiar, beloved faces cross the threshold of the propped open front door to hallways of raucous laughter, shared memories in the heart of new ones being created with comforting smells of home-cooked food with love layered in every bite.

You watch from the porch as your girls dart all over the yard and garden, nodding and clapping every time they add another colorful egg to their overflowing baskets. You try to ignore the bittersweet tightening of knots in your chest. It felt like you were being gifted back moments of your babies from the thief of time while it simultaneously rolled them out of the door every time you noticed your youngest became more sure on her feet as she chased her older sisters, reminding you that these tender years were just as fleeting as they were precious.

Indoors, the battle on the Super Nintendo is well underway with Kento about to win 3 for 3 against Yuji and Megumi, while Gojo supervises as the unofficial referee.

"Think fast." Kento relinquishes his remote to Satoru who scoots to the edge of his seat, letting out a yell of victory to the groans of utter disappointment from his opponents as he manages to finish them off at the last second.

"Hey, you." You greet him as Kento's hand snakes around the curve of the familiar residence of your hip to pull you close against him.

"Apologies." He mutters in a volume only the two of you can hear in your little separate bubble on the back porch as you watch your daughters run all over the yard. "I hope I didn't miss much."

"No, right on time. They just started." You hum as your thumb traces idley over a small ridge of the scarring on his left hand that rests on your stomach, polished white gold haphazardly glinting in the light that manages to seep through the shadows from the shade of your peach trees. "They're moving quickly, though. I wonder if I should've gotten more while I was in town yesterday."

"Absolutely not." Kento snorts out a little breath from his nostrils as he remembers the outrageous number of goodies his mother showed him in her suitcase shortly after she arrived that morning. "They have more than plenty of treats and gifts to go around this year. Trust me, darling."

"I trust you." You hum, turning so your face is buried in his chest, grounding yourself in the steady cadence of his heartbeat for just a moment in between the chaos.

"Are you alright?" He asks, unable to keep his heart from melting every time you sought out his affection, how the level of tenderness in your request for closeness to him never wavered from the dawn of your relationship that blossomed and sprouted on this very same porch.

The truth was, there was something you were harboring underneath the surface from yesterday(truly, a record of a miracle considering this is the longest it could ever stay that way).

Two faded pink lines you buried at the bottom of the trash can that had shown up despite all odds stacked against them with Kento's vasectomy and the mutual agreement you came to months earlier that your little family was complete.

But of course, fate, that pesky force it was, both responsible for the miracle of your love falling into place, and now baby number four, had other plans. Only now, you worried that the unplanned element of it all would put a slight damper on the news.

"Mhmm, just tired." You mutter as you go a little limp in his embrace while he's unable to help the inadvertent curve of his smile. As he strokes your hair, he can't help but take note that this bout of exhaustion that's been seizing you as of late has been sticking around for a bit longer than usual.

But for now, he holds you close to his heart, swaying you to invisible melody with the pattern of the subtle afternoon breeze as he watches his trio of treasures sprint with carefree glee around your farmland property, not allowing his worry to steal his focus from the priceless memory of another Easter egg hunt unfolding right in front of him.

----

The girls wander back to the porch with their baskets of loot, out of breath.

"Nice job, little ladies." Yaga gives them high fives as they scurry into the living room, eager to crack open their goodies. Your baby, however, is still a little too shy for a high five, tugging at your dress before you finally scoop her up.

"Um, actually, I think there is one more." You direct your statement mostly to your husband, who turns to you, curiosity piqued, however Mama Nanami catches the ending.

She doesn't know, but she understands the look you give her son. It's one she used to give his father, a knowing that comes from loving the same person over many years, a look that begs for just a little reprieve from the endearing bustle of family life where you two could just exist for a moment as husband and wife.

As if on cue, she moves to take your little one out of your arms after a little coaxing,

"Let's go inside and show Nana what you've found."

"Thank you..." You nod appreciatively as Kento's fingers fill the spaces between yours.

"We won't be long." He reassures them as you both step away.

----

You linger for a moment next to your favorite tree on the property you love to take afternoon naps under, hand in hand, except for the moments when your grip loosens slightly so he can allow his thumb to smooth over the heart of your palm to let you know he's still following close behind, not minding the moisture from the yellow blades of grass that brushed both your ankles.

Kento smiles as you tug him into the barn, a ritual you've partaken in many times, though the last time you did was far longer ago than he would have liked.

"Up here." You chuckle as you begin to climb the ladder after witnessing the confusion plastered on his face.

"You're impossible." But his statement carries all of the affection he can muster and bury underneath the mild inconvenience of the moment, even so as all the love he has for you is completely unrestrained by his limited gaze in the eyepatch on the left side of his face when your back is turned to him.

Once you're both seated in the privacy of the loft, you reveal the reason you had stolen his presence, a small blue egg in the palm of your hand.

He takes it from you as you sit cross legged from each other, shaking it next to his ear with an unserious wiggle of his brow. "Well, it's definitely not cash."

"Oh my God, just open it, silly!"

"I'll take as long as I well please, darling. Since I have been nothing but patient with all this suspense you've built up, you lovable tease."He holds the egg in his fingertips, turning it over for one moment longer before he cracks it open without another thought.

He freezes as a small pacifier tumbles out. His mind only takes a moment to compute the symbolic message behind the small object, a million questions fanning across his mind that get simultaneously answered all at once as his thoughts catch up to him.

"Happy Easter." You say quietly, breath still unreleased from your lungs as you can't exactly discern the stream of thoughts you know are racing inside him at this very moment.

"Really?" He asks, his gaze searching and latching onto the slightly fearful confirmation in your eyes as soon as you nod your head.

"Yes... I've known since yesterday."

"Come here." He folds the pacifier in between both your hands and he uses it to slowly pull you into his lap, legs straddling either side of him, hand at the back of your neck to hold you even closer against him as though the current press of your bodies together simply wasn't enough to quell his unrelenting ache.

"You're not upset?"

"No, I'm not upset." He answers softly.

"I feel bad though, Ken. The surgery...we thought we were done..."

"I knew there was still a small risk, even with the surgery." His hand halts in its reassuring path down your waist as he pulls back for a moment to look into your eyes.

"What would you like to do, sweetheart?"

"I...can't bring myself to consider any alternatives." You murmur, shaking your head as he studies you patiently with that iris of caramel centering you in the present of his love that never demanded and only flowed without apology, like the river that flooded and stranded him with you in the first place.

"Then, we're parents-to-be with a fourth. It's as simple as that."

"But-"

"No buts, darling." The tip of his nose affectionately smooshes against yours. "The choice is yours, and yours alone. I just want to support you and the babies in any way I can."

His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands in indiscriminate shapes that all speak the same language of adoration. "I love every child the moment you tell me about them. So even though this news is unexpected, it's never unwelcomed. As long as you're safe, and happy, that's all I could ask for."

You know he's not lying, either as you reflect on every single one of your pregnancies. The aches, pains, and woes somehow became blurred as an afterthought when you recalled each one. It might have been the very definition of insanity.

But love, particularly the unbelievable way you and Kento came to meet, rarely ever made sense. And the way he revered you, loved you, never made you hold anything he thought you weren't supposed to carry, and cleansed your world of unnecessary stresses through the season of bearing each of his babies made it so easy to say yes to just one more.

He kisses you and the emotions of the moment born out of this life-changing revelation hangs in in the air when your lips briefly let go with reluctance, a quiet ember begging to be something just a little bit more, bargaining back a little more time from its endless game of cat and mouse that loved to elude you, shamelessly indulgent despite knowing you'd have more of it tonight when the world went to sleep. Your foreheads press together, and it's simply you and him breathing together in this pocket of time where you can just be as a couple.

He takes your chin in his fingers, kissing you again, slowly with intention, warm tongue skimming along your bottom lip until you inevitably oblige and let him in, a shivery groan escaping that shoots straight through him and cracks his restraint that all but turned to glass every time he was alone with you, despite the countless times he's heard it.

He knows it, when your sounds begin to leave you in a broken pattern that thrum against his lips pressed to your throat like a prayer, a plea. His hands depart from cradling your face to rub your breasts slowly through your dress he'd been yearning to feel you under ever since he saw you in it through windows in the bright light of your kitchen.

"Fuck, Ken..."

Your voice makes him eager to scratch that itch, suckling your left breast into his mouth without wasting another moment while he rolls your clothed clit softly on the meat of his thigh.

"They're waiting for us." You purr feebly with your head thrown back, knowing you have no intention of withstanding the urge to let him fuck you in the mellow quiet of this barn, looking down occasionally to take in the way he hollows his cheeks as he sucks on your tits with a fervor you know will translate into little lovemarks that only you and him will be able to see that will hopefully last for weeks, supple flickers of his smooth tongue strategically lapping at the already hardened nipples until you feel like a dam about to burst as the slick begins to drip more steadily between your thighs.

"They can wait five more..." He murmurs as he finishes paying attention to the right before he lays you on your back on the bed of straw, breath shuddering as the thin cotton of your dress does little to shroud the budding bumps along the raised nipples of your tender breasts so enticingly, by far his favorite constellation with the North Star of the two layered diamonds of your necklace as the centerpiece, swaying in synchronized rhythm as your body inadvertently thrusts against his hardening cock behind his trousers.

"We don't need long."

Your thigh curls along the slope of his back like the vines that decorate the cobblestones of the exterior of your home, as his left palm moves inside your panties, a bit of a habit he picked up on purpose just to indulge that possessive need of his to see and feel you cum and clench around his wedding ring. He groans as he takes his time to coax and explore, warm honey flowing freely as he dips between your folds to stretch you around his long fingers.

"God, so tight..." He can't resist unbuttoning his pants to stroke his heavy cock at the same time, right as his middle and index finger find and press, wetly squelching against the silky spot inside your sweet pussy that he had scored to memory long ago like a scripture.

"Ohhh, Kento..."

You pulse maddeningly around his fingers and he pumps himself even faster, precum slowly dribbling down his fingers as he recollects how you do the same thing on his cock when he's deep inside you.

"They'll hear us if you keep moaning like that..." He wantonly utters with the last semblance of self-restraint he can muster as his face falls into the sanctuary of your neck as he can't delay his own climax much longer. "If Shoko goes outside to smoke-"

"Just fuck me, Kento..."

He groans as he sits up on his forearm, his thumb over your pulse as he draws his hips back, leaning in, ghosting over your mouth with the shadow of a kiss as he softly pants, before he seals his lips over yours. He guides the scarred, bulging tip inside you, receding his hips backwards in a slow draw without leaving you entirely, before giving one long, steady push until he's fully inside.

He moans audibly in unison alongside you as the stretch dissolves like pleasure on a cloud, carrying you away as the rhythmic waves of aftershocks dance up your spine in blind succession with every deep thrust. You're not spared from feeling every single inch, every subtle curve of him that fit into you like no other as if by design that was divine in nature.

"So damn warm, so beautiful like this..." He sighs as he rolls his hips in just the way he loves, tips of his knuckles blossoming into white as he grips the meat of your thighs like his center of gravity to pull him in with more passion, more depth to precision in the soft, warm tides of that velvety oasis, over and over again.

"Cum with me..." You murmur and you feel the full consequence your words have on him when his thrusts abruptly get even harder in response.

"Kiss me if it's too much..." He whispers, although as more of a command as he yanks you against his lips regardless. He fucks you roughly, throughly with a passion that travels from his kiss all the way down to where you connect and undulate together as one.

It rivals the thunder in the pewter clouds that plague the skies above your farmhouse. It's lovemaking with an intensity that conveyed all the frustration he felt at the time that dragged much longer than he wanted it to between the last time he could enjoy you like this, coupled with the wildfire of elation and desire he felt setting the forest of his heart ablaze knowing you were going to bear another one of his children.

"I love you."

It comes crashing down with his climax that reduces his composure to shaky trembles like a battered leaf in the wind with his face in your neck, tranquilized by the scent of your hair splayed across his sweaty forehead, creamy cum milking out of his cock and soaking your spasming walls that pulse in balanced tempo around his length, the lingering remnant of his loving declaration hanging around you like a heavenly haze of smoke with the after effects of an aphrodisiac as fuel for your peak that was all but eminent.

His thumb continues circling around your clit, pumping into you a few more times with his cock before he slowly pulls out, dipping his head down with no hesitation to finish the job. Warm delicate tongue lapping at the mixture of your love that almost makes him harden all over again, smearing the sea of dribbling slick all over your clit before he gives you his fingers one more time to relieve that loss inside you were feeling.

Your cum soaks his wedding band as intended and you share a devilish smile as you watch him clean his fingers with his tongue.

"Open your mouth..." He leaves the elixir of both your essences on your tongue mingled in the steamy punctuation of an all-consuming kiss he never lets you go without.

"I love you more." You drunkenly murmur, intoxicated quite a ways up from the aftershocks of this session whose postlude tonight you were now awaiting with much more impatience.

And he feels precisely the same as you both clean up and he notices the tremor in your step that he was responsible for causing, a latent fire growing in his belly as he knows it's all but certain he'll be dripping out of you until the long anticipated moment behind your closed bedroom door when he finally has you all to himself.

"Not even close."

He tells you without speaking, rather in the squeeze of his hand and the glimmer in your eyes that only you two know the true meaning, as you saunter back to your home that awaited with even more love inside.

---

dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[girlywhooooops]

Let me love you out loud

You're not some shiny prize that Future Crown Prince Gojo Satoru is desperately trying to win, no. You're the reason the sun rises. You're the goddess he ever prayed to. He just hopes you'll let him show you that too. cw: fluff, angst if you squint. continuation of Whispers in the Dark but could also be read as a standalone.

"Marry me."

His voice echoes in your ear, louder than the sharp clicks of your heels against the marble in the darkened hallway as you hasten your steps towards the banquet hall. Marry him? You were sure he had lost it. You're thanking your forefathers for the startling noise that broke whatever trance the Future Crown Prince!Satoru had you under leading you to shove him away and run. You only needed to slip into the hall, blend in, maybe eat a macaron or five and help yourself to those delicious peach tarts that the royal chef always—

"Where were you?" You wince slightly at your mother's voice.

"I'd begun to think you’d taken a carriage back home!" Your mother all but wails as she ushers you towards the desserts table while tucking away a loose strand of your hair.

"I was just getting some air, Mum." You mumble, gently pushing her prying hands away. This will be fine. Just another hour and you'll be back in the comfort of your room where you're free to conjure up any and all treasonous imaginations against the white-haired menace. You just need to blend in. Yes, blend in. Macarons. Peach tarts. "What's this on your neck, sweetheart?" You still. "The balcony has some persistent mosquitoes this time of the year." A smooth voice calls out from behind you.

Oh, how you’d love to shove his pretty face into the chocolate fountain.

You turn with a strained smile and greet the man draped in white and powder blue with a halfhearted curtsy. "Your Highness!" Your mother coos, awe evident in her features.

"Please," He kisses the back of your mother's hand with practiced poise. "I spent half my childhood chasing butterflies in your garden, call me Satoru."

Your mother smiles like a proud aunt as she pats his shoulder.

"You're too kind, son. Here to ask my Y/N to a dance, perhaps?"

You stare at your mother in abject horror. Is this how Julius Caesar felt in his final moments? Betrayed by his own kin? You were too lost in trying to process the betrayal to notice Future Crown Prince!Satoru trying to bite back a victorious smirk.

"Only if my lady agrees."

He extends his hand out for you to take, triumphantly. There's no way you could reject in a room full of dignitaries and royalties who have come from far and wide, especially not with the way your mother wears that threatening smile. "I'd be a fool to refuse, Your Highness!" Two can play this game. You see his smile harden as he grits his teeth in annoyance. He takes your hand and leads you to the dance floor.

You wonder if you could be beheaded for deliberately stepping on royalty's feet while dancing. You suppose you could always feign ignorance or blame it on the stuffiness of the room making you lightheaded. It wouldn't hurt to try. As the music fills the room, Future Crown Prince!Satoru pulls you in by your waist.

"Are you going to leave me hanging, my lady?" he breathes in your ear.

You can only hope he does notice you shiver from the proximity. You flash him a sickly sweet grin as you reply,

"I don't believe your highness had asked me a question worth answering." As he twirls you, his grip on your waist tightens. "If my lady insists on acting daft, I suppose I could refresh her memory."

The song slows as he dips you and his face draws impossibly closer.

"I asked you to marry me." His voice low and serious.

Your traitorous heart flips and you shove it all down with a scoff.

Although you hated having to deal with the spoilt prince, you definitely weren't a stranger to it and unfortunately for said spoilt prince, you weren't one to back down from a fight easily.

"If I may be so bold, your highness had uttered the words 'Marry me.' which can hardly be considered a proper sentence, let alone a question." You turn and he holds you by your waist. Future Crown Prince!Satoru balks. Did you just grammar-check his proposal?

"And for all I know, you could've been saying it to the lady behind me in the portrait on the wall you had me caged against."

You turned to face him again, wearing a victorious smile. Gods He could kiss you right now. In front of everyone. Just to wipe that smug grin off your face. Instead he smiles like a wolf. You were playing his game— one he fully intended to win. "You wound me, darling." He pulls you in as the music swells again. "But for what it's worth," He holds you by the small of your waist and leans down to meet your eyes. "I meant every word." Every fragment of your conscience yelled at you to run away but alas— you were already drowning.

"Satoru" you warn. As the music fades, he places a soft kiss to your hand, "Give me a week." His big cerulean eyes look at you pleadingly.

"Let me prove to you how serious I am."

As the silence stretches, you can hear you heart thumping against your ribs, foolishly letting itself fall again— hoping he'd be there to catch it.

Your mind is screaming at you to say no. End it here. But your treacherous heart wins out.

You watch the storm in his eyes still for a moment, like your "yes" is the only answer he's ever needed, as you mumble out, "Okay."

an: you will have to pry the em dashes away from my cold, dead hands. should i do drabbles for each of the seven days?

[hxlxnaaa]

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after a week of silence following the events that spiraled from your fake relationship, there's a knock at your door in the night. the sequel to wishful thinking, read part 1 here!

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: some angst (happy ending), really sappy make up smut, soft sylus, kinda sub sylus if you squint, body worship, female reader

★ 𝐰𝐜: 3.1k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: woot woot part 2 is finally here, sorry for the wait!! i had envisioned this being a two-parter from the start, and i wanted to do a bit of sweet smut hehe. you'll have to pry soft and caring sylus out of my dead cold hands that man is needy and obsessed w mc :(

It had been a week.

A week of nothing, absolute silence. No calls, no texts. It slowly became as if Sylus never even existed.

It was hell at first. My feelings had come on so fast, and then just like that it was over in the blink of an eye. The game of it all, will they or won’t they find out, the lies, the fun. It was exciting, until I started to get hurt; and I wasn’t going to put my own feelings and misery aside at the expense of everyone else.

Slowly, but surely, the days got easier. I had a break from work where I could take the time to put myself back together, though the band aids didn’t heal the wounds. They just helped to ease the ache.

I started to move on. It had been a week; I was going to go back to work, and act as if none of this ever happened.

Then there was a knock at the door.

It came in the middle of the night, and I just assumed it was one of my neighbors telling me to turn my TV down, or Xavier dropping off a game he had borrowed.

When I opened it, outside in the complex's hallway stood a sopping wet Sylus, drenched from the storm outside. His silver hair was messy, sticking to his forehead, his clothes disheveled as if he had thrown them on in a rush. A look of desperation resided on his face, replacing his usual calm and smug demeanor.

Not seeing him for a week was not something out of the blue, but the big bad leader showing up at my doorstep shivering like a wet cat was. Especially after everything that happened.

My heart felt like it lurched out of my chest, and all the bandages I had tried wrapping around it came loose in one swift movement. All the healing I had done flew outside the door I had opened and stood beside Sylus, mocking me.

I almost slammed the door closed, angry at his audacity, showing up at my place in the heat of the night after not speaking to me. Angry at everything that happened. Angry, hurt.

A whisper of my name escaped his lips, and I froze. It wasn’t often he called me by my name, only addressing me with his usual pet names.

“What are you doing here?” I questioned, hesitant about this whole exchange.

He glared at me, “That’s no way to speak to someone in distress.”

Angry.

I went to shut the door in his face, pissed off and violent, but he stopped it with his hand.

“Wait, I’m sorry.” The apology felt foreign coming out of him, “Can I come in?”

The look on his face went soft, and it almost looked as if he was going to cry. Everything about this was so out of character for him, and if I wasn’t so angry, maybe I’d even feel sorry for him.

Without a word, I pulled the door back open, stepping aside for him to come in. He was obviously cold, and it seemed like was trying his hardest to keep himself together.

“Don’t sit on the couch, you’re wet.” Maybe I was being mean, maybe he was undeserving of my anger, maybe letting him in was a mistake. I sighed, “Sylus, why are you here?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.” His words were hard, and his stare was piercing. Normally I would feel uncomfortable under his gaze, but the exasperation I felt from his words outweighed that.

I scoffed, “I’ve been ignoring you? You haven’t reached out, what was there to ignore?”

“You’ve been ignoring me, you’ve been pulling back. I know you know I’m not stupid, kitten.”

He was right, he wasn’t stupid. When I started pulling away, he started pushing harder, and I could tell he knew I was almost done.

“Okay?” I crossed my arms, avoiding his eyes, “Then you started ignoring me. We’re even.”

“No.” He shot out, taking a step towards me, “That’s not how that works. I was waiting for anything from you, but it never came.”

“What did I do? What did I do wrong?” Sylus tilted his head forward, and I started to finally feel guilty. All of this was so different for him, when Sylus was upset he became mean, aggressive. He put up walls, started fights. For him to be so…pitiful, where was all of this coming from?

“I don’t understand what you mean-” He cut me off with a forced laugh, “You don’t understand? I don’t know how much more obvious I can be, sweetie.”

“Okay,” He paused, “I love you.”

My heart stopped. For a second, the world stopped spinning. It’s like everything, all at once, came to a halt with Sylus’ confession.

“You…love me?” The words tasted bitter on my tongue. This was not how this was supposed to go. I loved him, that’s why I had to stop all of this, so it didn’t continue. It couldn’t continue. He cannot love me back.

“Why else do you think I threw myself into all of that? Why do you think I didn’t want anybody else to do it? Because I was bored? I have plenty of other things to do in my spare time.” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading for me to understand.

“Sylus, I-”

“For a second, I thought you loved me too.” Sylus sounded desperate, “But then you pulled back. You disappeared.”

He grabbed my hands, “Tell me, sweetie, what did I do wrong?”

“You love me.” I whispered, “That’s what you did wrong.”

Sylus let go, taking a step back. He ran his hand through his hair, a sorry attempt to pull himself back together, “I apologize,” He said, “I misunderstood this then.”

I looked at him, his appearance disordered and disheartened. The once prideful and arrogant man was now broken down to nothing but a shell of himself, and I realized the cause of that was me. Sylus was never one to back down from a fight, yet here he was throwing up a white flag.

He went to leave, turning his back to me. Turning his back to whatever was happening, breaking the character I had come to know. Going down without a fight. This broken man wasn’t Sylus.

“I love you too.” The words came out rushed, in a hurry to stop him. Announcing my own declaration of love wasn’t something I had intended to do, planning to keep it inside for all of eternity, letting the poisonous feeling bubble inside until it ate me alive.

Sylus stopped in his tracks.

“Then why is this wrong?” He didn’t turn back around to face me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. I’d crumble and fall if I saw his eyes.

“It would never work,” I let it all out, everything I had been holding in for so long, all the insecurities I had collected regarding any kind of relationship I could have with Sylus. “I’m a hunter, and you’re the head of Onychinus. We’re in two different worlds, living such different lives, it’s doomed. All of this is doomed.”

“Do you really think I care?”

His fingers suddenly gripped my chin with a possessive hold, as if he thought I might run off again. Trying to pull myself away, his grip tightened on my face, as well as the hold he had on my heart.

“It doesn’t matter if you care or not,” I gave him a weak glare, trying to scare him off, “don’t be selfish, Sylus. We’ll both just get hurt.”

Sylus lips twitched downwards, “I think you should allow yourself to be selfish for once.” His grasp left my face, “Do what you please.”

We stood in silence for a second, and I set my gaze upon the floor to avoid his stare, his red eyes penetrating my soul.

“What are you thinking?” He finally asked. I hesitated, not exactly sure what the right answer really was. I could continue to fight this feeling, or jump into the water.

“I’m scared.” I confessed, “I don’t want to get hurt. I can’t go through all of that, all of the heartache when things go wrong.”

“Now why do you think I would ever let that happen, sweetie?”

Sylus grabbed my hand, placing it against his heart, “This beats for you, I live for you.” I felt the quick, erratic rhythm of his heartbeat under my fingers, “I never stop missing you when you’re not around, every second you’re not beside me is misery.”

“I'll love you until my last breath, and even in the heavens too.” He pulls my hand up, placing a kiss against my palm, “I will never let anything happen to you, I could never live with myself if I hurt you.”

He kisses the back of my hand, my wrist, all the way up my arm to my collarbone, “I will do anything to make this work - if this falls apart, I’ll just put it back together. I need you by my side.”

I feel his soft breathing against the crook of my neck, and goosebumps rise on my skin. I want to fall into him, let myself become loose in his embrace and learn to trust his promises.

“But if you don’t want it, just say that.” Sylus presses one last kiss to the skin of my neck, “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave through that door, and I won’t bother you again.”

“Sylus…” I can only manage a whisper of his name. Everything else gets caught in my throat, my mind a tangled mess of emotions.

His face is inches from mine, and he quickly gives me an amused smile, “That's not a no.”

Before I can respond, even think of something to say, he captures my lips with his own. The strong smell of his cologne mixed with the taste of his mouth against mine makes me dizzy. The room and everything in it has suddenly become so warm, and my skin feels as if it’s been lit on fire.

Sylus pushes my body up against the wall behind us, hands trailing up my curves, grabbing at anything he can. His fingers embed themselves in my hips, waist, thighs, trying to pull me any closer.

“I’ll ask you again, sweetie,” He pulls away and I’m left standing there breathless with an unwavering grip on his (still) damp sweater, “do you want me to stop?”

I tangle my fingers in his wet hair, bringing his face back down to mine.

“No.” I whisper against Sylus’ lips, before crashing mine against his feverishly. Every feeling I had for him, everything I had suppressed, all of it was going into this kiss. He groaned into my mouth, his hold on me becoming tighter.

It all made perfect sense; The way our lips moved in sync, how our bodies fit perfectly together, our minds addicted to the thoughts of one another. We were, to put it simply, made for this. Our souls intertwined with ease as we found solace and safety in each other. All of the fear I had been plagued with dissipated with the consolation of Sylus’ body against mine. I was no longer scared of this not working, all I cared about was him.

After all, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

With one swift movement Sylus lifted me off my feet and cradled me with ease, maneuvering around my apartment as if it was his own.

Before I could even register I was in my bedroom, I was pinned against the mattress in the safe confine of his arms.

“Please,” His breathing was ragged, “let me show you how well I can treat you, let me touch you how you deserve.”

I lean up and kiss him between his furrowed brows, and he takes the opportunity to dive for my neck.

“Please.” Sylus repeats again. His eyes are practically begging. I give him a nod.

Stripping me of my shirt, he places gentle kisses down my torso down to the waistband of my shorts. Goosebumps rise on my skin from the cold air mixed with his gentle touch. His rough, calloused hands hold my hips like glass, a finger slowly pulling my shorts off my legs. A hiss of air leaves his lungs when Sylus sits back to take me in.

“Fuck.” He whispers, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for... Thought about having you like this.”

I give him a sheepish smile, “Is it worth the wait?”

His adams apple bobs in his throat as he swallows whatever words were going to leave his lips, running his hands up my thighs and waist. Sylus’ eyes travel up my figure, almost as if memorizing every dip and curve of my body.

“Every single second was worth it.” His voice was soft, “You’re perfect.”

Sylus leans down, pressing his lips to the bone where my hips and pelvis meet. He picks my leg up, lightly lifting it over his shoulder, resting his head on the inside of my thigh and looking up at me through his eyelashes.

He looks angelic, pure almost, glowing in the moonlight that spills through the window. His dominant, hard-bitten and arrogant exterior had disintegrated into nothing but his surrender as he lay open and bare for me in between my legs. All the walls I knew Sylus to have crumbled and fell, his only goal to show me that I’m loved; serving to please.

The tip of one of his fingers slides up my slit, and my breath catches in my throat. Sylus pauses, “Is this okay?”

“More than okay.” I confirm.

He quickly discards the cloth separating him from the heat in between my thighs, placing a gentle kiss to the place that craves him the most.

A moan escapes me as his lips latch onto my clit. My hands weave themselves through his hair, “Oh God, Sy- Do that again-”

Sylus groans into my core, worshiping the sex and heart that weeps for him, and only him. I twitch my hips towards his face, my mind reeling with the feeling that emits from his mouth.

“Yes-” He pushes a finger into me, easing the ache deep inside, “Be greedy, kitten, use me as you wish.”

I can only manage whimpers of his name, my brain incoherent and high on his mouth and touch as his tongue and fingers work magic. Tugging on the silver strands that grace his pretty head, the moan that leaves him vibrates against me, and I think for a second I might be done for.

“Mm, Sylus, wait-”

“That’s it, sweetie. Getting close?” His fingers curl up inside me and I shake my head, not wanting to finish so soon, “No, I-”

He pulls back and sits up as soon as the word leaves me, and I almost sob at the loss of contact. Sylus’ eyes scan my face with concern, and I pull him back down on top of me. His chest heaving against mine, he plants a kiss to the corner of my eye, “I thought I-”

“Not yet, fuck me.” Cutting him off, I push my body up against his.

“Of course, kitten,” Within seconds his pants and briefs were discarded somewhere in the room, my thighs instinctively wrapping around his hips, “who am I to deny you?”

His hard length pressed up against my entrance, the desperation making me crazy.

“Sylus, please-” I tried to push my hips forward, longing for more. He cupped my cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, inching deeper agonizingly slow, “Patience, sweetie. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t!” Despite my reassurance, Sylus’ eyes were still filled with worry. Using my legs that were wrapped around him, I yanked his hips forward and with one fell swoop he was to the hilt inside.

Spasming around him at the sudden fullness, I sunk my teeth into his collarbone to stifle a scream. I could feel myself gripping him like a vice, his moaning and panting in my ear a sweet confirmation.

“I told you I could do it.” I lapped at the broken skin where I had bitten.

Sylus laughed lowly against my lips, “I didn’t mean to doubt you, kitten.”

The movement of his hips were rhythmic, every thrust sending me deeper into a spiral of love and pleasure. My thoughts were nothing but static, only focusing on the beautiful man in front of me and how good he was capable of making me feel.

His own moans were strangled, groaning praises and muttering sweet nothings into my ear. Sylus thrusted deeply into me, tightly holding my hand as if he thought I and this moment were going to disappear. His eyes would snap open and flutter closed with every movement, relishing in the feeling of our bodies together.

My skin was electric, fireworks setting off in every corner of my being. My mind spun with the addictive feeling and taste of Sylus’ sweet lips on mine, his fingers digging into my hips.

He and I together were not doomed, though us being apart was. We were magnetic, velcro, sworn to be together. We were aligned in ways I wasn’t sure was even possible.

“Tell me again that you love me,” Sylus trapped my head in between his arms, “tell me that this is okay and you want it.” His eyes were misty, his voice hoarse.

“I love you.” I mewled as his thrusts were getting faster, harder.

“I can be good for you, I’ll take care of you, please just let me be yours. Please be mine, let me have this.”

The familiar feeling rose inside, and I knew I was close, “Yes, Sy- I’m all yours.”

“I love you, I love you, I love- Fuck-” His hips snapped against mine at a pace that had me seeing stars, “My girl, you’re my girl. Mine-”

His girl.

I came undone with a loud moan of Sylus’ name, scratching my fingers sharply down his back, arching myself deep against him. His hips stuttered against mine, reaching his own high. Wrapping each other in our arms, trying to pull one another any impossibly closer. So close our souls could touch.

I didn’t just want Sylus, no, I needed him. It wasn’t until I found him that I discovered the large, empty sorrowful space that resided in my life. A space that I was always too scared to confront, a space that he fit into so perfectly.

Some force in this massive universe decided to pair me with him, to make me his, and I was tired of being scared and ignoring it.

“I love you, Sylus.”

tag list!! ty all for the support <3

@crowskitten22 @peacedreamer14 @phantom-101 @evilldentists @ionlypartiallyslay @fealy @sellelqvz @huachengnism @mandysfanfics @shiorihoshino @sinnamon-bunn @knifep-rty @l0bulariia @knifep-rty @yoyach @ononpetitecroissant @syluslittlecrows @beewilko @unbetirtlt @sylus-crow

[after-witch]

Bus Stop [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Title: Bus Stop [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve escaped from Geto–but for how long?

Word count: 3200ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, noncon sex scene, female reader, degradation

Despite everything that has happened to you within the last year, your hands have never shook so much; your breath has never been this ragged, this desperate; your chest has never heaved and pleaded with the most fervent of thoughts: please, please, for the love of everything I used to believe in, answer your door!

It feels like your knuckles will begin to bleed against the wood grain but then, the door opens so swiftly that your hand falls forward and you nearly stumble over the threshold.

A man is standing in the doorway. A man with a button down sweater and a concerned, fretful expression--well, no wonder, with the way you’d been rapping on his door.

The man is your psychologist. Mr. Mayeda. You’ve been going to him for several years–or at least, you were going to him, before everything happened. Before you were taken and kept and–

His eyes widen. He takes in your state. Oh, how you must look. Forehead beaded with sweat, eyes round and pleading.

And then there is the matter of the collar around your neck.

“Come in,” he says, sounding dazed and concerned all in one breath. “Tell me what’s happened.”

–

“Will you miss me, pet?”

You nod, and keep your eyes downcast. He likes your eyes downcast when you’re in the presence of anyone else–like now. Unless he tells you to look at him. But even when you’re alone with Geto, you’re prone to keeping your eyes glued to the floor, your lap, the ceiling. Anywhere but his face.

“Do speak up,” he says, trailing a finger possessively along your cheek.

“Yes, master Geto,” you murmur. “Please return quickly.”

He pats your head. Like a dog, like a pet. Because that’s what you’ve become, isn’t it? His pet. You even sit at his knees when he’s addressing his legions of followers, most of whom you can’t stand; and the ones you can stand only possess that particular description because you haven’t really met them yet. 

This one, the woman Geto is leaving to monitor you while he’s off on some awful errand, is not someone new. She’s someone who dislikes you out of jealousy or supremacy or perhaps a bubbling mixture of both.

But there’s an advantage in that. She doesn’t try to talk with you, like some of the milder ones do. As soon as Geto is gone, she throws a disdainful glare your way and gets out her phone. She doesn’t even bother staying in the room with you; she goes into the next room and slides the door shut. She’ll talk to her boyfriend until she hears the telltale sound of Geto’s footsteps leading up to the room, then pretend like she’s been happily watching over you the whole time.

Which means she won’t notice when you pry open a loose floorboard and retrieve a backpack you’ve stuffed with papers, with cash, with a few necessities. 

Which means you’ll have an easier time escaping. 

Which means you’ll finally be free.

It almost seems too easy, when you make it out of the compound. You expect Geto to pounce on you at any moment. But you make it out,  you do, and you make it to a bus station and slide some of the money you stole from Geto’s room over to the ticket counter.

You could call the police. But Geto would look for you there first. He would know you’d run, little rabbit that you are, to the only authority you could think of; but they couldn’t protect you. Not from him. 

So your mind drums up the only address you can really remember–that of your psychologist’s office–and you ask the ticket taker for the next bus to the city.

–

Mr. Mayeda does not say anything at first. 

Even though what you’ve told him sounds wild. And crazy. And wholly made up. That is to say, you’ve told him everything. About how Geto Suguru can control monsters, only they’re not simply monsters, but curses. About how he sees them and eats them and hoards them, like he’s tucking them away for some awful winter. About how he kidnapped you and kept you, how he treated you like a pet, how he wouldn’t let you go. 

About how you escaped and didn’t know where else to turn.

“I know,” you say, leaning forward, arms crossed over yourself. “I know it sounds crazy. But you have to believe me.”

Mr. Mayeda frowns. 

You pull your backpack into your lap and rummage through it, until 

“I didn’t believe any of it myself at first.” Memories come flooding in. Those early days,, spent crying, gritting your teeth so hard that your jaw ached for a week, unbelieving everything Geto told you in the calmest, most horrible tones. “But it’s true. And–and I don’t know where to go or what to do. He’ll try to find me, and, and…” Your breath begins to quicken, your heart pounds. How could you think you’d be free? Oh, he’ll find you, and kill poor Mr. Mayeda, and then where will you be? What will he do? 

You’re only barely aware of your hyperventilation when Mr. Mayeda places a firm hand on your shoulder. He says your name. He says it again. And again. And when you look at him, eyes bleary with tears, he speaks again. 

“You have to calm down. I can’t help you until you calm down.”

His voice is an anchor in the storm. Help you, he said. Help.

 Your hand shakily goes up to clasp his; it’s a foreign touch, the first person that you’ve touched since Geto took you. No one else was allowed to, except Manami, but that was only in case of emergencies. 

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” Your voice is a hoarse croak. 

Mr. Mayeda gives your fingers a squeeze, and then lets you go. He stands up and looks down at you with a sympathetic smile.

“I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re very upset, and need someone to listen to you.” He sighs and looks you over. “I’d like to grab your file from my office. Would you like anything? A glass of water? Food?” 

“Oh–oh yes, water, please. If it’s not any trouble.” Your stomach growls, but you don’t think you could keep anything down right now, anyway. 

And what does food matter, when he’s going to help you? When he believes you? You’d imagined this conversation so many times. In some of them, he escorts you out of the building and slams the door in your face. In others, he has you picked up by ambulance and committed to a hospital for delusions. In others, he yells at you for wasting his time.

But instead he doesn’t think you’re crazy and he’s going to help and it’s the best possible outcome. One that you, in your hopeless state, didn’t even foresee.

By the time he returns with a glass of water, your breathing has returned. You smile wearily and wipe your clammy hands before you take the glass. The water is cool and refreshing down your sore throat. 

Mr. Mayeda gives you a few moments before he begins to speak. He has your file now, and opens it up on his lap.

“I need to ask you a few things. Just to get an idea of how we should proceed, all right? Please let me know if you feel uncomfortable.”

You set the empty water glass down and nod. What’s a few questions, compared to the hell you’ve been living?

“Have you been to your home, since you’ve left this mysterious compound?”

“No.”

He scratches the answer on the pad.

“Did you call anyone else, or contact anyone else except for me?”

“No.”

Scratch-scratch.

“So no one else knows you’re here?”

“No.” You bite your lip, and ask questions of your own. “What are we going to do? Where can we go? Do you know anyone that can help?” 

He raises his hand.

“One thing at a time. First, I’d like to get everything straight on your end.” 

You nod, and bring your knees up on the chair, feeling like a child in a doctor’s office for the first time in ages.

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I’m just…” You don’t finish.

Mr. Mayeda simply smiles, pity in his expression. You don’t need to explain to him what you are “just,” because he’s confident and calm and he knows exactly what to do.  “That’s all right. I understand this is stressful. I’m going to go make a call, and then we’ll talk about what we can do next. Okay?”

You nod. You don’t want him to leave you–he’s going to help you–and worries begin to creep in about Geto somehow finding you here. Maybe you had a tracker on you that you didn’t know about. Maybe there was a curse attached to your shoulder and he’d simply sniff it out. 

Maybe you were too anxious to think straight.

By the time he returns, your knee is bouncing. He regards it with a frown, and you force yourself to stop.  You don’t want him to be mad at you–you want him to help you. He said he’d help you. You just don’t know what he can do to save you from Geto. What anyone could do. 

But he sits down, and gets out your file again. Then he begins to go through every detail of your story, confirming, questioning, writing down notes. It’s hard–you start to cry, thinking about everything–but it’s necessary to create a plan of action. Right? 

In the midst of all this, the doorbell buzzes.

He sighs, and his frown deepens. He must have forgotten an appointment–you can’t blame him, with your sudden arrival.  “Let me get that. I’ll just have them reschedule the appointment.” When he gets up from his chair, he looks older in the moment; more tired and slow. Well, the stress of you dropping your predicament in his lap can’t exactly be easy to take. 

You wipe your teary eyes, and grab a tissue to blow your nose. You hope he doesn’t have to reschedule too many clients because of you. You don’t want to be too much trouble.  You just want to be safe and free and–

Geto and Manami walk through the open doorway of the office, and your stomach drops to your shoes. 

Behind them, Mr. Mayeda looks remorseful. 

“I had to,” he says, voice quavering. “My daughter–she… she’s used his services, you see.” 

Geto looks back at Mr. Mayeda, who immediately shuts up and stares at the floor. 

Ah. So he threw you back to the wolves to protect someone he loved. You can’t begrudge him for it. Not really.

But it doesn’t change the loss of your short-lived freedom. 

–

Manami drives. You don’t have the strength to look anywhere but your own lap, at your hands curled up so tight that they hurt, resting on your thighs. 

Geto hasn’t said a thing since he collected you. 

“Suguru,” you say, voice shaking through the words. “I… ” You’re about to lie. He knows this. You know this. But he’s never minded you lying, before, as long as you said what he wanted. “I won’t do it again, I promise.” Still, he says nothing. 

“Suguru–” you try again. He finally looks at you, a slow, languid turn of his head. His lips curl just a little. Not in a way that makes you feel good. 

 His voice is soft and sweet as honey. His words are anything but.

“You think you have the right to address me right now?” 

He’s angry. Not just annoyed, not just mad, not just disappointed. Angry. It’s a heavy, dreadful feeling that glues you to the seat just as well as any bonds. 

Gravity seems to pull your chin down, until you’re once again staring at your lap.

This time, you clench your fingernails so hard that your palm bleeds. 

–

You don’t remember the walk back into the compound. You didn’t dare look up from the ground underneath your feet–walking step by step behind Geto, even though you wanted nothing more than to run in the opposite direction–to see the expressions of those devout followers. No doubt some were glaring as much as they dared.

It’s not until you’re back in Geto’s quarters and Manami has been dismissed that you hazard a glance at something other than your shoes, now dirty from your short journey outside these walls. 

You look up at Geto, who is standing, silent, head tilted just-so as he stares at you. When he finally opens his mouth, he issues a command.

“Go to the bedroom.”

They are words to be obeyed, and you do. 

He’s not yet in the room when he continues the orders.

“Disrobe. Lay on the bed. Spread your legs. Do not speak.”

Dread pools in your stomach, thick and slimy. It makes you want to run into the bathroom and hurl the contents of your last meal into the toilet. But you dare not deviate from what he’s said, not when the world feels so heavy; not when you know he’s angry with you.

So you slip off your clothing and lay on the bed and spread your legs. The cool air of the bedroom does nothing but increase your trembling as thoughts come one by one.

What does Geto intend to do? Something related to sex, surely. Maybe he’ll fuck you so hard that you can’t sit properly for days. Maybe he’ll make you lay here, naked, simply for his own amusement. Maybe he’ll hurt you, finally, and that underlying, coil-tight fear you’ve had since the moment you were kidnapped can finally release.

After far too long for your mental sanity, Geto finally does come into the room, stripped down to only an undershirt and thin cotton pants. Casual clothing he only wears around you, and no one else. Maybe he expects that to be flattering, but for whom, you can’t quite tell.

He crawls on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress. 

He places his hands on either thigh, and pushes your legs further apart. 

You wait for some pain–the pain of him entering you without preparation, perhaps, or something more insidious. The crack of his hand. The crack of a leather belt. 

But you wait in vain, because instead of pain–instead of something harsh and cruel–you instead feel the soft touch of his fingers against your folds. His thumb rests softly against your clit, and begins to rub, sending an unwelcome jolt through you. 

“Suguru?” You ask, and boldly prop yourself up on your elbows. 

“I told you not to speak,” he murmurs, and you press your lips together. Now, you think, surely he will hit you.

But no. Instead he returns to his former ministrations, gently rubbing against your clit, other fingers gently squeezing the flesh of your pussy. It almost tickles, pleasantly. After a while, the dull pleasure begins to heighten, and you can feel a mild orgasm beginning to reach its peak. 

He stops. The pleasure hovers for a moment, and then begins to fade. 

He begins again. 

You want to ask him what he’s doing; you want to ask him why he stopped. But his order to remain quiet thrums through your head and you merely keep your head back on the bed, staring at the plain ceiling above you. 

The pleasure is different now. Sharper. Wetter. Instead of a dull, mild orgasm, it begins to feel like the ones you’ve had with him before; the ones where he spends a while building you up, getting you wet, wanting to hear you moan. 

Your breath begins to catch in your throat, and you can’t help but squirm your hips. It feels good,  you don’t want it, but he knows your body well enough to make it feel good.

And like before, you can feel yourself starting to reach your peak, getting to the point when pleasure becomes sparks. And–like before. 

He stops. 

And begins again. 

And stops. 

And begins again.

Until you are wet, and sweating, and squirming. Until your breath is not mildly catching in your throat but coming out in desperate pants. Until your hands are clenching the sheets. 

Until you are crying out, not because of pain and a sharp slap against your skin, but the unbearable heat that has built between your legs. A heat which Geto has carefully stoked with his fingers and his mouth, and the unrelenting pattern of bringing you to the top, only to let you fall before bringing you there once again.

You know you’re not supposed to speak. But you can’t help it, you just can’t help it. Not with the way his thumb is idly circling your clit. Not with the sweat clinging to your back. Not with the way your head begins to turn side to side of its own accord, unable to deal with the teasing. 

“Suguru–” Your voice is a needy whine. “Please, please–”

“Apologize,” he says, simply. Calmly. All the while continuing to slowly rub your clit with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” you croak. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

His thumb pauses, and you can feel your clit twitching against it.

“But do you mean it?” 

“Yes!” You don’t hesitate. Tears leak from your eyes. Wetness leaks from in between your legs.

“Then beg.” He keeps his thumb hovered above your clit. “Beg like you’re my pet. Because that’s what you are, isn’t it?”

Your thighs tremble. Your lips quiver.

“Please, Suguru.” Your cheeks heat in shame, but what shame can you truly hold onto, when your pussy is this wet, when you’re gyrating against him so pathetically? You say everything you think he wants to hear. “I’m your pet, I won’t run again, I’ll do what you say–”

You feel half-delirious, raising your hips towards the air to try to get some friction against his finger. All you succeed in doing is humping yourself against him, teasing your swollen clit with the promise of an orgasm that can only come from his fingers.

After a while, your words trail off into a pathetic whimper.

It’s then that Geto crawls up further on the bed and plants a kiss on your forehead. 

You sigh in relief. 

“No,” he says. “Bad pets don’t get rewarded, do they?”

You have only a moment to think before he yanks your sweaty wrists up and ties them to the headboard with cuffs he must have put there before he even collected you from Mr. Mayeda’s office. You pull against them once before he gives you a harsh look that makes you freeze. Once he’s satisfied with your stillness, he begins to take off his own clothes. 

“I would make you sleep on the floor,” he murmurs, shrugging off his shirt. “But that would be a punishment to me, to deny myself your body, no?” 

You can only shake your head in response as you shift your legs, trying to catch the fleeting orgasm that has begun to fade even further from your grasp. Geto raises an eyebrow and places his palm firmly on your hip to keep you in place. 

Once you stop squirming–it’s useless, you realize–he sighs and cuddles against you. It might be sweet, if he wasn’t who he was; if you weren’t in the position that you’re in. If there wasn’t an aching, warm soreness between your legs that has gone unfulfilled. 

His voice is not so sweet when he whispers against your ear.

“If you ever try something so foolish again, I won’t be kind about it.”

[muletia]

I have not been able to stop thinking of smokescreen being one with boobs think we could get more of that pretty please like oh god him just being obsessed with your body and adoring it

obsessed!smokescreen x human!reader very suggestive/sexual content

cw: possessiveness, clinginess, breast play

word count: 1000

"Smokescreen" a reprimand.

"Hmm?" and a cheerful hum.

You glare at the large helm blocking your laptop screen, leaving no illusions about how much you currently disapprove of his clinginess. When all you get in return is an even wider, confident smirk and Smokescreen leaning in to steal a kiss, you reach your limit. You press your palm against the center of his faceplate, covering his intake, and try to clear the space between you and your laptop by pushing him away with all your strength. Naturally, it ends in utter failure. Smokescreen doesn’t budge.

"You won’t succeed, sweetspark," he says, his voice muffled by your hand. "No force in the world can pull me away from you right now."

As he starts placing small, quick kisses on the inside of your palm, you groan in frustration.

Sometimes, his clinginess was honestly endearing, especially after a long separation, when you finally had free time to lounge together on the couch in the garage, showering each other with affection all day long. But today, it was giving you nothing but a headache. You had mountains of overdue work to catch up on, which you had informed him about beforehand, adding that you wouldn’t be able to meet up today. You just hadn’t expected that he’d come to visit anyway, barge into your home, and sprawl out on your bed with you, making it nearly impossible to get anything done with his unrestrained longing.

"Don’t you have some Decepticon afts to kick?" you ask, craning your head in every direction in search of a good place to actually see what you do.

"Naaah, not today. Today, I’m all yours," he says between kisses. "I mean… I’m always yours, of course! Only yours. But today especially."

His large optics gaze at you, but you refuse to make eye contact. You’re still trying to find a way to ignore his advances, which hurts but also fuels his determination to keep vying for your attention. He hasn’t had many chances to do so lately. Smokescreen wanted to make the most of every nanoklik together, not feel like a third wheel between you and your laptop.

"Come on, sweetspark," he whines, prying your hand away from his faceplate. "Let’s do something fun. Maybe we can try beating our last record on the track, hm?"

"Sorry, Smokes. I’m not going anywhere." You sigh. "I have to finish this work, so be a good mech and find something to do."

"Can I keep myself busy with you?"

That question makes you want to scream, but before you explode, an idea forms in your head.

"Actually… you can," you say.

Smokescreen’s faceplate lights up with joy, as if you had just gifted him a star from the sky. He’s already preparing to bury you under an avalanche of kisses when you stop him with an outstretched hand. A single optical ridge rises.

"Give me your servo," you encourage, and Smokescreen obeys without hesitation. "I’ll give you something to play with since you’re so adamant about not backing off. Just, for the love of God, be gentle."

You guide his large servo under your loose T-shirt until it reaches your chest. At the contact with hard metal, you shiver slightly, but you leave his servo there. Immediately, his thumb begins stroking your skin.

You’re lucky you didn’t wear a bra today.

"Wow," Smokescreen sighs, utterly captivated by the softness and plumpness of your breasts. "They’re so soft."

"And sensitive," you warn. "Don’t squeeze too hard, alright?"

"Mhm," he hums, unable to tear his gaze away from his servo working under your shirt.

"Here’s the deal. You let me finish my work in peace, and then we’ll think about breaking that record, okay?"

"Mhm," another barely coherent response. But you’d take that over having his helm constantly shoved in front of your laptop.

Smokescreen found himself on a cloud nine.

He had experienced the softness of your body before. He was convinced he knew it by heart, and though every time he held and touched you was pure bliss, it didn’t even compare to what he was feeling now.

Remembering to be gentle, he alternates between squeezing and stroking, familiarizing himself with this new shape, savoring how easily your flesh yields under his fingers and then bounces back into place when released. He quickly becomes mesmerized by the sensation and craves more. He squeezes again, and again, and again, sometimes gathering more from the left, sometimes from the right, utterly enchanted by the plushness you’ve allowed him to experience, yet profoundly grateful for this taste of true happiness.

Smokescreen suddenly feels the overwhelming need to share that happiness with you. To show you just how grateful he is in the only way he knows how.

Yet, he cannot let go of his selfish desires in the process.

"So?" you ask after several minutes of silence. "Do you like it?"

"I want more," Smokescreen whispers.

"Uh, sure. The other one’s all yours."

"No. I want more," he says mysteriously, staring at your chest like a predator eyeing its prey.

You stop working just in time for the attack.

With a speed unfathomable to you, Smokescreen pushes your shirt up and slips his helm underneath. Without wasting a second, a dense rain of kisses descends upon your chest, starting from your sternum and eventually moving to your breast, kissing all around your nipple and in less precise spots.

"Incorrigible!" you shout.

You pull at the collar of your shirt to investigate what he’s doing, hoping he might reconsider upon seeing your fury, but Smokescreen has no intention of looking up — far too absorbed in worshipping your body.

Which is adorable and lovely… just not when you need to work.

"Primus, you’re so beautiful and soft," he murmurs. He momentarily latches onto the skin of your inner breast, attempting to leave a peculiar hickey, which he successfully does after a few moments. "I don’t want to break any records today," he informs you, nuzzling against your left breast, rubbing his faceplate over it. "I want to stay right here. Forever."

[icallhimjoey]

would you ever write something fluffy with drunk reader? or some other variation of that trope, your ideas and writing are always so good

ok babes, i gotchu - im bringing back tupperware!joe bc ive gotten a couple of requests for him too and i thought he'd fit the bill for this one! lets not mention that i shouldnt be writing atm, hope you enjoy! Wordcount: 3.8K

---

Only When You're Spinning

You’re out.

Together.

Not at a party, not exactly. But definitely a party-adjacent gathering in a converted warehouse flat where the floorboards creak and there’s a suspiciously placed disco ball. A friend of a friend of Joe’s who’d grown up with too much money to not turn weirdly artsy and eccentric had invited him.

Yea… it actually totally is a party, but that’s not what Joe said when he asked you to come.

You weren’t going to go – you had already mentally committed to a night of pasta and pajamas – but then Joe asked, and he looked very handsome when he did, and, you see, you have precious little resistance when it comes to Joe and the way his mouth curves around your name when he’s looking you in the eye.

“We’re having a normal week, aren’t we? Come on. Let’s go. Come with me.”

Normal week meaning: Joe got to be a real life couple with you in every sense of the word, and you hadn’t fully squirmed away from all of it for a good few days.

He knows that eventually there’s going to be a tipping point where he’ll touch your ear and suddenly you won’t be able to make eye contact with him for a while.

“Okay, fine.”

This party might actually do it, Joe realises when he sees you hold yourself together as you drink a tepid cocktail out of a jam jar, answering questions a stranger is asking you about Joe because you’re an item now. Joe hopes you’re going to ride this wave of public normalcy for a bit longer though, but there’s only so much you’re able to handle.

Joe sees how quickly you’re draining that drink.

Sees how you’re evading giving detailed answers.

Sees how you grow a little more nervous as two other people step into your conversation.

Sees how your shoulders drop when the topic changes and the attention shifts to someone else.

Sees how you try not to visibly flinch while a man in a leather waistcoat steers the conversation to the symbolism of his tattoo sleeve. You didn’t think there could be anything worse than being questioned about Joe, but, you’ve just been proven royally wrong. You’re not sure which of the symbols represents ‘involuntary celibacy,’ but it’s probably the one he won’t shut up about.

Yea, Joe will have to be a bit more generous with distance after this, he thinks.

You’re not even aware of Joe’s prying eyes, observing you from across the room. You think maybe he’s somewhere in the kitchen. Or the hallway. Or trapped in a conversation about horror tropes with the only other person here who’s seen The Descent more than once.

You’d go and find him, but there’s a strange safety in not being stood next to him.

You’re not worried. Joe’s got a way of always finding his way back to you, and when he does, it’s like the room tilts toward him.

It’s getting later, and you end up with an actual friend who seems to think everyone is just as pretentious as you think they are. A couple more drinks get made, and before you know it, you’re actually enjoying yourself. Or, to put it a little more accurately: you’re getting drunk.

You’re in the middle of a weird game where you have to estimate how much money someone named Matt would be willing to pay to have sex with his celebrity crush according to someone named Jill. You don’t know Matt or Jill, and you don’t fully know if you’ve understood the rules of this weird game correctly, but you’re giggling away when suddenly, two arms wrap around you from behind.

Warm palms move slowly over your stomach from where they grabbed onto you by your hips.

Joe’s surprised you don’t flinch at all.

You’re loose-limbed and warm, most likely from the amount of drinks you’ve had, and then you even place a hand over the arms that he’s got around your waist to keep him there.

It’s strange to anticipate a reaction that he knows you would’ve given had you not been intoxicated, and to instead be fully allowed to tug you into his chest and land his chin on your shoulder like it lives there.

He’ll take it though, obviously.

Loves that this is something that he can just do now if he catches you in the right mood.

And then… you lean back.

Joe has to suppress a gasp.

He can’t fucking believe it.

You’ve become part of a little group of people and you’re leaning into him without even thinking about it, eyewitnesses galore.

A public display of affection.

A real public display of romantic affection that you’re accepting without a squirm or an eye-roll.

Joe wants to gift you the entire world for it.

Wants to thank you for not shoving an elbow into his ribs.

Wants to kiss you all over the side of your face.

Pull you into that one tiny bedroom that served as a makeshift cloakroom for the night.

Show his appreciation for you even coming with him in the first place.

But, at the same time, he feels like he can’t make a big deal out of your little lean, or of the fingernails that are slowly scratching over his forearms that are giving him goosebumps. You don’t need a big push to take it all away immediately.

“Do you think that Jill thinks that Matt would pay over 50K to fuck Cate Blanchett?” you ask, pulling Joe into whatever you’re talking about.

“I– what? Surely anyone would fuck Cate for free, no?”

There’s a couple of laughs, and the game continues around you as you turn in Joe’s arms a little.

“I’m... no, it’s about what Jill thinks,” you blink slowly, then frown in confusion. “I’m not sure I explained that right, actually…”  

“Are you having fun?”

You are, actually.

“Yea, I am…”

Joe took you to a party and you’re actually having fun. What a wild turn of events. It’s almost a shame that you’re having it without Joe.

“Where’ve you been all night? You disappeared.”

“No I didn’t. You left me with a man who thinks ‘A24’ is a genre.”

You huff a laugh. “My deepest apologies.”

“Hmm… I expect restitution.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “And what would that entail?”

“I think you can think of something.” Joe leans close to get his mouth on your ear where he lets his teeth graze the soft skin of your earlobe.

You choke on a laugh and give his chest a small push, but he’s already grinning into your shoulder like he knows he’s gotten away with something. Joe has to stop falling deeper in love with you but finds it’s an impossible task since he’s already fallen. It’s also an impossible task to stop sharing exactly what he’s feeling through his eyes.

Joe’s had a couple drinks too.

And he’s still got both his arms wrapped around your frame. Even if you wanted to leave, Joe’s got you trapped, and so he lets his face just do what it wants to for a moment.

You’re not a fan of these gazes Joe gives you.

Soft, adoring type stuff.

Joe knows it, but does it anyway.

You’re lucky you know a very easy and quick way out.

It’s not much – just a brush of your knuckles against the place where his collarbone meets his throat. Your fingers linger there, just for a second.

His reaction is immediate.

Less subtle than he thinks and definitely unmistakable to you: a sharp inhale, the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, the way his grip around you tightens just slightly.

It’s a little static buzz of tension, already gone before anyone else might notice, and just as casually has he’d walked up, Joe leaves again. Goes to find his friend again, because he can’t be around you when you’ll do shit to make him hard. In public. At his friend’s flat. It’s unfair that you don’t mind playing dangerous games like that and even more unfair that it forces Joe to be the adult in the room so often.

You smile into your drink and a triumphant feeling sits warm in your chest.

“Three hundred thousand pounds?” you hear someone suggest, followed by outraged reactions coming from the rest and you easily fall back into this game with these people you would’ve never crossed paths with on your own.

Later, when the flat starts to empty out and the host turns on the big lights, Joe appears at your side again, your jacket and his in hand, and nods toward the makeshift cloakroom.

“Can’t find your scarf, come help me find it,” he says, and for an actor, it’s shockingly easy to put together that he just wants to get you away from everyone else.  

You don’t even pretend to protest.

The room is barely big enough for both of you. It smells like fabric softener and someone’s bad cologne. You don’t even get the chance to pretend to look for your scarf. Joe immediately crowds you back into the wall, dropping both your coats to place his arms on either side of your head. He’s got a look in his eyes like he’s still thinking about your fingers on his neck.

“Oh, you’re trouble,” you tell him, already breathless. “Okay, come on. Quick.” You think if you’re quiet and fast, you should be able to make Joe come before the next person comes looking for their coat.

But you’re stopped as Joe dips his head and noses at your jaw. “I want,” he says, voice rough, “to take my time with you.”

You shiver, full-body and involuntary, knowing that whatever Joe is starting now won’t finish until much, much later. Two sides of the same coin; you both want it, but where you want it hard and fast, Joe’s one to really drag things out. To play, and tease, and, if you allow it, to edge you for hours. It’s not unlike Joe to start something just to see how you react, and then to not actually finish at all...

“Ugh, you’re going to be so mean to me,” you slur through a groan, even though your knees are already half-thinking about early retirement.

Joe kisses the hinge of your jaw. “No, not mean, don’t worry. I’m going to be so gentle with you.”

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because he is so gentle. 

Too gentle.

He kisses down your throat like it’s sacred.

Like it’s his.

Like he’s trying to map you by the touch of his mouth alone.

It’s all slow and reverent; his hands, though warm and firm, never stray beyond your waist. There’s no frantic grabbing, no rush – only this maddening restraint that makes you want to scream.

It’s devastating.

When his mouth finds your ear, that stupidly sensitive place you wish he didn’t know about, he presses his mouth there, hot and open. It makes you gasp loudly, almost startled.

He pulls back immediately. “Too much?”

“N-no,” you say, all dazed and somehow out of breath already. “Just– Jesus.”

Joe smirks, barely contained. “That a safe word? Jesus?”

You swat him again, half-hearted, and try to will oxygen back into your lungs. You might be a little drunker than you’d planned on getting tonight...

Joe’s a monster. A soft, careful, devastating monster who knows exactly where to put his mouth to make you forget your name and will then make you look him in the eye right after.

He’s not even doing it to be sexy – not entirely. There’s something else in it. Something deeper. Something closer to worship than seduction.

You hate that it feels so good.

“Joe,” you whisper, desperate and dizzy. “You can’t just– this isn’t–”

He hums against your skin, knowing that he’s playing with fire here. He’ll likely find his fingers burned come sunrise, but he can’t help be so content with how you’re responding to him in the moment, drunk or not.

“I said restitution, didn’t I?”

You whimper.

There’s something that happens to you when he whispers in your ear like that, and you’re just drunk enough where you’re unable to hide the effect it’s got on you.

Joe leans back a little to scan your face, and he’s smiling, loves a little look behind the curtain, to see the parts you won’t show him willingly. Loves when you get soft and open and relaxed… but he needs to make sure you’re not too drunk.

Joe knows too-drunk you. She gets very excited about getting her clothes off – not that different from sober-you if he’s being honest – but she always falls asleep before she’s wrestled her top off. Joe likes too-drunk you. Too-drunk you loves to snuggle, which is still something sober-you really struggles with.

“Hey,” you murmur when Joe’s not kissed you for five seconds. “Whisper in my ear again.”

So you’re not too drunk, but you’re definitely close. Joe can tell by how pink your cheeks are, and how slurred your speech is. He decides he’ll have to see how you’re feeling when you get back home to determine if he will give you what you want, of if he can just go ahead and take what he wants.

“Yea? You like when I whisper in your ear?”

“Yea, no. No. I don’t. I do, but you can’t tell anyone.”

Joe has to bite his lower lip to keep from laughing, then leans close and with his knee in between your legs, he feeds pressure and then whispers, “You’re ridiculous.” before stepping back and letting you go.

You can’t help the shuddery breath that leaves you before you quickly respond, “Your mum’s ridiculous!” because you’re a child, obviously, and you don’t want Joe to stop whatever it is that he just started, but then you immediately regret it.

“No, no! Wait. I didn’t say that. I’m sure your mum’s lovely, never tell her– you’ve never heard that. Say– say to me you didn’t hear that.”

Joe’s laughing as he moves one coat aside to reveal the scarf he very obviously hid there.

“Didn’t hear what?” he says, already pretending he doesn’t know what you mean, but you miss the joke and go to explain yourself. You’re lucky you quickly get shut up by Joe, because he’s got your scarf, and the car’s probably here, and let’s make sure you make it into the car without falling over or accidently insulting his entire family.

You nearly trip when you have to take a small step down by the door. Joe’s grip on you tightens as he lowly laughs and mutters, “Jesus, are you all right?”

And you are, you think. Yea, your balance is terrible, but for whatever reason you think it’s really funny that you nearly tripped. Think it’s hilarious that you have trouble standing up right without swaying. Fucking hysterical that Joe probably had the same amount to drink as you had, yet he seems unaffected.

You hold onto the sleeve of his jacket because you actually think you might faceplant into the pavement if you don’t.

“How drunk am I?” you ask, as you lean into him.

Joe doesn’t answer at first, scared his heart might burst because of all this leaning that’s happening tonight. He takes a moment to look at you down the line of his nose and then, with a tilt of his head, he says, “You’re sort of… tipsy with a twist.”

That’s mildly put.

“Of lime?”

He blinks at you, then slowly smiles. “Yea, sure, why not.”

Joe helps you onto the backseat, which feels completely unnecessary but is deeply appreciated. You buckle up as the world sways, both outside and inside of the car. Before you know it, you’ve got a warm palm on your knee.

Not weird-warm.

Steady-warm.

You would have said something if you weren’t so focused on the fact that the backseat keeps shifting ever so slightly to the left.

The Uber ride is quiet, lazy. Joe presses your hand between both of his like he’s trying to warm it, thumb stroking absentmindedly along your knuckles. You watch his profile in the streetlights and think about how insufferably contradicting it is to want someone this much and to then also really struggle with holding hands.

You end up back at your place where you kick your feet in the hallway upon entering, but your shoes don’t come off at all. You follow the unsuccessful move with a near-faceplant on your way to the sofa.

Joe follows like some sort of long-suffering babysitter, except, he’s smiling. A lot.

You plop down and blink up at him.

There’s a pause. A too-long one. You don’t trust silences with Joe, because they always feel like they mean something.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask.

Joe shrugs. “You’re pink-cheeked. It suits you.”

“Because of the alcohol,” you say quickly.

He hums again, noncommittal. Doesn’t look away. You feel warm.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight. I know you didn’t want to.”

“I never s-said that.” you say quickly, brown so deeply furrowed it becomes adorable and makes Joe wants to kiss it.

The next part is fuzzy.

Not gone, not blacked out, but soft.

Blurred like you’ve dropped water on a painting.

You think you’ve walked to the bedroom on your own, but you can’t be sure. You definitely didn’t take your clothes off by yourself though... but you’re lying down. In your bed. And you think Joe’s beside you, arm tucked behind your back like he’s afraid you might roll off.

You’re talking.

Saying things you wouldn’t say sober. Or rather, you’re letting the things you always think leak out in syrupy, slurred ways.

Joe knows if you remember even a little of it in the morning, he’ll be one to pay for it, but for now, he’s just grateful to exist in the moment with you. Grateful you’re letting him trace his fingertips along your skin without being told he’s being a perv for wanting to feel close to you.

“I like your voice,” you mumble into his neck.

Joe’s chest stills. “What?”

“You’ve got a good voice. When you’re not being annoying.”

He exhales a laugh. “Thanks. I think.”

Joe’s not asking you questions, but he’s not going to stop you either, because Joe is an opportunist, and you are weak for him when you get like this. He just lies beside you, takes your hand, and starts to rub your earlobe with his thumb. Gently. Rhythmically. It’s tender. Thoughtless. Like he figured out where the volume knob on your brain lives and now plays with it whenever he feels like you won’t kick him in the shins for the attempt.

“Do the thing.” you suddenly softly breathe.

“What thing?”

“The whisper thing.”

“What whisper thing?”

“It’s when you… when your voice goes really low,” you attempt to turn over, but after moving your head a little, decide against it. “And you talk too close to my ear and make me forget what day it is.”

There’s a pause. “You’re asking me to whisper in your ear?” Joe double-checks.

“No, I’m telling you to.”

“Because you’re drunk?”

“No. Yes. But also because I’m drunk.”

Joe’s laughter is quiet in his throat, and then you feel him shift closer. You feel breath at your temple, and his hand cradles your wrist, soft and slow.

“Come here,” he says, low and careful.

You do.

You always do.

Your foreheads touch. You can’t see much past the haze of cheap prosecco and expensive gin. But you know what his eyes look like this close. You’ve memorised them already. Round and deep and full of things he doesn’t say unless it’s late, and you’re quiet, and the world is small enough to be easily manageable.

“I love getting you drunk,” he says quietly.

Your spine straightens an inch, and you try to blink some focus back into your eyes as you try to not act insulted. “Wow. You’re such a romantic.”

I am, Joe thinks. You are the one who isn’t.

“You tell me everything when you’re spinning.”

“I tell you everything when I’m s-sober too,” you say.

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

Joe swallows. His hand is still on your wrist, and it’s doing something to your heartbeat. “Like you mean it.”

You go still. Then laugh, a small, breathy thing.

“I always mean it,” you say. “I’m an honest person.”

Joe nods. “Yeah. Too honest.”

You lie in silence as you think of something honest to say to prove your point.  

“Joe… Joe, you look nice. I like how you look. Not always. But tonight, you looked so nice.”

Maybe he’s right.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, fingers back on your earlobe and it makes your ears buzz. There’s blood in your face, heat in your chest, and you have the fleeting thought that maybe you’re going to die like this.

“No,” you say. “Wait. Yes.”

He laughs. “You sure?”

“Not even slightly.”

Joe shifts so his mouth is at your jaw now. His hand slides to your hip, and the weight of it feels like gravity choosing sides. He kisses just beneath your ear, and it makes you whimper.

“You asked me to whisper in your ear,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “But you don’t know what that does to me.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t speak.

Can’t speak.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he says again, quieter now, “when you hold onto my arm, or when you lean into me and let me hold you... or when you tell me that I sound nice. And look nice.”

You blink.

“I thought it’d go away,” he admits. “The way I feel about you. Feels too… I don’t know, too strong, you know? Like this should’ve dissolved into something less intense by now.”

You reach for him.

Instinctual.

Needy.

Joe isn’t sure how much more of this behaviour he can take.

“But it’s not really going anywhere…” he finishes, like he’s exhaling all the things he’d hidden away from you in fear of you finding them and ghosting him. Even now, after months. He wouldn’t put it past you.

“I’m... I’m going to forget you said that in the morning…” you say softly, and Joe hums.

“That’s okay,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, but somehow, it’s louder than anything else in the world. “I’ll tell you again and you’ll hate it so much, you’ll cringe yourself inside out.”

There’s about a million things you want to do. All of them involve Joe. But a zesty wave of dizziness makes you feel like the world is swaying underneath you, even though you’re lying completely still in your bed.

It’s like Joe notices something shift, because he pulls back slightly and gives you a good one over.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m so drunk.”

“Go to sleep, if you can.”

“Whisper things into my ear, if you can.”

Joe dips his head, knowing he won’t get to let his mouth graze the shell of your ear for at least a month after you sober up.

“Okay, fine.” he says lowly, absolutely relishing your bodily reaction he can feel with all of his as he whispers you to sleep.

---

The Taglisted

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add yourself

[revelboo]

Hello, I just wanna say I’ve been eating up your blog daily, I absolutely adore your writing and how you interpret the different bots, if it’s not to much to ask, could I request some more Waspinator?

Sure!

Worker Bee Pt 16

Waspinator x Reader

• “Nope!” Awkwardly sliding off the chair and into the floor to escape, you end up with a leg hung up on the chair and your alien bestie staring down at you. Scrambling to get up before he can ‘help’ you back up, you watch his antennae go back. “Remember the personal space talk?” Head tilting slightly, you shove a hand through your hair. Of course he doesn’t. You’ve only explained it how many times? “Okay. This is my personal space.” Waving your hands in front of yourself, you watch his wings flick. “Right? My space. This is your space.” Waving vaguely an inch away from him and he just leans forward, optics shuttering and pressing his face against your palm. “No, see, now I’m invading your personal space.” Even if it’s just a tiny bit cute. Blowing out a breath when he doesn’t move and just softly makes that humming buzz of noise. Right.

• Mandibles flexing when you pull your hand away, he watches you reach up and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Waspinator’s space is little friend’s space,” he offers and you just frown at him. Can’t understand why you’re so funny about ‘your space.’ You’re sharing a hive aren’t you? A nest? Why is he allowed to touch sometimes and not others? Deciding it must be a weird human thing, your moods indecipherable sometimes.

• Maybe you should try something simpler? Because you doubt he’s going to stop clinging to you like a little kid with their favorite stuffed animal at this point. “Sure,” you mutter. “Maybe just watch where you touch?” Antenna perking up, he’s at least listening. Maybe. Who knows what’s going on in that weird, little bug head as he looks at you then at his clawed servos. “Like,” you start, face heating. How do you explain this to a big alien bug robot with the IQ of a decorative soap dish? Gesturing vaguely with your hands at off limits areas and not even surprised he immediately reaches out and grabs. “Yep.” Prying his servos loose before he tries to squeeze, you gently press his hand to his own chassis. “That’s a nope.”

• Venting at you, because he likes laying his head there to recharge. It’s soft. “Why?” So many rules. Too many, but he’s willing to obey for the most part if it keeps his little friend happy. But he enjoys curling up against you, your warmth and scent soothing him. Reminding him that he’s home. And he’s not relinquishing that. Had figured out that if he just keeps asking why when you ask him to do things he’d rather not do, you eventually just give up and let him have his way.

• You already know that’s his go to when he doesn’t want or just flat out isn’t going to do something. Unless you can convince him there’s a good reason to not do whatever he wants. Taking a deep breath, you roll your wrist. “Humans don’t touch there unless they’re together.” See his mandibles open and hurriedly add. “Intimately together.” And he’s just staring at you with those big optics. “And then only after they date and get to know each other.” Still just staring and you wait for the inevitable ‘why’ or worse, to be asked about being ‘intimately together.’ Cause he would ask and just stare blankly while you try to explain sex to him.

• “Dating?” And your shoulders sag at his question. Hasn’t heard that word before. Listens as you start explaining and realizes it’s courting. Human courting for a mate. Candies and flowers. Movie night. Fancy food. Mandibles working, it’s a curious thing. Can’t really figure it out. The food, he understands. Proving he can provide. But flowers and movies? Knows humans are a bit funny, though. If ‘dating’ is needed to prove his place in your hive, he’ll do it. It can’t be that hard and then you’ll stop this ‘personal space’ nonsense.

Previous

Next

[bblgeum]

𐔌 how to fake a concussion ─  park hu-mi  𐦯

⟡ ﹒ in which ⌇ park hu-min was loud. annoying. irratating. reckless. but somehow, it was kind of hot?

⟡ ﹒ content⌇ gn reader, enemies to loves, baku is clingy, fluff, crack

⟡ ﹒ listen to⌇ cat & dog - tomorrow by together

park-hu min pissed you off. he was loud, irratating, reckless, and ridiculously stupid - not to mention his annoyed grin, teasing, dark hooded eyes that didn't let on more then they showed, and those muscles - not that you were paying attention, of course!

realistically, you knew park hu-min, or baku as he was known as, was everything you weren't; you were straight to the point, no-nonsense, carefull in everything you did. he friendly, strong, stunning... you hypothesize that was the reason he pissed you off.

so, when you were absolutly taken out by a basketball flying about 80 mph, you were far from happy. it went straight for your head, making you yelp in pain. were his arms a slingshot or something?

now, realistically, it didn't hurt that much. well, it did, but you definatly exaggerated the next part. you throw yourself off of the stairs you were sitting on, screaming out in pain - causing everyone to jump and stare at you - faking some tears. it was pretty believeable, you liked to think.

baku immediatly looks up, grimacing. as he sees you drop down the stairs, his jaw hangs open. go-tak - slightly more tolerable - burst out laughing at baku's expense. baku immediatly hides behind his friend, looking very afraid of your wrath.

─  "someone- someone help me i think i have a concussion!" you whine out, "..it.. hurts so much!"

baku looks towards his friend with a certain fear in his eyes as he hears the word 'concussion'. he slowly steps towards you with his eyes glued to his feet. making it in front of you, he bends down and nudges you sadly, like a kid who dropped their lolipop.

─  "please, don't be dead i promise it was an accident- wait, ill take you to the nurse!"

eyes shooting open, you freeze as he carries you, princess style. your head presses against his chest. and hell, he was jacked.. luckily, he didn't notice your flushed face. he's spiraling, something about how he couldn't control his strength and that he'd pay you back, make it up to you.. kind of hard to focus as you just stare at his adorable - sorry, you mean, repulsing face...

much to your dismay, the next few days, it was as if you had a puppy dog following you wherever you went - baku decided that he would be your 'pet'. in class, he'd tug on your hair, whispering your name over and over, scribbling apologies on peices of paper. during lunch, he'd ditch his friends and plop his tray down right next to you, starting conversations you weren't listening to.

halfway through one of his tangents, you groan and slap your hand over his mouth. his mouth was full of rice and chicken.. disgusting. he muffles a protest, easily prying your hand off of him... hot.

─  "why.. why're you just- following me around, huh?! your acting like a lost puppy, hu-min!"

─  "hey, didn't i tell you to call me baku?" completely ignoring your question, he pinches your cheeks a little to hard.

you groan, trying to get his hands off of you, no luck. seeing your futile attempts, he breaks into a wide grin.

─  "aw, thats cute. keep trying!"

─  "hey! don't call me tha- hmpff!"

in the span of a second, another student - unrelated - had tripped onto where the two of you were sitting - leaving you to be pressed against the cafeteria floor, baku, all his weight, ontop of you... this included his lips. your face looses all color, eyes zipping towards the student, who had run away already.

you sigh. why'd you have to fake that concussion?

tbc?

author's note: eekk thanks for all the support <3 should i make this a series? also not proofread lol

[vrystalius]

Sleep prompts — Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Sleep Prompt List: 1. Sleeping with their head in your lap

Pairing: Sanemi Shinazugawa x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff, angst comfort

You could tell what he needed the second his foot entered your shared home. He carelessly disregarded his equipment, only wiping the blood of his katana as to not rust it and get scolded by his blacksmith layer, throwing his bloody uniform into a corner of the washroom and slipping into more comfortable yukata.

You were comfortably curled up in bed after a long day, having Sanemi in the back of your mind and having your thoughts running in circles as you worried about him and his mission, how he has been away for almost a whole week now. It never takes him this long for him and the other slayers to track down the demon and behead it, so the pit in your stomach that has been forming ever since he left has been growing endlessly.

But now that he wordlessly walked into your bedroom as if he never left, crawling into bed and letting your arms drape around his tense shoulders, feeling how the shoulders slowly relaxed as if he was realising that he is home, home and safe with you.

Sanemi’s whole body shifted to lay in his favourite position; his head nestled on your warm, soft lap while your hand ran through his white, messy hair, your fingers slowly massaging his scalp. He can barely fight his eyelids from falling shut, then again, why should he? His cheek was being squished against your skin and his lips parted slightly as he slowly started to fall asleep.

You let him nap like this until evening, thinking he probably needed the rest. It’s similar to having a sleeping cat on your lap and not being able to move after it curled up on your lap, but the cat is now the head of your lover and muscular arms loosely wrapped around your waist to really make sure that you’re not going anywhere.

After waking up in the evening, you two just got up to grab something to eat from your pantry before curling up in bed again, going into some sort of hibernation and comfortably taking the position of the little spoon in your arms, his head buried in your neck and only lifting it out of the warmth to stare at you with tired eyes and a small smile, or to place a lazy kiss now and then before you two fall asleep. His hands would trace down from your shoulder blades, down to your back and coming to rest to drape comfortably around your waist and stomach, pulling you even closer than you already are.

The morning after, the hardest thing to do is to pry yourself out of his arms. Cursing the endless hashira training he pushed himself through as you tried to get his damn arm off your waist while you’re trying to get to the bathroom. The worst thing that he is not even awake yet, this unit of a man is not even seriously trying to keep you in your shared bed and to keep basking in the love and warmth.

“How long have I been sleeping? It’s… too much.” Sanemi grumbled as he dragged his palm down his face as he stretched his sore muscles with a groan. “You deserve some rest every now and then. I don’t mind spending it with you.”

Your words made his head turn towards you, his whole softening up. He stared at you for a moment longer, appreciating the way the sleep messed with your hair. Sanemi forced himself to look away before he his face flushes in embarrassment and his feelings are laid out openly for you. But then again, you can read him like an open book anyway, so it’s no use.

“We can stay in bed a little longer, I guess. I can train later.”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

Writer’s blog has been beating me with a chair 😭 Whenever I don’t have motivation I deflate and disappear but I tried to fight against it by posting this bite-sized Sanemi drabble with lots of cuddles and sleep. I enjoyed using the sleep prompt so I wouldn’t mind getting a couple requests for it!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 6: Lighter x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 6664

Warnings: Afab!reader, friends with benefits, casual sex, body worship, mirror sex, blowjob, deep throating, brief cunnilingus, piv

A/N: This guy is so cool, I really hope this doesn't end up being too ooc since he was only just introduced and we still don't know a whole lot about him. 🫣

⭐

Nights out in the desert lean towards chilly but with a raging bonfire going you almost don’t even notice it. Not until you step away from the hotly licking flames anyway, and then you find yourself burrowing deeper into your coat for insulation from the wind. If the need to find some trouble to get into hadn’t been brewing like a storm in the back of your mind you would have been perfectly content to stay right where you were for the rest of the evening until it came time for bed, but that persistent tug has you scanning through the gathered crowd for an all too familiar face. 

You spot Lucy and Caesar easily enough, though as usual they were a little hard to miss when they couldn’t seem to get along for more than five minutes at a time. Sometimes you wondered how they managed to work together at all given the obvious tensions between them but it wasn’t really your place to pry. The Sons of Calydon were good to the people who made Blazewood their home and you liked them better than some of the other biker gangs at least. Eccentricities aside, they were just fine in your book. 

Neither of them were the one you sought though, so you keep making your way around the perimeter of the crowded area. It wasn’t often that everyone gathered for a celebration like this but the Sons, true to nature, tended to liven up the place whenever they came through. One of the many services you probably owed them thanks for. 

And then you finally spot him, just when you were starting to wonder if he’d turned in for an early night. Slouched in a banged up lawn chair someone had dug out from who only knows where with a stout glass full of something dark braced on the bend of his knee. Cool and casual. Yep, that was Lighter down to the letter. 

Stuffing your hands into the pockets of your jacket, you shuffle over to come up alongside where he’s sat in a loosely formed circle with a handful of other men, no doubt shooting the shit with each other which you thoroughly interrupt with your appearance. That he’d retreated to this reclusive side of the field where the girls were less likely to impede on his very important masculine brooding with like minded individuals does not escape your notice but too bad for him. 

You were not someone Lighter could easily ignore just as you had a hard time ignoring him whenever he happened to be around, and you allow yourself a small smile when he tips his head back to look up at you through the tinted lenses of his sunglasses. Still wearing them even now, when it was completely dark out and he probably couldn’t make out much of anything through them as a result. What a dork. 

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” He volleys right back, not missing a beat as he bobs his chin at you in relaxed greeting. “Good to see you. I was wondering if you’d stop by to pay me a visit tonight.” 

“Putting aside the fact that I always come see you, don’t you think it might be nice if you were the one who came to me sometimes? I’ve been standing over by the fire for a while now.”

A vaguely mischievous smile pulls at his mouth. “What, you want me to start following you around like a lovesick pup now? I seem to recall you giving me completely different instructions before.” 

“All I’m saying is some initiative might win you a few favors in the long run.” You shoot back, pinning Lighter with a playfully rueful look while you try very hard not to laugh. 

“Well, a man could always use more favors. What sort of initiative were you hoping for?” 

“Please, why would I tell you and ruin the fun of watching you try to figure it out on your own? And besides, it wouldn’t count for much if I just gave you all the answers.” 

This back and forth game with him already has you feeling eager and excited while you stand there, idly rocking on your toes in anticipation of his next move. But then he noises a brief sound of rumbling consideration before reaching out to suddenly snag your forearm with a hand gloved in leather. 

It happens much too quick for you to pull away or react beyond the giggling squeak you let out when he yanks you down across his lap. The two of you had known each other for a very long time now and these sorts of physical exchanges were common enough that no one really questioned it any more, though you’re still keenly aware of the other men that are gathered around politely turning their attention elsewhere. Breaking off into their own smaller groups, starting up their own snippets of conversation. It’s like they didn’t even see the two of you sitting there anymore, which comes as a relief while you work to get settled into place atop his legs, using a hand curved over his broad shoulder for stability. 

You and Lighter weren’t actually together, nor were you an item in any sense of the word, but you also weren’t just friends either. Everyone knew that so there wasn’t much point in hiding it. A lot of good it would have done you anyway when the communities scattered across the Outer Ring were so small and tight knit that keeping secrets often felt like an impossibility. 

So you look down into his face head on, openly grinning now as he minutely shifts underneath you to get comfortable again. He’s so firm and sturdy that it takes a great deal of self control on your part not to start kissing him right then and there. The two of you might not try all that hard to hide whatever was going on here but you still had some polite sensibilities left to your name. 

“Alright, sugar,” He intones, juggling his drink over to the opposite hand so he can casually set his arm across your lap while the other loosely curls around your hip. Just to make sure you don’t accidentally fall off, you’re sure. “I’m listening. Tell me what it is you want.”

“I’d think that should be obvious by now.” 

“You’re insatiable.”

“Only when it comes to you.” Lightly teasing a finger over one of the metal spikes on his biker jacket, you give him a pointed little smile. “Maybe if I saw you more often than every few weeks I’d get bored of it but you know how to keep a girl coming back for more, don’t you? Never give her enough to get complacent, just enough to become addicted.” 

“Hey now. That makes me sound like some kind of scheming playboy. I’m sure you know I’d give it to you every day if I could.” 

Your pussy distantly clenches at the thought, and you sit up a little straighter to subtly press down on his thigh. It was so unfair how easily he could drive you wild. Sometimes you didn’t think the playboy label was all that inaccurate, but then he’d say or do something so goofy that it completely shattered that impression of him in your mind. Despite how it looked he wasn’t actually some disloyal womanizer incapable of commitment, just someone with a lot of baggage and a long past. That’s all. 

But really, who couldn’t say the same in the Outer Ring? 

“That’s sweet but you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Lighter.” 

“It’s not for a lack of wanting, trust me.” He assures you, giving the meat of your hip a brief squeeze. “The Sons have just been busy lately. You know that. But once we win the Tour de Inferno - -“ 

“You’ll have better routes and less busy work. I’ve heard it before.” Sighing softly, you lift your hand from his shoulder to reach up and cradle a mostly smooth cheek in your palm. You could just feel the faintest hint of stubble starting to grow back after his morning shave much earlier in the day but the scratch of it registers as pleasant rather than disagreeable. “It doesn’t really matter in the end I guess. No strings attached, that was what we agreed on. I just worry about you sometimes. Even if it’s not for me, at least try to swing by more often so I can feed you. I’ll even make extra for the girls.” 

“I’m sure they’ll like that.” He murmurs, peering at you now over the top of his shades with an unwavering, plainly heated look that makes a shudder work down your spine. 

You stare into his face for another moment longer until the magnetic pull of his mouth becomes too much for you to resist, and you lean down to claim those sinfully inviting lips for yourself. Lighter readily returns the favor with a steady push and pull that only coaxes you further into your vibrating need for him, unable to reject it even if you’d wanted to. 

And you most certainly don’t want to. 

Realizing that you really can’t wait any longer to have him, you pull back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Take me home, Lighter. I want to be alone with you.” 

“If that’s what you want.” He husks, his tone dropped to a secretive but no less simmering drawl now. “Your wish is but my command, princess.”  

Bracing to stand, you ready to hop up from his lap but he manages to catch you off guard when he locks his arm around your middle and carefully eases himself out of the chair so he can rise to his feet with a rumbling groan for effect. You weren’t exactly a delicate waif but he’d picked you up far too many times for you to be surprised by his strength, and your pulse just quickens in excitement while you dangle a foot or so off the ground from his hold. 

Pausing there, Lighter lifts his glass to his mouth and tips his head back to down the whole thing in a quick gulp. You watch him do it with attentive fascination, admiring the defined line of his jaw and the thick bob of his Adam’s apple, but then he’s gently sliding you down to stand on your own and you take a reluctant step back from him. Everyone who’d come out for the bonfire didn’t need to see him carrying you off into the night like a caveman so you couldn’t argue the logic in letting you walk by yourself. But that doesn’t stop you from missing the warmth of his body pressed up against you, or the heady scent of him drowning out your sense of smell. 

Soon enough that would be rectified though, and together the two of you start to make your way back towards the gas station in companionable silence. 

It’s a quiet walk save the drone of conversation and the occasional shouts behind you, but those noises gradually fade the further you get from the gathering. Most of the locals had gone out into the nearby barren field to join the Sons of Calydon in celebrating their return trip from the transport they’d just completed, so the tiny outpost is perfectly still and peaceful when you reach it. 

Even calling it a town would have been quite the stretch when the outcrop of buildings and trailers, and decrepit mobile homes that spring up around the gas station in the center of it had only come into being out of necessity. Blazewood was at best an encampment of refugees but there were a lot of places like that left behind after the Hollow Disaster so it doesn’t look half as depressing as it probably actually is. It’s the only thing you’d ever really known with any familiarity though, and to you it’s home. 

Lighter was too much a roving nomad to have anything similar, save perhaps his band of fellow bikers, but there’s a small part of you that hopes he thinks of your tiny little motel as a kind of home too. He’d certainly been here more than enough times to be intimately familiar with the place and you by extension. 

Treading the exact same steps the two of you had walked many times before, you make your way into the back of what was at one time a supplies building. Your father had worked tirelessly to repurpose it into a place for lodgings, so that the traveling biker gangs would have somewhere to rest at night during their long hauls, and you’d naturally inherited the place from him when you were old enough. Although it had put a bit of a damper on any aspirations you’d once harbored about joining one of the gangs yourself, you’re admittedly glad for it now since it gave you some place to safely retreat to with Lighter at the end of the day. 

You certainly weren’t going to take him to your own room and fuck him on your own bed. That was one of the rules you’d established at the start of all this, more than just a few years ago now. At first it had been solely for practical reasons. Didn’t want him getting the wrong idea or, even worse, give yourself a chance to be fooled into thinking that this was somehow more meaningful than it actually was. He didn’t need to have access to your personal space like that. 

But by now it had become something of a safe neutral zone where both of you could simply let go of whatever roles and responsibilities, obligations and preconceptions you carried with you. Everyone had baggage in the Outer Rings, and neither you or Lighter were any different in that regard. 

But the good news was that both of your tastes aligned in the most delightful of ways, and as you step into your favorite room your eyes come up to look into the reflective surface of the floor length mirror hung on the wall. Between the bed and the claustrophobicbly small toilet closet there wasn’t much else in the tight space to look at. One of the bikers from the previous generation had gifted it to your father after finding it by chance in an old and abandoned warehouse. Evidently it was the only mirror that had still been in one piece after sitting forgotten for so long, and he’d carefully hauled it all the way back to Blazewood in his trailer. 

You suspected your father had at one time toyed with the notion of using this place as a brothel of sorts to make a little extra money on the side, but after you were born shortly thereafter it seemed he no longer had the heart to follow through on it. That was fine though, because this room and its mirror had still seen more than its fair share of action thanks to you and Lighter. 

The door clicks shut behind you with a sense of finality as you tread across the rough carpet and you eagerly turn to him, just in time for his hands to come up and cradle your cheeks. Firmly tilting your face up at him, he bends down to kiss you again but this time it’s not nearly as polite as it was when you’d had an audience watching. 

His mouth is hungry against yours now, matching your own need to feel him against you, on top of you, inside of you. Groaning softly, you rock forward onto the tips of your toes to better accommodate the height difference and reach up to thread your fingers through his shaggy hair. It’s soft but dry against your skin from all the wind and sand grit that naturally came with riding a motorcycle in the desert, yet you still relish the feel of it against you.

Giving it a slow tug, you tip your head to deepen the exchange and allow his tongue entry to your mouth when it prods at your lips. All at once the taste of him overwhelms your olfactory system in a potent rush made all the more intoxicating by the strong notes of whiskey you can clearly pick up on your tastebuds. You noise a quiet sound of ratcheting pleasure against his mouth while his hands descend upon your body to take greedy, squeezing grabs at whatever part of you he can reach. 

Lighter quickly loses patience for all the clothes standing between the two of you though, and he’s soon tugging at your coat to get it unzipped and tossed aside. You do the same with his leather jacket, fumbling to get it shoved back over his shoulders which he accommodates by helpfully stretching his arms down to let it fall to the floor. Then he’s right back to groping at you through your jeans, giving your ass a tight pinch before redirecting them around to your hips so he can steer you backwards. 

Still kissing his mouth with wild abandon, you let him guide you back to stand almost directly in front of the mirror where you finally manage to pry yourself from him only enough to get his t-shirt pulled up over his head. It leaves him standing there naked from the waist up, his already unruly hair more mussed than it was before, and you quickly bend your head close to flick your tongue over a pert nipple. 

Sighing a low rumble of appreciation, Lighter lifts one of his hands to briefly cradle the back of your head while the other reaches down to tug his belt loose. You know what’s coming and you just purr into his skin as you kiss over the planes of his chest to feel the faint tickle of sparse hair against your lips. Giving his bare sides an encouraging squeeze when the sound of his buckle rattling makes your cunt tighten in anticipation, you latch onto the opposite bud to offer it a taunting love bite. 

But by that time he’s got his thick jeans undone and the hand in your hair closes into a fist, using his hold on you to pull you up with a faltering sound of delight. The tug on your scalp is just sharp enough to make you really want it, stumbling a single, uncertain step before he forces you down onto your knees. You’re so hot with want and fast pumping adrenaline that you don’t even think to fight it as he directs your face to the front of his pants where he somewhat meanly grinds the stiff bulge inside across your mouth. 

Whining a needy little sound in the back of your throat, you quickly reach up to pull his pants down so you can shove your face into his underwear full on. You immediately take a deep, savory inhale to taste the distinct smell of him on the back of your tongue, feeling your slit leak sticky gossamer into your panties while you do it. Gods, he smelled heavenly. 

“Damn,” He issues a barely there groan in response, nudging his hips forward to press his cock tighter against your nose while he distractedly lifts his hands up to pull his gloves off one by one. “You’re gonna’ be the death of me at this rate, sugar. Maybe it’s for the best I can’t come see you more often. I don’t think there’d be anything left of me.” 

That brings a smile to your face as you roll your eyes upward to pin him with a sly look. He probably wasn’t wrong about that. It hadn’t taken you long to realize that most men struggled to keep pace with you but for his part Lighter certainly made the effort whenever he could. You’d likely have him completely drained within a week. 

It’s clear the powerful champion of Calydon isn’t intimidated though, and he gives his sunglasses a quick adjustment where they’d started to inch down — insisting they stay on even now, the goof — before shuffling back half a step. 

You almost catch yourself mewling a quiet sound of disappointment but then he’s bending low to hook his fingers in the hem of your top and pull it up. An impressively well practiced motion of his hand soon has your bra falling loose around your shoulders before it quickly joins everything else on the floor in a rumpled heap of all your discarded clothes. 

An intense tremble works through your body at the sensation of your bare tits cutting through the air, already stiff and seeking attention. Still bending at the waist, Lighter takes a moment to briefly cup your breasts in his calloused palms and lift them, encouraging you to arch your back to better present your chest. He hunches even closer then and gives each nipple a savory kiss to tease the sensitive flesh, eliciting another groan of pleasure from you when he moves to straighten up again. 

One of his hands is immediately back in your hair and he roughly pulls you in against him as he closes the distance, rubbing your face against his cock once again. Unable to go another moment without him in your mouth, you dig your fingers into his dark boxer briefs so you can yank them down to pool in his jeans where they were still tucked into his boots. 

The hard length of him promptly springs up into the scant space between you and just brushes the kiss swollen pucker of your mouth to leave behind a faintly sticky trail. Bracing one hand on a powerfully lean thigh, you use the other to take hold of him in a tight grip and give it a few perfunctory tugs to ease the foreskin back. You can clearly see the flushed glans glinting in the overhead light with a sheen of sticky arousal which you coquettishly lick up to get your first taste of him for the evening. 

Groaning quietly in appreciation, Lighter settles into a wide legged stances with his feet braced far apart while the hand on your head firmly guides you forward to take him in. And you do so with great enthusiasm, sliding your mouth down to about the halfway point of his shaft where the head of him starts to tickle at your throat. 

From the corner of your eye you can just make out what’s happening in the reflection of the mirror, the tall tell bob of your head while you work him over with your tongue to build up more saliva and the very noticeable way your tits shift with the motion. It makes you feel ten times hotter, squirming there on the floor at his feet while you watch yourself suck him off. As far as visuals go it was incredibly satisfying to observe in real time, which was exactly why both of you loved this room so much. You’d had to use a different one on a few occasions, when he’d shown up unexpectedly and this room was already occupied by someone else, but it was never the same. Nothing quite compared to the front row seat you had here, getting to watch him fuck you and go down on you, to see yourself spread out on his thick cock and pushed straight to the limit of your physical abilities. 

They made video recording devices in the city, or so you’d heard, and you had half a mind to try it out sometime with him just to get a different perspective. But such technology didn’t last long all the way out here when the ether corruption was so high that most anything that wasn’t analogue didn’t survive for even a whole month. The mirror had served you well up until now though, and you savoringly pull back as you turn your head to watch the shuddering string of spittle stretch between his stiff cock and your mouth before breaking apart. 

Looking into your own reflection, you’re struck by how very needy you look in that moment with eyes blown wide under the heavy droop of your lashes and flushed, kiss swollen lips coated in a sheen of saliva. Lighter knows you a little too well though, and he rumbles a masculine sound when he shifts the position of his hand to better grip your hair so he can turn your face up and around to make you look at him instead. 

“Getting distracted there, sugar?”

Feeling punchdrunk on something stronger than any drink you’d had at the bonfire, you blithely nod your head in agreement. He hadn’t really needed to ask and the way he pins you with a barely there smirk assures you he’d already known the answer. But that was how the two of you played this game no matter how overly familiar you got with each other's bodies, and yet it never seemed to truly get old. 

Neither does the way he expertly uses the fistful of hair he’s got in his hold to force your mouth back down, rudely shoving his cock past lips and teeth, and a squirming tongue so he can prod at the back of your throat. The glide of satiny flesh is smooth and nearly seamless when he sedately thrusts his hips back and forth, back and then forth again, thanks in no small part to the excess of spit forming along your palate. And you just keep drooling all the more excessively the longer he does it, coaxing your salivary glands to work overtime for him until you can feel it bubbling out to dribble down your chin.

Only then does Lighter at last shove himself forward in tortuous slow motion to slide down your gullet one sinful inch at a time. You feel the customary jump in your pulse at suddenly finding your airway blocked and the alarm of pressure pushing in on your throat but force yourself to relax into it. The eventual tickle of coarse pubic hair brushing your nose lets you know when you’ve taken it all and you gurgle a wet sound of pleasure around his length when he makes a point of grinding your face down, holding you there for a prolonged beat. 

Then he’s pulling you back, using your hair to smoothly guide your neck where he wants it to go and dislodge himself from your throat in the process. A fresh wave of copious, sticky spit comes out with him, leaving you kneeling there gasping for air as thick wads of saliva roll down your face. You blearily glance up through the reflexive moisture in your eyes while he gives you a moment to catch your breath only to suck in a rattling gasp when you see how very wrecked you look in the mirror. But he’s not quite through with your mouth just yet, and he repeats the process a handful of times more until you’re dizzily swaying at his feet from the head rush. 

You’re so delirious with it, in fact, that by the time he bends down to get on your level again you almost don’t even notice how close he suddenly is. Not until Lighter takes your wet face between his hands and angles your attention up at him. Reeling and hungry to have his mouth on yours, you eagerly rock forward to catch his lips, but he keeps you firmly in place while he presumably looks over your expression. 

It was sometimes hard to tell through those damned sunglasses. 

“Still doing good, princess?” 

“Y - yeeah …” You groan, forcing your neck to work on an unsteady bob. 

“Good.” Swooping in too quick for you to react, he presses a hard, firm kiss to your temple and then pulls away so he can carefully unwind his fingers from your hair. 

Even this late in the game you still know what he’s about to do because the two of you have done this about a hundred different times now. Same song, different dance — and yet that doesn’t stop the little squeak of excitement you give when he grabs under your arms to lift you up off the floor. Without his jacket in the way you can see all the tension running through his muscles, scarred skin bulging under the strain of your weight, but he doesn’t even falter. He’s as steady as solid iron, and just as strong too. 

Smoothly turning on his heel, Lighter tosses you onto the bed where you bounce once, twice, then his hands are on your hips to yank you back closer to the edge. Panting and breathless, you glance up at him while he stands between your legs, heavy hands working to get your jeans unfastened. His shades have slid forward on the bridge of his nose at some point in all that messing around, and he now sends you a steely look from over the top of them. 

“What did I say?” He murmurs, the fond note in his voice doing little to soften the masculine rumble behind the words. “Insatiable.” 

“Not my fault.” You purr back, grinning. “Maybe you should try being less amazing in the sheets.” 

Sending you a rueful look, Lighter grabs the top of your open pants and yanks them down your legs, knocking your shoes off in process with a dull thump on the floor. Your panties are quick to go next and, momentarily left to your own devices while he kicks off his own boots and jeans, you roll over onto your stomach so you can jut your ass up in the air. Giving it a playful, taunting wiggle, you glance back at him over your shoulder with a sly smile. 

Alright, so he wasn’t wrong. You were insatiable, but could anyone really blame you? 

Cooly watching the display from under his tousled hair, he shoots you a quick look of warning while he leans down to get his underwear pulled off. The weighty bob of his cock between his legs makes you pussy clench and you bite down on your lip as you invitingly arch your back for him. 

“Careful, sugar. You’re looking for trouble tonight.” 

“Mmm, then why don’t you come punish me?” 

He scoffs a hushed laugh at the taunt, casually stepping into the space between your dangling feet again. Both of his hands come down on your ass at the same time, the deafening crack doing more to startle a sound of surprise out of you than the starburst of pain that comes with it, but it’s quickly followed by an appreciative groan when he squeezes the cheeks pinchingly tight and spreads them open. 

You feel him lean close then and you screw your eyes shut, seething a sensitive whine through your teeth when he runs his tongue from one end of your slit straight down to the other, getting a good taste of your arousal along the way. He takes a moment to just leisurely eat you out from the back like he had all night to wind you up tighter and tighter, the firm nudge of him against your clit making your thighs judder. It doesn’t last long enough to send you over the edge though, just encouraging you a little closer to the edge of oblivion before he straightens up behind you again. 

Stretching, Lighter reaches around you then to snag one of the pillows from the headboard which he tosses down next to your head before moving to sit next to you. At his hushed coaxing, you stiffly sit up and let him pull you over into his lap where you eagerly lean into him for a kiss, soft tits pushing into the firm planes of his chest. 

He indulges you only briefly though, letting you get a good taste of yourself on his tongue before pulling back enough to speak. “Turn around for me, princess. Gonna’ make you watch while I split that little cunt in half. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Just hearing him talk like that makes every single nerve ending in your body tense up to the point of real discomfort and you shudder fiercely even as you work to get spun around, tossing your leg over his hip so you can get settled across Lighter’s stomach. But even knowing good and well how strong he is wasn’t quite enough to fully ease your concerns about sitting on top of him. It makes you carefully hold yourself so you don’t put too much of your weight on him but he’s quick to smooth his palms down your sides to take bruising hold of your hips, forcing you to sit all the way and keeping you locked right where you are. 

While he gets situated behind you, laying back on the pillow he’d grabbed, you steal a harried glance at yourself in the mirror. Somehow this part always manages to surprise you, how soft and voluptuous you look against all the hard muscle and masculine angles of his body. Tits heavy and full, your pussy shamelessly spread open for him and the rigid length of him spearing up in the air between your legs. The visual alone is enough to nearly send you into free fall, and the knowledge that he was about to stuff that thick cock inside your body … you felt like you were going to cum before he even put it in you. 

“Nnghn, Lighter … fuck!” 

He softly shushes you, jostling you slightly as he at last tightens his fingers on your hips to lift your pelvis and guide your cunt into position over him. The shift forces you to go up on your toes, hands splayed out behind you across his flexing abdominals to steady your balance. 

And you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from the reflection now when he uses his braced feet on the floor to push up, sending his cock skirting along your sticky slit. You suck in a wet, faltering breath, arching your back to better angle your pussy down. He tries again, slipping and sliding through soaked fleshy lips, and the glans successfully catches at your entrance on the second attempt. 

You almost breathe a shuddering sigh of relief but then he’s pushing into you, good on his word of making you watch him split you in half. The gummy stretch of your body gradually taking him in one fraction of an inch at a time makes you feel faint from how hard your arousal spikes but you deliriously force yourself to keep watching. It’s fascinating, in a way, how his length slowly disappears inside you and demands your tight inner sleeve make room for him until he’s finally sheathed in you straight down to the base. 

Sitting there on top of him like that, cunt stuffed full and blissfully aching, you let out a low, mewling groan of satisfaction as your head starts to loll back as if in a doped out stupor. That little bit of reprieve in which he allows you to adjust is short lived though, and Lighter issues a rumbling groan of his own when he starts to move. 

The immediate heavy bounce of his ballsack excites you almost as much as the heavy jiggle of your tits does, and you cry out at the blindingly sharp bursts of ecstasy that shoot through your system each time he takes an upward jab up into your guts. You can see everything clearly in the mirror from your own pleasure stricken expression and the sweat coating your body down to the vigorous flex of muscle along his thighs. It doesn’t take long for it to start feeling overwhelming in this position though, your cunt completely defenseless and at his mercy like this, and your legs soon begin to tremble when the internal pressure steadily climbs. But the meaty slap of his pelvis driving against your ass and the accompanying wet clicks of your pussy sucking him in deep almost overwhelms any other sounds, and you nearly miss the hushed grunt of his voice when he speaks over your own desperate bleating. 

“Goddamn, you’re taking me so well, sugar … nnghnohh, yeeaah. You like that dick in your little pussy, huh? Already getting so tight for me … aghh, gonna’ cum all over this cock, aren’t you? Gonna be a good girl for me?” 

“Y - yes! I’m - I’m gonna’ — ahhghnn!”

Unable to take the relentless pounding anymore, you gingerly try to lift your lower body from the total onslaught but he just squeezes your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you firmly in place. There’s no escape from him or his cock, and you shudderingly squirm on top of him as your cresting pleasure just continues to climb higher and higher. It was like he was specifically made to fit you, each little ridge and veiny bump along his shaft perfectly stoking the blaze inside your body until it felt like you were going to combust. 

Still, it wasn’t quite enough to tip you over the edge though, and you precariously hang there in the balance, sobbing in pleasure, until he at last slides one of his hands inward to direct the blocky fingers towards your slit. You can see his intention clearly in the mirror's reflection but with your own hands braced behind you there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening. Gently at first, then more vigorously, Lighter rubs over your clit with a steady motion that quickly has you teetering over into the awaiting abyss below. 

And for a split second you get to watch yourself cum, get to see the way your whole body seizes up and uncontrollably shakes, how your expression twists in deeply felt relief, before it becomes too much to bear. Your eyes screw shut as you wildly jerk through your orgasm, wailing up at the ceiling while he just continues to pet you and fuck his cock into your pulsing cunt to drag it out. 

You briefly think you might actually die there like that, stretched out on him with your heart jackhammering such a violent rhythm it seems a small wonder you don’t kick the bucket, but at last you finally start to come down from it one fragmented piece of you at a time. It’s a process to refit the pieces back together again but when you finally manage to stir from your semi comatose state, you find Lighter still slowly thrusting into your fluttering cunt to milk every lost drop out of your release. 

At the deeply ruffled, frazzled sound you let out, he seems to realize you’re starting to recover and he seamlessly flips you over onto your stomach with a well practiced twist. Stretching out over top of you to pin your heaving body down, he finds your numb hands with his own so he can direct them high up on the bed and leave you prone underneath him. 

“Well, princess,” He murmurs right into your ear to make you whine a muffled groan into the sheets. “It looks to me like you might’ve finally bitten off a bit more than you can chew. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so tame. Still want more?” 

You quickly nod your head, trying in vain to arch your ass up into him, but it was impossible when his sturdy weight was settled on top of you like that and all you end up doing is restlessly squirming under him. It doesn’t matter though and it doesn’t stop you from trying. That was perhaps the best orgasm you’d ever had and you were still hungry for more. Voracious, even. 

“Yes, yes, yes — please, Lighter, please. Give me more.”

Softly clicking his tongue, he presses his mouth against the side of your head in another hard, toe curling kiss before pulling back enough to rumble a tender, “Insatiable brat.” 

And you really can’t argue against it.

⭐

Crossposted: here