#white collar crown | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saturnsorbits · 8 months ago

Text

LiSyK: Lesson One

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Warnings: Prince!Bakugo, Concubine Reader and Kirishima, Smut, Voyeurism, Unprotected Sex, Unprepared Sex, Cum Eating (Kinda). Word Count: 5k.

A/N: So, it's a series... No regular uploads, I'm just going to see where it goes.

Bakugo claps his hands, the sound echoing around the chamber like a rifle shot. 'You'll find my bed behind you.'

You blanch. 'Your bed, my lord?'

Concubines were a fixture of the royal rooms and have been for as long as anyone could remember. It wasn't unusual to see a collection of beautiful men and women lounging in living rooms or bedrooms, their skin almost entirely bare with only silk and gold to adorn them. Some, if favoured enough, were even gifted their own rooms were they could entertain their lord at their leisure.

And yet, it was unheard of to entertain a prince in his own chambers.

'Is there something wrong with my bed?' Bakugo's voice is a growl, low and deadly in the back of his throat. The idea of seeing you, the two of you, in his own bed sets up a stirring in his groin – one the demands to have its reward.

'No... No, I -.'

Kirishima's voice is an even timber when he steps in, easily picking up where your babbling had left you off. 'To share your personal bed chamber is a true honour, my lord.'

You curtsey, bowing you head low, thankful for the out.

The implications of Bakugo's excitement swarm in his head, but the buzzing never comes close to dampening his desire. Nodding towards the bed, he clenches his jaw tight. He'll deal with whatever fall out that comes later, right now... Both his heart and cock are set on this. 'Continue.'

Perching on the edge of the bed, you scoot backwards until your back presses against the plush cushions piled at the headboard. You can feel your pulse migrate, its steady rhythm sinking lower and lower until you're forced to resist the urge to cover your sex.

At the foot of the bed stands Kirishima. He smiles, soft and without his teeth, the apples of his cheeks swelling as he tries to render you at ease. The bump of his throat bobs as he leans forward, hands braced on the mattress as he prepares the advance on you, but before he can move, Bakugo's voice is ringing out clear from across the room.

Even across the room, Bakugo's throne feels far too close for comfort. He perches there, one knee raised with all the posture of a boy king. Atop his head the gold circlet of his crown sits off centre, the mess of his hair forcing it to tip towards his forehead. Beneath, his ruby eyes shine – deadly in their stare as he grips the edges of his chair with an almost white-knuckled force.

'Strip.' It's a command. One he's glad doesn't slip from his tongue with the anxiety that bubbles in his stomach. The acid is thick there, anticipation turning to bile as he fidgets, hoping neither of you can see his cock already raising to half mast under his trousers. 'Bare yourself to us.'

You swallow, tasting trepidation at the back of your tongue as you sit up and work at the straps of your covering. You'd been gifted new clothing after being chosen by the prince, upgrading your simple cloth rags for finer silks and golden bands. Now, a thin silken top cascades over your chest, the folds of the material deep and red, like waves of fresh fire licking at your skin. At your neck, a chain keeps the material from falling as it hangs from your golden collar.

The collar bares a series of symbols. Those for both the house of Bakugo, granting you movement throughout the entire fortress and those for the prince himself: a mark of his ownership. The chain wraps your back too, meeting in a clasp that you quickly undo, allowing the material to sink and expose the edges of your breasts as you work at loosing the chain to let the entire article slip away.

Kirishima's eyes linger. He can't help it. The fabric covering you slips to the mattress and immediately leaves you bare. Soft tits fill his vision, the gentle rise and fall of your chest making them jiggle slightly as you try and calm your breathing. His palms are sweating, making him thankful for the bedsheets under his hands and his voice demands he speak words of praise and devotion, even despite his not having permission to utter a word.

For the prince to be able to touch you seems obvious, for you're nothing short of a royal gift, but for him... He's not quite sure how he managed to get so lucky to be allowed to lay his eyes on a treasure such as you.

'Show him everything.' Bakugo clicks his tongue. His fist is balled in his pants, pulling them from his crotch to save their staining. Shifting in his seat, he attempts to hide his arousal. Not for the first time, he's glad he placed himself away from your gazes.

'Yes, my lord.' Your breathing catches as you unbuckle the silk skirt at your hips. You'd been denied underthings. Such items are inconvenient for the prince, should his cock wish to be buried in your tight heat at short notice. Instead, leather straps sit at your hips with long silken strips of material stitched to their edges. Falling to mid calf, the material flows effortlessly with your movement just as it drifts easily to the floor now as you unbuckle it.

'Knees apart.'

You comply, sensing the tightness in the princes voice and drop your knees, exposing the softness of your inner thighs and the sweetness of your sex to the air.

You're dripping. Even from this distance Kirishima can tell. There's a sheen coating your skin, a slick mix of arousal that gives off a heady scent. It infests his lungs, soaks into the roof of his mouth as he drags more of your aroma into him with each breath. His fingers twitch on the mattress gathering more sheet between them as he tries to stop himself from moving too soon and gaining the punishment of the prince.

Bakugo leans so far off his throne he's not confident he won't fall. He's never smelt sex before, but if it smells anything like you do, he's not sure he'll ever be able to be without it. Your musk is an aphrodisiac, making his mouth water and his cock twitch as he gives up attempting to hide his erection. Reaching for his belt, he loosens the buckle and reaches into his pants squeezing around the base of his cock as he pulls it into the air.

The princes cock is average in length. Delicate, almost, in how it bends slightly to the left – the rose petal head rounded and plump, dribbling more than it's fair share of pre-cum down the man's fist. Along the pale shaft, a series of purpling vein's break up the tone. Most are wide, pulsing with his heartbeat and splaying as they reach his base, where a delicate crop of blonde hair obscures the rest. It's darker than the hair on his head, closer to the brown of his fathers as it trails, reaching up over the muscle of his stomach and beyond.

Kirishima gulps, quickly snapping his gaze from over his shoulder and back to you. He can't say for certain, but he's pretty sure he has a bigger cock than the prince.

It should be an ego boost, something to brag about in those few moments of peace he's awarded outside of his royal duty, except there's just one thing he's worried about.

You.

'Stretch yourself...' Clenching his teeth, Bakugo refuses to show his breathlessness. His cock kicks in his hand, demanding a friction he withholds; but even with his precaution, there's no removing his affliction entirely from his visage. He straightens, rolling his shoulders to flatten against the back of his throne. Still, greed and longing sink into his tone. 'Let me see.'

Reaching between your thighs, you do as your told. The stickiness of your cunt clings to your fingers immediately, your clit twitching as clumsy fingers spread into a 'V' to expose your insides.

'Fuck.' The word trips from Kirishima's tongue carelessly and drops into the air like the last firework at new year. Around him, the world freezes – the muscles of his shoulders tense as he watches your abdomen hitch. He hadn't been given permission to speak. For all he knows, your allure has truly become the end of him. After all, it isn't unknown for rulers to punish their concubines for far less than speaking out of turn.

Bakugo clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and savours the knot that appears in the centre of Kirishima's back. The muscles bunch, writhing in a manner that makes him wonders if he could recreate it. 'Yeah...' He sighs. 'Fuck.' Coughing the delicacy from his voice, he licks over his lips before addressing the scene again. 'You. Kirishima. Strip.'

Kirishima complies in a heartbeat.

His loin cloth is much like yours in design, a thick strip of leather wrapping his waist just below his navel that buckles at either hip. Attached is the same material, thin and translucent and falling to mid-thigh; sheer enough to almost see the heft of his cock as it lays against his thighs.

Thick fingers work at the buckles, nimbly loosening the leather until he can swiftly shuck the material down his legs and discard it with a flick of his foot.

From his throne, Bakugo has to bite back the groan that threatens to rock through his chest and spill into the air. His mouth waters. Kirishima's cock is larger than he'd expected... A lot larger than he'd expected.

It bends under it's own weight, almost hanging despite his being fully hard. His foreskin is dark, a flush of deep mauve that slips back just enough to expose a slither of dark cherry head. Pre-cum leaks from him like a tap. It glistens on his skin, making the two thick vein's that raise from his skin just below his head glow in vague purple as they pulse. The crop of hair at his base is thick and black, a stark contrast to his own pale, downy hair.

Bakugo swallows, ridding his throat of the desire to be full. His tongue flattens to the roof of his mouth, his taste buds desperate for a lick of whatever divine nector drips from the pair of you. 'Go on then...' He barks, excitement flooding his bloodstream as he attempts to maintain some kind of dignity with his hand still squeezing the base of his cock. 'Fuck her.'

'I... Uhm,' Kirishima's cock bobs, threatening to steal his cohesion. He struggles to remember his teachings, a million and one things racing through his mind as he tries to remember the diagrams and words of the old mothers. 'I need to, to... Prepare her first.'

'Of course.' Bakugo frowns. He knew that. Of course, he knew that – he's eager, that's all. Maybe a little too eager.

'Can... Can I?' Kirishima's eyes shine when he brings them up to meet you. There's a gentleness there, a softness that barely disguises the blind pleasure that coils his stomach into knots. He reaches forward, a hand brushing the skin of your shin as his thumb draws an awkward half-circle in your calve.

You nod. With your fingers still spreading your cunt, you can feel the rush of slick that gathers there as you wait under his gaze for your devouring. It coats your fingers, leaving strings of pearl on your skin like jewellery.

Kirishima climbs up onto the bed, forcing it to dip under his weight. You feel bare laying there, exposed, as you watch his eyes dip between your legs and grows hungry. Fighting the urge to snap shut your legs and scramble away, you force yourself to relax. No-one has seen you quite like this before. Your intimacies have always been your own, exposed only to the King's consort Inko to confirm your virginity before a bright 'V' had been painted on your chest.

You wonder if you're pretty down there. If you look appealing... Fuckable.

A large hand wraps your thigh, a reassuring squeeze drawing you from your thoughts and back into the moment. Kirishima smiles, the tips of his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he reaches out with his other arm and hovers centimetres away from your sex. He catches your eye, eyebrows raising slightly on his forehead as the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 'You'll tell me if you want me to stop, won't you?'

There's a trepidation lingering under his skin, the kind of anxiety that is laced with excitement and easily highlights his inexperience and yet, his movements are sure when he finally touches you.

The pad of his thumb swipes at your clit making your back arch. Your eyes widen as the breath is taken from your lungs, a soft gasp leaping from your mouth. You become aware of your body then, more aware than you've ever been as the tingles of pleasure begin to recede with his touch. It leaves you raw and desperate, hips lifting from the bed in order to seek him out once more.

'Louder.' Bakugo's voice is broken. His cock still sit in his hand, pulsing angrily at it's neglect. Already he can feel his balls pulling up tight against him, threatening an end to something he hasn't even been able to start yet. 'Make her louder.'

Kirishima repeats the action. This time, the pad of his thumb presses harder, circling, until he earns another gasp from your lungs. He's surprised to learn that you're soft. Softer than he'd expected. You're so wet he can feel it clinging to his skin, the heat radiating through his thumb and making his mouth water. Against the mattress his cock stirs, smearing pre-cum against his stomach as he grinds down, offering himself only the smallest amounts of relief. He licks his teeth. 'Can...' His thumb moves lower, slipping off the wet hood of your clit and hovering over your entrance. 'Can I?'

'Please.' Lifting your hips from the bed, you attempt to rub his thumb back over your clit, desperate for more of his touch. You don't know what he's offering, you're not sure you care as long as it means you get to feel his hands on you again. 'Please...'

With your permission, Kirishima presses into you until you squeeze around the base of his thumb. You're hot inside, your walls silken and soaking, tightening around him as he pulls back out, testing your reactions. His eyes flicker to yours, a quick check in before he twists his wrist and offers you two fingers. This time you struggle with the stretch. He can feel it, the flutter in your walls as you breathe through the intrusion, but soon enough, you're relaxing, sucking him in and whining soft and breathy above him.

Your voice doesn't feel like your own. Each noise that escapes you is new, sinfully sweet as it escapes your throat and floats through the air. The women at the temple may have trained you, but they had never prepared you for this. Their lessons had always been focused on pleasing, not being pleased – the pillow dances and allure routines, all of it was useless here with you on your back and a man's thick fingers pressing up into the spongy roof of your cunt.

You writhe as a pressure builds below your pubic bone, encouraging a series of moans to leak from your mouth. It feels as though you might burst as your cunt clenches, but before you can discover just what comes next Bakugo's voice is spilling into the room and Kirishima's fingers still inside of you.

Bakugo is hanging on by a thread. His cock has gone pale with his grip around the base, his balls pulled so tight he can feel his pulse beating through them. Still, he refuses to embarrass himself. Not without seeing what he came to see. 'That's enough...' He speaks through his teeth, gritting out his words. 'Fuck her already.'

Kirishima looks to you before he moves. His brow is set, his eyes cool as he waits for your permission once again. He crawls over you until his arms bracket your shoulders, your chests almost level.

You look stunning like this, your lips shining, eyes wide and watery as you heave in deep, steadying breaths. There's no denying that he wants you, the sheer fact he's been allowed to touch you alone has his cock jumping against his stomach, but his mother's taught him to be respectful before anything else and so, he waits...

'I said...' Bakugo growls, but before he can finish his sentence, you're shifting.

Looking between you body and Kirishima's, you stifle a squeak as you see just what you have to contend with. Lined up as he is, it seems as though he'd reach your navel with ease – a far from appetising idea and yet, there's a yearning that spreads from the curve of your stomach to the depths of your cunt. One that has your insides tingling.

You don't care how big he is.

Don't care if it'll hurt.

As a matter of fact... A small piece of you wishes it will.

You reach between your legs, petting over your pubic hair until you can smooth your fingers across the twitching peak of your clit. A breathy whine slips from between your lips, but you continue, denying yourself in the quest for something more. Slipping further, you take two of your own fingers and arc your spine, feeling the beating of your cunt squeezing around you softly. With the other hand, you lean forward, taking Kirishima's cock in your palm and giving it a slow, gentle tug.

The man shudders at your touch. His whole body quakes at the faintest gripping of your fingertips, thick muscles rippling like he might collapse. Locking his elbows, he narrowly avoids falling on top of you as you ease him down and press his tip to your clit. He's panting openly now, his chest heaving as he struggles against the sin of your hands. If he's like this now, he dares not to think of what the tight heat of your cunt will do to him.

Tapping him against you once, twice – you enjoy each jolt of pleasure as it zips down your legs. It leaves you tingling and wanting more as you finally, finally line him up with your entrance. His cock catches against you, but before you can bask in the power you hold over him, Kirishima slips his hand between your bodies and collects your wrists in one, large palm.

He doesn't speak when he pins your hands above your head, he doesn't think he can. Instead, he holds your eye and hopes you can see what you're doing to him. Shifting his hips, he rocks into you and almost sees the Gods when the head of his cock sinks into you. You feel divine, hot and wet and tight and begging for his release. He breathes, unsure just how long he'll last. For a moment he waits, giving you just the tip and nothing more, waiting for the both of you to adjust.

The stretch he gives you is impossible. Even with so little of him inside of you, you feel full, incapable of taking the more you know he's going to give you. There's a burn radiating through your pelvis, a persistent, but delectable pain that subsides only as you breathe through it. You moan, a pretty noise escaping your throat as you feel him rut just a little deeper, taking the air from your lungs. Fisting your hands in whatever bedsheets you can find, your ribcage lifts from the bed, tits pressing flush with Kirishima's chest.

Bakugo thinks he might explode. He can see the rim of your cunt, Kirishima's cock stuffing it full and barley a quarter in. It's exhilarating as he watches both of you shiver, trying to hold it together as much as possible. Loosening his grip on his cock, he chances a slow, but firm pull upwards and quickly regrets it.

You moan, eyes rolling as flick up your hips as harshly as you can. The movement sheaths him further inside of you, dragging a harsh grunt out of his lungs as he falters. His cock presses up into you, bringing tears to your eyes as he slides back out almost immediately, but his fullness isn't a sensation you're willing to give up. Desperation claws at you, begs you for more, for a release you're dying to experience. 'Please, please, please...'

You're incensed, but then again, so is Kirishima.

Maybe that's why he gives you what you want, despite knowing you probably can't take it. Dipping his head to your neck, he rolls his hips to fill you completely and hopes he he can hold out long enough to please both you and the prince.

Your body struggles, cunt pulsing with that familiar sweet throb as he stills his movements once more and waits. You feel light headed, your body pulled taught as you hiccup through your next few breaths.

Teeth graze the junction of your shoulder, a whispered 'Is it too much?' tickling your ear before you feel the slow sensation of him pulling out. You move instantly. Wrapping your legs around him, you stop his retreat and squeeze tight, anxious to keep him inside, to be stretched and full.

The moan he lets out is pure sin. It's deep, guttural, lingering in his throat as he rocks his hips back into you and basks in the heaven that your cunt provides. With your ankles locked at the base of his spine, he's forced to bottom out – his thicket of pubic hair brushing against your clit making you twitch and writhe against him.

A strangled whine leaves Bakugo's throat as he comes to terms with his nearing end. He fucks his fist, hips lifting from the cushioned throne seat as he quickens his pace, eyes glued to were your two bodies meet on the bed. It takes barely a handful of strokes, especially when Kirishima's hips begin to move earning a cacophony of moans from both of your throats.

You can't help it. Neither of you can.

Both of your eyes drift to the back of the room, stealing quick glances at the prince. He looks ethereal, lost to his own throws of pleasure with his eyes squeezed shut and his head tipped back. A trickle of moans sneak from his lips despite his breath catching behind his Adam's apple, making goose flesh prickle on both of your arms. It feels wrong, to watch him like this – to see him so vulnerable, throat exposed, cock in his hand and cumming in his own fist, but you swear you've never seen a more beautiful sight.

He cums in waves. His body shaking as he coats his fist, his hand still smoothing the rest of his orgasm from his body. Eventually, his breathing levels out, the faint tingle from his release making him loose and light-headed. His skin prickles. The odd tug of being watched itching at the back of his neck, but when he finally blinks open his eyes there's no-one watching him.

Kirishima groans. He could feel you, your cunt pulsing around him as you watched the prince come undone. It spurs something inside of him, calls on him to please you in the way your body so desperately wanted to be pleased. Spreading his legs a little wider, he forces your hips open allowing him to reach even deeper inside of you and begins to rock his hips.

Something spoilt bubbles in your stomach. Watching the prince has made you hungry, but before you can get carried away feeling jealous of his release Kirishima begins to fuck you. Each of his thrusts gets deeper, his pace quickening until it becomes hard to concentrate. His cock fills you perfectly, making your whole body raw in a way you've never felt before.

It isn't long before Kirishima feels the tell tale pit in his stomach begin to swell. His balls pull up tight, the muscle in his abdomen twitching as he holds onto his composure with his finger tips. Still, he knows exactly what he has to do. Angling his hips down, he ensures his pubic bone brushes yours with each stroke, the thick mess of hair at his stomach tickling over your clit with each stroke.

You moan with each of his thrusts. There's no pain now, no sharp stabbing as his cock presses up inside of you. Instead, there's the dullness of a rising pleasure, one that threatens to tip you over the edge at any moment as you hold on for dear life. With your wrists still bound in his, it's impossible to pull him as closely as you want him, but Kirishima seems to read your mind.

Without pausing his rhythm, Kirishima presses his forehead to yours. Your eyes lock, the wildness in your iris' laid bare for him as his brow scrunches in concentration. He learns more about you in those following few seconds than he has for the week you'd been sequestered together before the selection. It's as if he's attuned to every inch of you, every hitch of your breath, each twitch of your lip and pulse of your cunt.

That's why he sees it coming.

He watches as your eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back towards the ceiling of the bed chamber. Your chest heaves, breath lodged there as a wave of pleasure strong enough to steal your breath rolls through you. Your mouth drops open, lips spit slicked and shining.

And then, then he feels your cunt pulse.

You milk him endlessly. Tightening around him in a vice he's not sure he'll ever want to escape, your pleasure is the most delectable thing he's ever experienced. A groan leaves his throat raw, his biceps shaking as he keep fucking your through your high, prolonging it for as long as possible. There had always been talk of what it was like to make a woman cum, the teachings endless, but none of it had come close to the real thing.

'Not...' Bakugo is breathless. His crown is still lob-sided, his smile lazy and satisfied as he kicks a leg back over the arm of his throne. 'Not inside. Don't come inside of her. That's an order.'

'Yes... Yes, my lord.' With his composure waning, Kirishima waits barely a beat, just until your cunt relaxes, the ghost of a smile tugging at the side of your lip. And then, he pulls out.

You whine, lurching forward as your wrists are released, but you don't get very far before thick strings of pearl are being lashed over your tits. The liquid is warm and coats your skin generously, painting you in his release. Above you, Kirishima fists his cock. His abdomen is tight, his nose scrunched, eyes heavy and half-lidded as he fights to keep looking at you.

And then, just like that, it's over.

The prince allows you a moment of reprieve, a minute or two to bask in the enormity of what has just occurred. The deflowering of a concubine was often a ritualised event and yet, here you were, with the spend of another concubine on your chest having just been taken for the first time. Kirishima's palm curls around your shoulder, steadying you as your world spins. His comfort is welcomed, something you offer him back with a hand on his thigh.

Bakugo clears his throat. 'Go...'

Your head snaps towards him, eyebrows scrunched. There's a shake in your knees still, one you're not sure will support you if the prince chooses to toss you out of his chambers so soon.

Licking his lips, there's a new softness in Bakugo's tone when he speaks again, shifting in his seat as he does. 'Go clean yourselves up. There's a bath through those doors, the servants should have it warm by now. You're welcome to it and whatever you wish to use in there. Sooth your muscles and return to your own quarters. I'll call for you again tomorrow.'

Kirishima glances at you and shrugs. There will be time to talk about the princes strangeness later, for now, you're not about to turn down a chance for a dip in the royal baths. Scrambling to your feet, Kirishima supports you into a messy curtsey before the prince before you slip out of the room and descend upon a world of luxury.

The door to the baths slams shut behind you, leaving Bakugo alone once again. He shouldn't have let you in there either, people will certainly talk if you're discovered, but the servants are obedient folk and his harsh nature keeps away the other prying eyes efficiently enough.

Springing from his seat, he crosses the room in barely two strides before he's at the bed. He crawls across it, feeling the warmth of your bodies still radiating through the sheets as he goes, imagining what it will feel like to be caught between the scene he witnessed only moments earlier. There's evidence of the act. Dips where you'd been lying, the sheets rumpled and tossed, but the thing that catches his eye is the darkened wet patch clear on the bed.

He doesn't think, he just moves. His chest meets the bed, his tunic falling open to allow rosy nipples to rub against the sheets as his tongue slips from behind his teeth and drags across the wetness. The taste of you bursts across his tongue. A deadly mix of both you and Kirishima ensnares him, causing him to go back for more. He laps at the sheet until his saliva mixes with your essence overpowering your tastes, leaving him wanting.

Collapsing on the bed, Bakugo stares up at the ceiling and listens to the hushed tones and splashes of you in the next room.

Tomorrow. He thinks.

Tomorrow, he'll have you...

Or, at least some of you.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

-> Series Masterlist -> Full Masterlist

#bakugo x reader smut #kirishima x reader smut #kiribaku x reader smut #mha smut #bakugo x reader #kirishima x reader #kiribaku x reader #saturnsorbits #saturnscribbles #LiSyK: Lesson One

2K notes · View notes

luminiamore · 2 months ago

Text

sweet.

(universe)

warnings: kento being oblivious, gojo flirting with reader (3sum in the near future), jealous reader, soft sex, mirror sex, heavy praise, bare with me noww, this isn’t directly related to part one but it is from the the same universe. im temporarily back lols, enjoy!

for the first time ever in your life, you find yourself filled with jealousy. over a man. the realization is like a poison you can’t shake off, sitting uncomfortably in your chest. you decide then and there that you don’t like this feeling at all. far from fond of the way your blood boils, the way you feel an almost primal urge to fight another woman—over him. your glossed lips crinkle into a nasty scowl as your ears hyper-fixate on the sound of her obnoxiously high-pitched laughter. he wasn’t even that funny.

you swear your eye twitches when she trails her manicured nails down his shoulder, her movements slow, deliberate, teasing. she’s not ugly—not even close. you can admit that. but you’re by no means insecure. in fact, you’re painfully aware of how stunning you look tonight. still, the thought burns: why isn’t he pushing her away?

they clearly know each other; this is a business work event, after all. a secretary, maybe? his assistant? your mind races trying to place her, but no name or face comes to mind. kento never mentioned her before. you would know—he tells you everything about his long, draining work days. he’s also so precise in recounting every detail, you’re there to listen to them as you massage his scalp.

you distinctly remember names like leiri, suguru, utahime. even that guy, gojo. he talks about him the most, despite how much he apparently irritates him to no end.

but this woman? her perfectly styled red hair, the way she clings onto his words like gospel- she’s a mystery. one he conveniently forgot to mention in his stories.

is this why he invited you? to watch him let another woman touch him, laugh with him, lean into him in ways that make your stomach twist?

his face bears his signature stoic expression as he speaks to her, but you can’t unsee the way he smiles occasionally. even the small, intimate gesture of fixing the strap of her dress has your jaw clenching.

kento is a gentlemen, you know this. but does he really have to display it like this? with each passing moment, your heart sinks further, the pit in your stomach growing heavier. it’s sickening.

you’re too pretty for this.

especially tonight, with your strapless light pink bubble dress that hugs your waist like a second skin, sculpting you into a vision of perfection. every step you take, every slight movement sends your high, sleek barbie ponytail swishing behind you in defiance, like a crown that refuses to let you forget who you are.

your makeup is immaculate: fluttery lashes that make your eyes impossibly doll-like, catching every flicker of light, and a soft blush dusting your cheeks, enhancing your angelic glow.

you weren’t brought here to be ignored.

yet here you are, simmering with jealousy, your perfectly manicured white nails digging into your palm as you stare them down from across the room. this won’t do. you weren’t dressed to perfection to be overlooked. not by him.

it seems your prayers were answered, faster than expected too. gojo sauntered toward you with the kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance. his snowy hair was nicely tousled, as though it was styled enough just enough to look effortlessly undone. a smug grin was already plastered across his no doubt beautiful face.

the air seemed to shift around him. his tailored black suit hugged his tall frame perfectly, the satin lapels catching the low, golden light. the collar of his crisp white shirt was left slightly undone, offering a subtle glimpse of pale skin beneath. polished black oxfords clicked softly against the floor.

you hadn’t even noticed him at first—too busy glaring daggers into the back of the redhead currently stealing your kento’s attention. but the moment gojo entered your periphery, the energy changed. this time in your favor.

he was impossible to miss as he approached you where you sat in the middle of the bar. he could sense your simmering frustration from across the room—no doubt about your date letting another woman throw herself on him. and of course, decided to intervene.

“is this seat taken, or should i just assume this drink is for me?” his voice was smooth, too easy.

he leaned against the high barstool you occupied, one arm resting on the polished surface of the bar while the other toyed with the edge of your untouched glass. his tone carried a playful lilt as if he’d already decided the answer didn’t matter—he’d stay regardless.

your brows knitted together in confusion as you turned to face the source of the bold interruption. your pretty glossed lips, which had been set in an irritated scowl mere moments ago, softened and shifted into an involuntary pout

your voice, smooth yet edged with a hint of incredulity, carried the weight of your surprise as you spoke, “um, excuse me?” the words hung in the air as you tilted your head ever so slightly.

the moment he spoke, you recognized him. the confident, almost cocky grin, paired with that signature tousled white hair—it was unmistakable. gojo satoru.

“didn’t mean to startle you, doll,” he said, his voice low. he motioned toward your drink, still untouched, the ice inside barely melted. “this drink is still full, and from where i’m standing, you look like you could use some company.”

he paused, his gaze locking with yours, his smirk growing ever so slightly. “but if you prefer the solitude… i can always grab my own drink.”

his words lingered in the air, but you couldn’t help but notice the challenge behind them, the underlying invitation. he was perfectly at ease, as if this were just another conversation.

you blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by his audacity. the corner of your mouth twitched into a small smile as you tilted your head again, batting your long lashes. “and you are…?”

you asked, drawing out the words with just the right amount of innocence, pretending you didn’t already know exactly who he was.

as of his smirk could stretch even wider, gojo’s gaze sharpens with amusement. kento had mentioned you before— you’re like a doll, a fragile, perfect little thing. and god, was he right. you were exactly what he painted, even more striking in person if he was honest.

your brown skin caught the light in the most mesmerizing way, a subtle shimmer that seemed to radiate with every movement you made. it was as though your entire being was illuminated. every curve and contour of your body glowing with a soft, ethereal radiance. to him, you weren’t just beautiful, but something more—almost otherworldly, like an angel walking among them.

his eyes flickered from your drink, still untouched, and then back to you, his gaze slow and deliberate. he took in every detail, memorizing your every move. the subtle pout on your glossy lips, that almost imperceptible shift in your posture, and the way your eyes glimmered, measuring him up.

he couldn’t help but wonder—how could kento leave you alone like this?

his voice smooth as honey, “gojo satoru. maybe kento’s told you about me? he’s mentioned you a bunch of times.” he pauses, letting the words hang in the air for a moment longer than necessary.

if you’re surprised, you don’t show it. you keep that perfect, aloof air about you, your gaze never once wavering from his.

“but don’t worry,” the white haired man continued, that stupid charming grin still there. “i’m not here to step on his toes. just thought i’d say hello to the beauty he left alone tonight.”

he’s flirting with you. there’s no mistaking it. the playful tone in his voice, the way his eyes linger on you, all of it signals the intention behind his words.

you can feel a warmth crawl up your neck, a subtle thrill coursing through you at the sudden attention. it’s a spark igniting within you, something you only felt with kento. you try to hold back, but your lips betray you, curving into a small, involuntary smile.

for a split second, your gaze shifts over to kento. your heart skips a beat when you find him already looking at you, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. his gaze feels like a weight, heavy and unyielding, pressing against your chest. it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is—anger, concern, or something else entirely.

it’s the kind of look that makes you feel exposed. he’s dissecting every tiny movement, every flicker of emotion crossing your face. despite his distance from you.

you quickly tear your eyes away from kento, a twinge of guilt flooding your chest as you force your attention back to gojo. his playful gaze never wavers.

“something the matter, doll?” he asks, his voice light, but the tone betrays an undercurrent of amusement.

you finally respond, your voice a little breathier than you intended, and a warm flush creeps up your neck, coloring your cheeks. “he talks about me? i didn’t really think he was the type to gossip.”

you’re still processing the idea of kento mentioning you to someone like gojo. he talks as if he despises the man, always with a hint of irritation and sometimes even disgust. as if even mentioning his name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

you always assumed the two were at odds, maybe even enemies of some kind with how often he complains about how insufferable he can be.

a deep chuckle fills your ears, it’s like the sound of a well-aged wine being uncorked. “oh, he’s not,” gojo starts. “but trust me, when it comes to someone like you, he can’t help himself.”

his eyes flicker to kento for just a moment, his gaze lingering briefly, before it’s back on you, “i can see why, though,” he adds, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “you’ve already got me hooked on you.”

his way of nonchalance is almost unsettling. doesn’t he know how territorial kento can get? or does he just not care?

you glance over at kento again, his expression unreadable, but the slight tension in his jaw betrays his quiet disapproval.

“you’re not worried about kento?” the question slips from your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper, though you’re not sure whether you’re asking gojo or yourself. it feels strange to voice it aloud. you’ve always thought of kento as someone who would take any threat to his control seriously, and here gojo is, flirting with you in plain sight, with no hesitation.

“worried? about him?” he grumbles, “trust me, doll, kento’s a big boy. i’m not sure if i’m the one he need to worry about.”

what did he mean by that? you’re still processing his words, but as gojo holds your gaze, that familiar feeling of being seen—really seen—creeps up on you. it’s unnerving, but you don’t want him to look away somehow.

for a moment, the room around you fades as you focus solely on the man before you. it’s crazy how easily he’s made you forget about everything else. you want to respond, to call his bluff, but something about how intense he is stops you. instead, you simply blink.

before you can even begin to gather your thoughts and formulate an answer, a heavy hand lands on your shoulder. you feel a warmth run down your spine. that scent—woodsy, with a hint of something clean and crisp—fills the air around you.

your breath catches in your throat slightly and without needing to look, you know it’s him. the very essence of kento’s controlled demeanor has momentarily broken the charged bubble that gojo created between you two.

you glance over your shoulder, and there he is—kento, standing tall, stoic, his usual composed self. his sharp eyes lock onto gojo with an unreadable expression, though there’s a subtle tension in his jaw, the only giveaway of how he’s truly feeling. his presence towering over you in a way that feels protective—if not a little possessive.

gojo, however, doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. in fact, he leans back into his seat, his grin widening into something more smug, as if this is exactly what he’s been waiting for.

you can feel the heat of both men’s attention on you now. what is happening?

kento’s voice breaks the silence, cool and measured, like he’s carefully weighing his words.

“gojo,” he starts, his eyes still locked onto the white-haired man. his hand on your shoulder shifts slightly, he’s trying to keep a lid on whatever’s simmering beneath. “if you’re done with your little game, i think it’s time for you to let her breath a little, hm?” he doesn’t look at you as he talks.

gojo is savoring this moment. “what game?” he replies smoothly, raising an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this more than he probably should. cerulean eyes flickering between the two of you, “i’m just saying hello to the beauty you ditched tonight.”

“you’ve said your hello, and now it’s time for us to leave,” kento says flatly, a hard edge to his tone. his grip on your shoulder tightens just a fraction, a silent cue that he’s ready to move things along—away from gojo, away from whatever this is.

before you can process it fully, you make a sound—a soft, almost instinctive protest. it escapes before you can stop it, you don’t want to leave yet.

you were just starting to enjoy yourself. the night had only just begun to shift into something fun—why does he get to bask in the attention of someone else but when it comes to anyone showing interest in you, it’s time to go? that’s not fair.

gojo, ever the perceptive one, picks up on the subtle shift in your energy almost immediately. the way your body tenses, the slight flicker of uncertainty in your eyes as you glance back and forth between him and kento.

“i don’t think the little doll here wants to leave,” gojo comments, his voice dripping with a teasing drawl.

kento barely flinches at gojo’s remark. without missing a beat, his expression hardens just slightly, and he steps fully into your space. “we’re leaving. now,” kento states, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

you open your mouth to protest, the words forming on your lips, but before you can voice them, kento’s gaze sharpens, and the intensity of it pins you in place. your protest dies in your throat.

gojo, watching this exchange, can’t help the intrigued look that tugs on his entire face. there’s something interesting about how easily kento exerts control over you, how effortlessly he can shut you down with just a look. it makes gojo wonder—would you react the same way to him? would you let him dominate the space between you, take charge and make you follow his lead like kento does?

a flash of something darker flickers in gojo’s gaze and another flicker of curiosity about what it would take for him to have that kind of influence over you.

you stand from your seat, your so kate heels clicking against the marble floor. you move reluctantly, and gojo watches every step, his eyes never leaving you.

when you glance up and send him an apologetic look, something in him shifts. you look almost delicate in that moment and then something twitch in his dress pants. the very idea of you stirs a response in him that he can’t quite ignore. he doesn’t want to.

“hey, don’t look so sorry, doll,” gojo murmurs, leaning forward just a little, his gaze fixed firmly on kento, his eyes sharp with that unrelenting amusement. “i’m sure i’ll see you again, sooner than you think.”

his presence lingers in the air, like an invisible thread pulling at you, even as you turn away. you know, without a doubt, that his eyes are still on you as you step out and kento opens the door for you, that ever-present smirk never leaving his face as he takes a sip from the drink you left.

the ride back to kento’s penthouse is suffocatingly quiet. the hum of the car is the only sound in the air as the night wraps around you both. your body is turned as far away from him as you can manage, trying to press yourself into the cool, unyielding door as if putting distance between you two will somehow ease the frustration you feel.

the silence grows heavier before kento finally speaks. his voice is low, careful, like he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

“you seem upset,” he starts, the words almost too casual, too calm. “care to tell me why?”

there’s a sharp edge to his tone, barely noticeable but enough to let you know he’s waiting for something—some kind of explanation, maybe.

you don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. you keep your gaze fixed on the window, the lights of the city blurring past as if you’re not even there.

kento’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white as his gaze flickers over to you. his patience thinning, but he tries to keep himself calm, measured as he speaks.

“are you upset with me?”

you remain silent, your gaze fixed out the window, refusing to acknowledge him. but this time, the silence isn’t enough for him. he sighs—deep and almost tired.

“is there a reason why you were letting gojo satoru flirt with you?” his voice is low.

you don’t give him any silence this time. without missing a beat, you turn slightly toward him. your voice uncharacteristically sharp, “is there a reason why you were letting some redhead throw herself on you?”

he knows exactly who you’re talking about—the redhead, his secretary, the one who had been working under him for a while now. honestly, he hadn’t thought much of her beyond the occasional brief interaction. to him, she was just another colleague, someone he’d see around the office now and then, exchanging pleasantries and handling basic tasks.

but hearing you mention her like this makes him pause. was she really throwing herself at him? kento, though sharp in many ways, was infamously dense when it came to detecting romantic interest.

he’d never picked up on the subtle hints or the flirty undertones that others would easily recognize. he’d always just chalked up her attentions as professional, after all he is her boss.

“were you jealous, sweetheart?” he can’t help but take the opportunity to tease you. and despite how frustrated you are, you still shy away from his words. your kento always had that effect on you. jealous? no way.

you quip, “no! not jealous. it’s just weird that you never told me about her, that’s all.”

he watches as you look away, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. there’s something about the way you try to brush it off that only makes him want to poke at you more. he’s used to you being a little oblivious, and honestly, he finds it kind of endearing.

“mm, is that so?” he muses, “it’s weird that i didn’t tell you about her?” his eyebrow raises, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “and here i thought you wouldn’t be interested in a measly secretary.”

to kento, when he’s describing his day to you, he only feels the need to mention the important things. why would he ever need to mention someone as insignificant as a secretary?

but he’s not done yet. his gaze softens, and there’s a small, almost tender shift in his expression as he watches you carefully. you almost forget that you two were still on the road. “you really don’t think i’d keep something like that from you on purpose, do you?”

you hesitate, your lips parted for a moment before you mutter, “don’t know.”

a slight chuckle escapes as if to reassure you that it was never anything worth mentioning. you know kento wouldn’t lie to you, and his tone conveys that sincerity. he’s just not the type to complicate things with unnecessary details.

he watches you, eyes soft but intrigued, as he can tell you’re battling what to do in that pretty little head of yours. it’s a look he’s grown used to, and, strangely, he finds it oddly charming. the way you’re focused on him, trying to process everything he says, more concerned with the things you don’t quite understand than with anything else.

it’s a kind of sweetness he doesn’t even realize he’s craving.

you finally make it to his home, a sleek, minimalist penthouse that mirrors kento’s composed demeanor. the dim lighting casts a soft glow across the space, highlighting the clean lines and neutral tones of the decor. the subtle scent of his cologne still lingers in the air as he leads you through the entryway.

his hand never leaves yours, his firm grip guiding you effortlessly up to his top-floor suite. you follow him without question, your heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors. the weight of the evening settles over you, and you don’t dare speak—not because you’re afraid, but because you don’t know what to say.

your thoughts drift, circling back to the restaurant, to gojo, to the way kento’s jaw had tensed ever so slightly when he saw you exchanging words with the white-haired man. the memory sends a flush of heat to your cheeks, but you push it aside, grateful that kento hasn’t brought it up again.

you almost let yourself relax, eternally thankful that he didn’t press further—didn’t question why you hadn’t pushed gojo away or why you seemed so unsure in the moment. maybe he understood that you were caught off guard, or maybe he simply chose to spare you the embarrassment of having to explain yourself.

he leads you into his bedroom, the expansive city skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. the silence between you feels as if kento is giving you space to collect yourself.

you don’t dare look at him directly, instead letting your gaze wander over the room. you can feel his presence behind you, steady and unwavering, and you know he’s watching—assessing you in that quiet, observant way he always does.

still, he says nothing about gojo, and you’re not sure if that makes you feel relieved or unsettled.

however, kento isn’t the type to let something like that slide—not because he’s angry, but because he’s curious. intrigued. at the way you didn’t immediately recoil from gojo’s teasing, the subtle way your lashes fluttered and your lips quirked, had left a faint, simmering heat in his chest.

it wasn’t jealousy, not entirely, at least. it was way more complicated than that.

he watches you for a moment as he helps you undress. he starts with your heels, carefully pulling them off as his hand rests on your soft ankle. his look is sharp, like he’s carefully dissecting the situation.

you’re so sweetly oblivious to the weight of his business partner’s attention and how you seemed to react to it. kento isn’t sure if he should be annoyed or interested at the possibilities it stirs in him.

“you seemed to enjoy the attention earlier,” he says at last, his voice soft and deliberate.

“what? no,” you protest immediately, shaking your head and giving him that wide-eyed look he knows so well. “i didn’t—i mean, it was just—he was being weird.”

his lips twitch slightly into a shadow of a smile that doesn’t quite form. his brown eyes narrow ever so slightly as he stands up, pulling you with him and spinning you around to start unzipping your tight dress. there’s no urgency in the way he moves.

“hm,” he hums, the sound low and thoughtful, like he’s pondering something far more complicated than he’s letting on. the sound of you dress hitting the floor is deafening—and now you’re just left in your white thong standing in front of his tall mirror.

“but you didn’t stop him,” he continues. his words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “you didn’t seem to mind it.”

you blink up at him, flustered, your mind scrambling to catch up with the weight of his words. his gaze feels heavy, pulling at you, and it only makes the heat in your cheeks burn hotter. your lips part, but the words don’t come right away.

finally, you stammer out, “i… i didn’t know what to do.” your eyes flicker away from him, unable to hold his piercing stare for too long, as if it’s too much to handle.

you fidget slightly, your fingers twisting on the tiny band of your panties as the weight of his attention settles heavily on you. “is he usually so forward like that?”

you sneak another glance at him, hoping your words might deflect some of the intensity of his focus. it doesn’t and its making your heart pound a little faster.

he doesn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch between you for a moment longer than comfortable. it’s on purpose, you can tell—like he’s savoring the way you’re squirming under his attention, trying to find your footing.

then his hand moves, covering your fidgeting fingers with his own, stilling them. “you’re going to ruin those if you keep twisting them like that,” he murmurs.

before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your collarbone. the softness of his lips against your skin sends a shiver through you, and you gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

a warm and deep chuckle follows, leaving a throbbing ache between your thighs.

“usually,” he answers at last. “you liked that, didn’t you?”

your lips part as if to respond, but no words come. his hand slides lower, settling on your inner thigh, so close yet not nearly close enough to where you need him most. it’s eating at you.

you swallow hard, your breath hitching slightly, as your mind struggles to piece together what he’s really asking.

“i’m not upset,” he says after a moment, his voice softening just enough to make you meet his gaze again. his thumb starts tracing slow circles that make your skin burn. “i just want an answer, sweetheart.”

you nod slowly, unsure of what else to do, though you should know better by now.

a sharp pinch lands on the plush curve of your thigh. the sensation startles you, and a soft yelp escapes your lips before you can bite it back. his breath is warm against your ear as he leans in,

“words, doll,” he murmurs, the faint gruffness in his voice making it clear he’s not asking. he’s using gojos words against you and it makes the slick pooling in your panties increase tenfold.

“come on,” he urges softly, “use that pretty mouth of yours. i know you can.”

you messily breathe out, “yes ken, i really liked it.”

you’re so consumed by the weight of your confession that you fail to notice the subtle shift in kento’s expression. there’s a flicker in his eyes, a deepening intensity, as if something has just snapped into place.

he would really do anything for you. anything.

you might not fully understand the depths of it yet. and you don’t need to. in this moment, kento’s world seems to orbit around you, and it’s clear that he’s willing to give everything for your pleasure, your trust, your everything.

that’s all he needed to press two of his large fingers on your panty covered cunt, quietly groaning at the wet patch that seemed to have accumulated during his talking. who knew talking about gojo would get you this soaked?

it seems you’re thinking the same thing as you try to muffle your whine with your hand, covering your face because you’re just so embarrassed. “none of that, sweetheart. eyes on the mirror, understand?”

your legs are shaking, twitching really at the sensation of his subtle rubbing on your sensitive clit. your pretty nipples perking up due to the contact of the cold air. and kento notices, of course he does.

your eyes hit the mirror swift, your hands dropping instantly. your eyes are hazy, staring back at him with desperation, “yes, ken”

“such a good girl. the most perfect girl.”

kento moves to face you directly. with precision, he presses you flush against the wall, the cool surface biting against your back as the heat of his body contrasts sharply against your front. his hands settle on either side of you, caging you in.

his movements are unhurried, savoring every second of you like this. slowly, he lowers himself, his knees hitting the floor with a purposeful thud.

his focus is no longer on you, rather your twitching brown heat. he can even see your arousal dripping down your glistening thighs. your lower lips are plump and sticky, practically begging for him to place his mouth on you.

how could he ever deny you?

he uses his tongue swiftly, harshly, and unrelentingly to attack your dripping mound. starting from the base of your hole to where your clit was poking out of its hood, his senses overwhelmed with the sweet taste of you.

still, he can’t help but bring it up again, “you’d let him taste you just like this, wouldn’t you?”

“kennn,” a cute whine eludes you. but you can’t hide the way you leak even more at the idea. he laps at you more rapidly, sending the sounds you make echoing across the room.

he emits a deep, guttural groan, the sound vibrating through you and making your thighs clench around his head involuntarily. his large hands grip your hips firmly, keeping you firm against the wall as his tongue penetrates your wet hole. “hm, doll? you’d let satoru ruin you like i always do?”

“y-yes- oh! i would!”

kento quickly swaps his tongue with his index and ring fingers and curls them to your favorite spot. finding that the sound you make is something he would honestly kill for. he bets on you making those sounds for satoru too.

he opts to suck, hard on your beautiful pearl with his mouth.

you breath stutters, little gasps and chokes of a moan being stolen from you, “oh christ- ken! ken, baby- m’so close.”

the feeling starts low, deep in your core, like a slow, simmering warmth that makes your body feel electric. ever hypersensitive, you more heavily start to feel that intoxicating pressure in your lower abdomen.

your breath quickens, coming out in soft, airy gasps, and you can’t stop the way your body arches, your back curving as you chase every ounce of pleasure being given to you. your manicured nails dig into kento’s broad shoulder, still covered by his dress shirt.

“will you, sweatheart? make a mess for me, yeah?” you don’t know how but his fingers move faster, jabbing and poking precisely in that sensitive spot that makes your head spin.

“make a mess for satoru.”

then it happens, the release washing over you in a cascading rush that steals your breath and leaves you trembling. behind your closed eyes, you could’ve sworn you’ve see a white light. your legs shake and your glossy lips part with loud, breathy moans that you can’t control, too lost in the waves of pleasure crashing over you.

the intensity leaves you lightheaded, dizzy even. your body swaying as if it can’t bear the weight of such pleasure.

you feel kento’s strong hands on your waist, steadying you, his hold being the only thing keeping your legs from crumbling beneath you. every muscle turned to liquid.

“easy, sweetheart,” he watches you, utterly captivated by the way you’re still trembling in his arms, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath.

he knows he should give you a moment to recover, to let your body come down from the high that’s left you so drained. this orgasm clearly took so much out of you-it’s written all over the way you slump against him as he stands in front of you.

but kento... kento can rarely contain himself when it comes to you. he strokes a hand down your back, the warmth of his palm possessive, his lips gently grazing your temple.

“you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “so good to me, doll. you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

he tightens his grip on you just slightly, his fingers pressing into your soft skin like he’s staking his claim.

you nod weakly, the response instinctual because you know he’d never do anything to hurt you. kento sees it in your eyes, that sweet look, that unwavering willingness to let him have his way with you-and he can admit, it drives him insane.

“good. good girl,” he whispers.

that’s all you hear before you feel him lifting your body up and your legs wrap around his hips. it’s hard not to pay attention to the pressure of his thick tip pressing at your creamy entrance.

when had he even taken his pants off? you’re not sure. in fact, you’re not even prepared for the way he suddenly presses into you, your slippery folds stretching its best to accommodate to his massive size. fuck, it was all too much!

kento releases a shaky breath, his mind scrambling to figure out how can one person feel so heavenly, “always so tight aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you mewl at his words, mewl at the way you feel so full yet he’s not even halfway inside you yet.

“s’too- too much!”

as if to disprove your trembling protest, kento pushes in deeper, his hips meeting the backs of your thighs with a force. your breath catches in your throat, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as the new angle overwhelms you completely.

your legs dangle limply over his broad shoulders, your knees pressed tightly to your chest, leaving you utterly at his mercy. the position forces you to take all of him, every inch sinking deeper, stretching you in a way that borders on unbearable. but it’s so addictive.

he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving you dizzy.

“fuck,” he groans, his voice husky, vibrating through your entire body as he holds himself there, buried so fully it feels like there’s no part of you he hasn’t claimed. “look at you, doll. taking me so well.”

his large hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as your body twitches beneath him. the stretch is a sinful combination of pain and pleasure that leaves tears prickling in your eyes.

“can feel you squeezing me,” he mutters, his breath hot against your ear as he leans over you, pressing you deeper into the wall with his weight. “so fucking pretty like this, sweetheart... it’s almost like you were made for me.”

you can’t respond-you can barely think. all you know is you want more. and more. and more.

like he’s read your mind.. he starts to pull out, the slow drag of his length leaving you gasping, each inch pulling at every overstimulated nerve within you.

his hair brushes lightly against your cheeks as he bends down just slightly. his gaze drops to where your bodies are joined, watching with unrestrained hunger as your slick clings to him, coating his entire length.

“look at that,” he murmurs, his voice low, sending another pulse of heat straight to your core. he shudders at the sight, his fingers tightening their grip on your thighs as if to steady himself.

then, without warning, he thrusts back into you with a brutal force that knocks the air from your lungs. your back arches against the wall, a broken cry spilling from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt once more, the sudden fullness making your head spin.

“you feel that, sweetheart?” he groans, his breath hot against your ear as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, as if determined to remind you just how completely he owns every inch of you. “my perfect angel.”

you’re helpless against the wave of pleasure building within you, dragging you under with every deep stroke.

your warmth is making his brain scramble, causing him to start rambling now. “maybe i should let satoru take you like this.”

the way you tighten around him is his incentive to keep whispering against your panting lips. “bet he wants to own this sloppy pussy like i do, hm?”

you’re not sure what he’s saying. your mind is currently clouded by the way his tip repeatedly taps your cervix. nevertheless, you swiftly nod your head at his words. you’d agree to anything if it meant he would keep giving you pleasure like this.

you feel that familiar heat stirring deep in your lower abdomen, a subtle warmth that quickly intensifies, growing more forceful, more urgent with every passing second.

this time, though, it’s different. there’s something more uncontrollable about it. you recognize the signs — the way it tightens and twists inside you, a sure signal that you’re about to squirt. you’re about to make a mess.

“gonna cum, doll?” kento makes a grunt and directs his hips to directly punish your gummy spot. if he had neighbors, they would probably hear you cry out bloody murder.

you mumble out through your shaky moans, “y-yes! m’gonna cum, for you! for ‘toru!”

you’re so fucked out, you barely recognize the little slip of the nickname you cried out. you’re a precious thing, fuck. his hand slips down to find your little nub and rubs tight circles so quickly, it almost feels like whiplash when the pleasure hits you.

“go ahead, sweetheart. kenny’s got you. let it all out.”

at his command, you do. you gurgle, letting out clear streams of your juice that spray all over his dress shirt, lightly sprinkling over his open mouth, tasting you. your chest heaves, back arches closer to kento, legs tremble as you lose all sense of your surroundings. you can’t even recall your own name. the only thing you know at this moment is this feeling of pure euphoria.

kento pace starts getting uncoordinated, sloppy as he ruts into you. it’s not long before he follows after you quickly, a deep moan rumbling from the depth of chest as he spurts out thick ropes of his seed into your awaiting womb. and you take it all. because yore his good girl.

it’s so much you can feel like overflowing out of your heat, small streams dripping down your spasming other hole.

he gradually pulls out and quickly kneels down to observe how his cum drips out of your cunt like thick paste. it’s mesmerizing. he slides two fingers up your slit, collecting a nice glob of his aftermath before pushing it back inside of you.

you exhale in a mixture of a whine and a choke, even going as far as to whisper that you’re too sensitive. you don’t know that kento had planned this, you also don’t know that satoru is on his way to you both right now. with his eyes still focused on your pulsing mound, he tuts at you.

“don’t be like that, doll. you need to give me at least one more before ‘toru gets here.”

681 notes · View notes

moonyflesh · 8 months ago

Text

dating Logan Howlett would include…

WARNINGS: smutty. p in v, oral sex, fingering, breeding kink, orgasm teasing/control, mentions of aggressive/risky sex, (language, obviously), etc. - [🔞]

CHARACTERS: James “Logan” Howlett (MARVEL/X-MEN/WOLVERINE)

🐾 .*.. 🩹

- possessive smacks on the ass when you pass him in the hall.

- all talk, but no bite (he would never actually hurt you).

- routine scalp massages (on both ends), usually ending in you both being passed out on the other’s bed.

- having to label what food is yours, or he will eat it.

- constantly scolding him for his chapped lips…where he continuously looses the chapsticks you graciously lend him (he always buys you more).

- playful banter that usually ends with you bent over whatever flat surface is nearby.

- having to get used to loud chewing. i mean, it’s Logan. what do you expect?

- not much physical show of affection in public- that’s reserved for behind closed doors. (an occasional press of his lips to your forehead, or his hand on the small of your back is as far as he’s willing to put on display for the student’s prying eyes).

- thriving off of each other’s warmth at night- tangled up in each other under some thin duvet.

- country, bluegrass, and old as fuck music. don’t you dare even think about turning on “that shitty music you like so much” around him.

- being turned on by your makeup on him in some way— lipstick prints smeared along the collar of his white t-shirt- your mascara running down your face and smearing onto his fingers when he wipes it off.

- (^) just you making an absolute mess on him in general. he fucking loves it.

- needing to take sharp intakes of breath in between his kisses, since he physically can hold his breath for much longer than the “average mutant”.

- rough, meaningful sex. there is no such thing as a ‘quickie’ in his book. he wants to savor your moments of vulnerability.

- more teeth than tongue. he wants to feel how you squirm under him when his canines sink into your lips, shoulders, and inner thighs.

- (^) lovebites and hickeys. you’re not allowed to leave the house unless there’s something that’s marking you as taken. as his.

- wearing his clothes when he’s gone for long periods of time.

- long motorcycle rides, usually at night. (he makes you wear a helmet and plenty of protective leather, much to his enjoyment).

- soaking in your scent. he always knows when your needy. he can smell it on you.

- oh, and he smells like cedar wood and pine. Maybe a bit of cigar smoke- his natural sweat smell he can’t seem to get rid of? Something Iike that.

- (^) him going absolutely feral when he can smell himself on you- his cologne, cigars- just his general aura on you is such a massive turn on for him.

- lots of loving nips and kisses, though. constantly has his lips pressed against the nape of your neck or crown of your skull.

- sleeps with you in his arms. no way in hell you’re allowed to wake up before him.

- face sitting. he wants every pound of you on his mouth and nose, his arms wrapped up and around your thighs, pushing your cunt into his tongue.

- wanting to feel good too. no matter how hard he’s been going down on you, he wants release, too.

- praise. lots of shrewd language and name-calling.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“fuck, that’s my good fucking girl- you’re doing so good, sweetheart- so pretty all sweaty and wet cuzzah’ me, huh?”

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

- face fucking. he’ll stop no matter how close he is to his peak if you need him to, but he wants it so far down your throat. and you better swallow every last drop.

- breeding kink? idk i just feel like he’s super into seeing you carry his kid (only when you’re ready, though. he of all people knows what a big deal pregnancy is).

- decent aftercare. he at least puts some amount of effort into it; probably brings you a glass of lukewarm water, a damp towel from his bathroom, maybe one of his t-shirts if he thinks of it.

- expect to wait a while for him to say “i love you” back. he’s been hurt. too many times. he loves you, he breathes you, he craves you. he just doesn’t know if he’s ready to actually admit that to himself yet, let alone to you.

2K notes · View notes

biorust-art · 15 days ago

Text

All the good girls go to hell... Cus even God Herself... has enemies -

A little Opal to start the year off right lol- inspired by this fashion post link HERE cus it slaps tremendously.

[Image Description: A digital drawing of Opal, Lolth's Champion, from Critical Role. Opal is standing at a rough, uncomfortable angle like a broken doll in an all-white outfit. A lacy button-down shirt with a high collar and poofy sleeves, a corset decorated with spiderwebs and a large overcoat that hangs off her shoulders and white slacks. On the jacket there are embordered symbols of Lolth and the corset has a patch of red gemstones and a silver spider like a stab wound. One arm is straight down while the other is up by her face, the shadow of this hand forms a claw on her chest. Opal's hair is tangled in the black spined crown and while black ichor runs down her face, it doesn't stain the white clothes. Sharp shadows and an opalescent spiderweb falls over her. End ID]

#critical role #exu1 #opal critical role #exu opal #exandria unlimited #me- ill just do a quick thingy bc i like the outfit #hmmmm yeah okieee

451 notes · View notes

captain-huggy-bear · 1 month ago

Text

Scratchy

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: MDNI 18+, smut - lil' spicy, lil' racy, lil' bit of Lottie is feeling touch starved and it shows 😅 Not for the kiddos at all! Get off my lawn!

Summary: Quinn will do most things to make you laugh, his favourite thing about growing out his beard is the fact that it's a weapon of mass destruction when breaking that laugh out of you. It also makes you a little weak at the knees and hot behind the collar too which is a bonus.

Notes: I haven't kissed someone in 3 years, okay? I miss the scratch of a beard and Quinn has such a good beard at the moment, leave me alone! Don't judge me, just enjoy the fruits of my imagination.

Also Merry Xmas/Happy Holidays for tomorrow, this is my present to you all :) xx

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It's a still sort of evening, the sort of dim, cozy quiet that only ever seems to happen when the night is dark, and you've made your way back to Quinn's apartment after a date to the silence of his apartment.

The lights are low, but warm because Quinn had changed all the bulbs to a soft amber after you expressed how much you missed the warm glow of the old street lights from your childhood. You're curled up underneath Quinn's arm on his white sofa, both of you pretending you're watching Home Alone but really it's just white noise as the two of you cuddle up together. The TV taking a background role to the two of you, the main actors in this play.

Technically, you should consider getting your shoes on, grabbing your jacket and going back to your apartment, the clock ticking closer and closer to 11pm, but you both know that's not going to happen. It's a Saturday and Sunday means no work for you, Quinn has a bit of a gap before he has another game, and there's absolutely zero urgency or desire from you to leave the spot you're in. You've never been more comfortable.

Every date night goes the same way. Quinn picks you up from your apartment, bringing flowers to the door and wowing over your outfit. Looking at you like it's the first time as he calls you beautiful or pretty or any other compliment he can think of, before taking you to dinner somewhere the two of you have been wanting to try. Dinner is always fun, the two of you bantering back and forth, feet hooking together under the table, and hands twisted together on the tablecloth whenever you're not eating. Then Quinn always asks if you want to come back to his for a movie, every single time you say yes as he helps you into your coat and into his car. Like clockwork you always end up curled up together on the sofa, something playing in the background that neither of you are really paying attention to and like always you end up staying the night, the spare toothbrush now not spare, but yours, and a couple of drawers holding your essentials for the inevitable sleepover. Sometimes Quinn jokes that you might as well move in, except it's not really a joke and you both know that the minute your lease is up you'll do just that.

Quinn's cheek is pressed into the crown of your head as you lay back together across the sofa, your legs are tangled like tree roots, one of his hands resting on your thigh that's slung over his lap, the other wrapped around your shoulders, fingers brushing soothing circles into your upper arm. Your eyes feel heavy in that soft, comfortable sort of way, not sleepy but relaxed as you lean into the crook of his neck, pressing the odd kiss to his shoulder every so often - lazy, content, sweet.

He loves moments like this, where he's not captain, just Quinn, just your boyfriend. Where he can watch the way your shoulders relax around him, feel the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips, the press of your lips to his shoulder. It's that sort of slow intimacy that has him tilting your head towards him, hand cupping your cheek as you rearrange yourselves to face each other.

"You're so pretty, baby..." It's a mumble, soft and sweet, his bottom lip poking out just ahead of his top. You're tempted to catch it between your own but don't get a chance before he's pressing his lips to your forehead, dragging them down across your temple and cheek.

The scratch of his beard tickles slightly and it has you twitching and pursing your lips to contain a giggle. That little shake of your shoulders as you try to hide it has Quinn stopping just shy of your lips, hovering in place with that delectable smirk of his that he gets from time to time (but not often enough).

"Does my beard scratch, baby?"

"Nooo..." You deny it even as he teasingly brushes his cheek against yours, purposefully brushing the bristles of his beard against your skin until you squirm in his lap, twisting yourself up and above him to avoid it. Your hands planted firmly on his chest as if that will keep him away from you and keep your skin free of beard burn. As if you're strong enough to stop him if he truly wants something.

It's not a sensation you actually dislike despite the way you scurry out of his reach, in fact, he knows you love when he grows out his beard. The scratch of it always sends little shivers down your spine, but it sets your nerve endings off in a way that always makes you giggle like a little kid. It's cute, has been since the first time he kissed you and you pulled away laughing in such an endearing way he couldn't even be offended.

Quinn doesn't let you scurry away for long, flipping the two of you until you're on your back underneath him, he shifts a pillow under your neck as he does so. A small gesture but one that speaks volumes about his priority of making sure you're always comfortable. His hands bracket your head, nose brushing against yours as he stares down at you under his lashes, big eyes softening at the corners. He's so beautiful that you think you might combust in that moment, having all his attention on you like that makes you squirm.

"You're such a liar. This doesn't scratch? At all?" He doesn't give you much time to answer. Long fingers and wide palm of his hand gently encircling your neck, thumb hitting just underneath your jaw, holding you in place as he scrapes his face against yours roughly, the scratch of his beard across your cheek forcing a giggle from your throat that has him stopping briefly just to savour it. It's one of his favourite sounds.

The reprieve doesn't last long, Quinn moves, rubbing his cheek down from your own to the sensitive skin of your neck. Your legs kicking out at the sensation, fingers grasping the back of his shirt as you laugh harder, despite all protests you lean your head away to give him more room.

"Oh, yeah, this totally doesn't scratch! Not a tickle, huh? Such a liar, pretty girl." He rubs his beard across your neck and shoulder, the sensation has your toes curling, a hand sliding up his neck and into his hair, fingers gripping tight to silky brunet strands.

"Quinn!" You laugh it out, but there's a hint of desire riding your tone, eyelids fluttering closed. The scratch of his beard, one of your guilty pleasures, a secret you think you have kept well, but that Quinn knows all about. Has ever since the first time he shaved and your eyes held nothing but disappointment that you tried your best to hide, same way he knows you love when he keeps his hair a little longer. You're terrible at poker.

"Nuh, this is your punishment for lying to me!" He stops briefly to press a kiss into the underside of your jaw, even then his beard scratches as he does it, an inescapable sensation that has your fingers tightening in his hair, "Not really a punishment though is it, baby?"

"Shut up..." You mumble it out, embarrassment riding your tone even as your toes curl and your back arches into him, a leg rising to wrap around his and pull him closer.

"Oh, what? Cause you're embarrassed? My pretty girl's embarrassed that she likes my beard?" He brushes his cheek back against yours again for emphasis, nose trailing across your cheek.

"Quuiiinnnn..."It's an embarrassed sort of whine you let out as you turn your head into the pillow behind you, cheeks warm as a squirm out of embarrassment and something like desire winds its way to your stomach.

His fingers grip your jaw, turning your face back towards him, not allowing you more than a moment to hide away from him. Quinn's lips find their way to yours, open mouthed and soft as he captures your bottom lip between his. He lowers himself down to you, body squishing yours into the sofa, hips rocking against yours in a targeted fashion. You pull at his hair as you writhe beneath him, legs trying to pull him closer, a sigh breathed against his mouth like a prayer.

"You were saying?"

"Shut up..." It's an absent sort of mumble, unable to really think of anything else to say when he's this close to you, this warm, when all you really want is for him to kiss you again.

"Is that the only thing your pretty little head can come up with right now?" He's being mean as he squishes your cheeks together, lips a breath from yours as he mimicks you, "'Quinn!' 'Shut up!'"

"You're being mean..." You pout even as the familiar burning twisting sensation stirs in your gut, even as you struggle not to wiggle your hips against him and pull him in for a kiss.

"I guess I should get off you then, since I'm so mean?" He starts to move away, your head shaking vehemently no at the illusion of distance, "Oh, no? Thought I was mean?" Quinn attempts to push off and move away from you, arms defined and strong, straightened up next your head as he pretends to pull off you.

"Stay, please?" Your legs lock around him like a vice as he attempts to back up and put distance between you under the pretence of leaving, teasing you even as he has absolutely no intention of actually going anywhere.

"Is that all you want, sweet girl? Just me to stay right," he punctuates the end of his sentence with a roll of his hips back between yours "here?" He's rock hard against you, but he doesn't really care, this isn't really about him, it's about you and all he wants is to get you off. He could care less if he cums tonight. Not when you're whining into his neck and looking up at him like you might cry if he pulls away from you right now. Clingy and needy, desperate for him in a way that has his heart. He loves the idea that its him you want, only him, that no one else can fill that space.

Your neck almost cracks with how rapidly you shake your head, because as much as you want him to stay pressed against you, warm and heavy and delicious, you're not sure if that's enough anymore. Not when Quinn's commanding your attention, domineering over you like the captain he is.

"Use your words, baby, 'm not a mind reader, can't read that pretty little brain of yours." It's breathed out against the shell of your ear, the first stop before his lips trail down the side of your neck. This time the scratch of his beard is anything but funny, a little whimper leaving your throat as he sucks a hickey into your neck, one he's determined to make stay for at least a week, next to the beard burn you're definitely going to have as well.

"Want you, Quinny" Your fingers make their way back to his hair, its grown out so far in the season, long enough for you to tug on it when his own long fingers slide between you and tap your sternum.

"I'm right here, baby." It's frustrating and even more so as you squirm because you can feel his smirk against your neck, know he's purposefully acting like he doesn't know that you want his fingers in you.

"No, want you." you try to emphasis the point without words, too shy, always too shy to say what you're actually thinking and wanting and it always gets to Quinn. God, you're so fucking cute, how you refuse to tell him even while you're rutting against him and tugging on his hair.

"Here?" His fingers slip further down, hand pressed against your belly before slipping around to your waist, grip tight but not enough to leave marks.

You shake your head again, frustration building as you try to wiggle his hand lower.

"No? Mmm.." A kiss lands on the front of your throat and down to the dip where your sternum starts, while his hand moves again this time to your outer thigh, pulling you leg tighter against his hip, "Here?"

"Baby..." your voice actually cracks and breaks and when he pulls back to look at you there are tears in your eyes, frustrated tears that get to him and make him more than a little weak for you. He loves you too much to keep teasing you, pressing a kiss to your lips before mumbling against them.

"Oh, I see, you want me here instead, huh?" Quinn presses his thigh up between your legs, pressing firm against your cunt. You really can’t help it as you roll your hips against the intrusion, the fabric of your underwear brushing against your sensitive clit with each roll. It's an attempt, an effort to find some sort of friction, some sort of relief from the desire that burns in your belly and has your panties slick.

"Sweet girl wants to ride my fingers till she gets off? I got you, baby, don't worry." He doesn't expect a response and he doesn't get one, not really, just a babbling mess of words that broadens his smirk because you’re so pretty rutting against his thigh as you lie underneath him. You tug at his hair so hard he nearly hisses, but he's taken worse hits in a game before and he'd let you pull all his hair out to hear the way you whine under him.

Quinn's mouth covers yours at the same time as his hand slides up your thigh, long fingers pushing your panties to the slide quickly. Even quicker is the way he slides one finger into you, thumb seeking your clit in double time, as you moan into his mouth, hips wriggling against his hand.

"You're so fucking wet, baby, this all for me?" He murmurs it against your lips, thumb circling your clit as he presses a second finger into you, curling them until he finds that spongy little spot inside you, the spot that has you crying out his name and gasping for air, back arching off of the sofa and towards him.

There's not much mercy from Quinn as he thrusts his fingers into you, each time determined to curl against that same spot, his lips kissing from your mouth to behind your ear, sucking and licking hickies into your skin like your his own personal Monet painting.

It’s a third finger stretching you open, eased by the sheer amount of wetness that you drip with, and the way his beard scratches at the delicate skin of your neck, creating a shivery sort of delight through you, that has you cumming so hard and so fast that you think he might have broken a world record. You're gripping so tight around Quinn's fingers that he worries he might lose circulation in them.

You whine and moan his name so loud that he’s grateful he lives alone, no roommates, no brothers, no parents. Your body shivers and rolls, tensing and relaxing as your orgasm rolls through you in waves, as Quinn works you through it, thumb rubbing your clit and fingers still working against you but more gently this time, careful of your overstimulated nerves. “Fuck, there we go, I got you, baby...look at you, so fucking pretty."

Your hips jerk away from his touch, overstimulated and overly sensitive, Quinn lets you push his hand away, drags it out of your panties and catches your eye as he slips his fingers into his mouth, sucking you from his skin. He hums like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted and in his opinion you might just be.

His hand, still wet from his spit, cups your cheek gently. You press your cheek into it, eyes blinking up slowly at him as he rubs soft circles there. Soft and tender as he waits for you to catch your breath and come back down from it all, as his eyes watch you for any ounce of discomfort.

“You okay, baby?”

"Mmm...?" Quinn can't help but chuckle at the way you look up at him a little dumb smile on your face, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He’d be worried if I hadn’t seen that look on your face before.

"That good, huh? Got you a little stupid, baby?"

"Mmmm..." Quinn presses soft kisses across your face. Hitting the high points of your cheeks, the top of your forehead, the tip of your nose and the end of your chin. Careful as he helps you come down from it all, you start coming too a little, worried as you call out that he hasn't cum yet and he just shushes you. Tells you this wasn't about him, that he's fine and really, he is. He's happy just servicing you tonight, he knows he'll get his reward in the morning, the soft sort of sex that's all tender and sweet, the best kind.

He eases himself off you, even as you whine about it, hands and fingers grabbing at him, trying to pull him close again, always clingy after you cum.

“Need to get you cleaned up and ready for bed, baby...'m not goin' anywhere, don't worry.” Quinn's hands find yours, pulling you up with him as he stands from the sofa.

He's gentle as he guides you and your wobbly legs to the bathroom, as he helps you undress fully and stand under the warmth of the shower. His hands soft as he washes between your legs and over your sweat soaked skin, pressing soft soothing kisses into the beard burn and hickeys across your neck, even as he smirks proud of himself, of the marks he's left on your skin, claiming you as his for anyone to see.

He's careful as he washes your hair and helps you remove your makeup that has smudged. He's steady and sure as he helps you into one of 'your' favourite t-shirts, one you stole from him and claimed months ago.

You breathe out a soft sigh when you finally curl up under the covers with him, his body engulfing yours in his arms, pulling you back tight against him. You feel safe, so utterly at peace that it doesn't take long for you to fall asleep in Quinn's arms, even as he keeps his eyes on you with a soft smile, more than happy to stay awake just a little longer, just to capture this moment for a little while.

#18+ mdni #huggy bear writes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes/reader #nhl imagine

509 notes · View notes

lokisgoodgirl · 8 months ago

Text

A Royal Audience: The Rite

Chapter 1 Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my full Masterlist is here Summary: (1) You, an Asgardian court nobody, fall asleep in the palace baths and have an unconventional introduction to the elusive Loki Odinson. (w/c 3.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x female reader. Smut. Language. Voyeurism.

Water splashes and your legs fly up, floating out into the murk of torchlit water. Bracing against the stone edge, you glance over your shoulder with a blossoming horror. The curved arch reveals the glittering lights of Asgard below; mountains which had glowed with low-afternoon light when you’d settled in the palace baths now cloaked in darkness. Why did no one wake me? It's forbidden for anyone but the Royal family to be in the baths after sundown. And the penalties are severe.

Surely more of a guideline than a rule, you think optimistically as you get your bearings. Panic twists in your chest. Surely Odin can’t imprison every member of the court who dozes off in the hot springs.

Heaving yourself onto the side, you shiver in the immediate chill. The loss of warmth is like the absence of a lover’s touch; leaving their bed on a winter night. You’re surprised you can remember what that feels like. A breeze blows through the atrium as you grasp for the robe you discarded earlier. It sticks to clammy skin, thick droplets seeping though the fabric as you gaze longingly at the towels lined up at the side. No time. But as you flick soggy tendrils of hair from beneath the collar, your ears prick. No. Footsteps. There’s only one doorway to the baths. A security thing. One hallway – in and out. Your eyes dart frantically at limited options. Tall, imposing pillars encircle the room. One of them will have to do. All you can do is pray the guards just take a quick peek around the door. The squeak of your bare feet on the floor fades just as your wet skin meets marble. You cover your mouth, eyes screwing shut. The door swings open, creaking on ancient hinges. “Prepare the oils,” someone commands. A dark, enunciated order which seems to settle in the steam.

A shudder runs down your spine. That voice. Another one replies in hushed reverence, flopping sandals scooting over the marble floor while bottles rattle. “Haste,” the first growls.

You clutch the flimsy robe tighter to your chest. The first time, you might have been mistaken. But as the irritated syllables of that solitary word settle, there’s no mistaking it. Prince Loki. If you were asked to swear in front of the Norns that you’d never envisioned the dark prince as you touched yourself in the dead of night, thought of his forbidden curls twisting through your hair as you rode him, the timbre of his moans as you choked on his cock – you’d be a fucking liar. I mean, who hasn't? But this? This is beyond the pale. Even conjured from your sickest fantasies. This is wrong. This is...a death sentence.

And yet, you find yourself edging closer to the side of the pillar.

Should you announce yourself? Grovel? Retreat out the door with garbled apologies, bowing with your face lowered and begging for your life? Probably.

But it’s too late now. Far too late. And if you’re going to end up in the dungeons, as on some level you always suspected you would, at least this image will sustain you.

Loki Odinson stands all limbs and and length at the edge of the baths. From emerald-encrusted slippers to the crown of dark waves spilling over his shoulders – he’s perfect; unmistakeably royalty even in his lounge-wear. What little there is of it.

White steam rolls above the water, as sheer and flawless as the chiffon robe that moulds to his body. The faint hue of his skin shows through the forest-green material, fingers toying with the tie circling his hips as he casts a scathing glance to the servant whirling a phial of oil between his fingers. “Tis’ ready, my lord” the servant says. The prince grunts, letting the sash fall open.

You hold a breath as the garb falls down the sinewy bulge of his shoulders, deep carves of tricep muscle illuminated in torchlight. You’ve never seen him so close; never had time to admire the stark beauty emanating from every angled inch of him. Without the distracting glint of his armour it’s almost enough to make your eyes water. Glimpses of him had been in passing, a stolen gawk before you bowed you head and he moved quickly through the great hall past the other courtly nobodies.

The luxuriously weaved material slides over his skin, folding and rippling as it drips from his fingertips. It shimmers in low flamelight and he rolls his shoulders back as it drops, abdominals clenching. You clench along with them as the robe pools around his ankles. Your palms sweat against the pillar, fingers beginning to claw as Loki steps into the water. He rakes his hair back, tilting his chin to the ceiling as he puts one foot ceremonially in front of the other. Making an entrance, even without an audience. Or so he thinks.

The servant stands obediently by the bath’s edge, staring ahead as the prince’s thighs flex with each effortless step, liquid lapping around his knees.

As much as you try not to look, sort of, to preserve some sliver of dignity for the god, saliva wells under your tongue. His perfect cock bobs between his legs. It’s true what they say, you think in a daze. His pubic hair is an immaculate shadow. Even his balls are perfect.

Loki sinks down, dipping long hair back in the water before seating himself in the opposite spot you’d occupied minutes ago. Jet hair plasters to his skin like tar, droplets of water clinging to his torso. “Begin,” he mutters with an air of annoyance. The servant complies, pouring the rose-tinted phial into his hand and beginning to massage the god’s scalp.

You watch in utter beguilement as Loki’s head is nudged from side to side, indecent moans of pleasure snaking from his throat as the favoured servant carries out his work. Thin drips of oil roll down the prince’s brow, catching the light. He tips his head back, jawline pointed to the ceiling like the blade of an axe. He lets out a whimper of pleasure.

You press your lips together so hard it hurts as a crease appears in the god’s brow, his eyes shut as the man kneeling behind turns the attention to his shoulders. The oil spreads down the thick of his neck, to the crevices of his collarbone; glistening. “Oh-h, yes…there-” the god growls, a gnawing groan shaking the air. For the first time, you notice the unmistakable heat of arousal sliding between your thighs. Squirming, you think briefly about looking away. You decide against it. In the blink of an eye, Loki’s mood changes like a winter wind. He leans forward, an abrupt tsk punctuated by the wave of a hand. “Leave me,” he demands. The servant looks visibly confused, fingers poised in the air above tense muscle. Loki turns expectantly over his shoulder. “Need I say it again?” he purrs menacingly. It was quietly brutal. You smirk in spite of yourself. Classic Prince Loki, you muse. You never dreamed you’d get to see it in person.

The man shakes his head, shuffling to his feet. He shuffles out the room with little bows and letting the ancient latch clunk into place. Your breaths quicken and the sudden gravity of the situation settles like a boulder in your throat. Frozen, you watch Loki eye the door a moment longer before resting back against the stone with a lazy sigh.

Long fingers run through the slick of his hair while water slops around his nipples. Gods, how you want to pull one between your teeth as you pump his- “Aren’t you cold?” His voice was an arrow. Sharp, targeted, tipped with venom. It’s hit spreads through your body, white noise filling your brain, blood thundering in your ears.

“Aren’t you cold?” he repeats, sterner this time. You realise with horrifying clarity that Prince Loki of Asgard, as eusive and unknowable as faraway galaxies to a mouse, is talking to you. And he’s naked. And you’re definitely spending the next decade in the dungeons. If you’re lucky.

With shaking hands, you step out from behind the pillar. The game is up. But to your credit, you have closed your eyes, one palm shielding them in a last ditch attempt at salvation. “Your Majesty I apologise I...fell asleep in the water, and woke up after sundown- the laws, and you came in...I didn’t know where to go- what to do-please have mercy...” You squint between parted fingers to gauge his reaction, hoping that the last threads of your long-gone innocence are believable. The prince curls a finger to his lips, covering a smirk. “I did not look upon your majesty...” you lie. The god’s eyes run from your ankles to your face, a devious smile playing at one side of his mouth. His lips part, chin tilting upwards, tongue resting behind his upper teeth before the perfect enunciation of, “Liar.”

“I did not look upon-” you stammer, lowering your hand and staring at the floor.

“-Oh, stop it.” Loki says. It’s followed by a melodic chuckle ricocheting around the marble walls. You glance up. One elbow rests on the stone behind him, water rippling against his chest. He tilts his head, raising the other arm out the water. “Never let it be said the God of Mischief is not merciful,” he rumbles coyly. A solitary finger beckons. “You must be cold,” he repeats for the third time, softer. “I assure you the baths are warmer than the dungeon, if that was your intent for the remainder of the evening.”

Each step feels like an eternity as you let yourself be drawn forward by weak flesh. You can’t take your eyes off his, thundering silently into your soul like a sexual storm. “I am not to the dungeons, then?” you ask cautiously. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winks, a perfectly timed droplet of oil falling from his chin to the water below with a thick plop. It makes your stomach flip. He stiffens suddenly, raising his palm in a ‘stop’.

“You may leave now...if you wish,” he says. An aura of stiff formality settles on his expression.

This is the Loki you recognise from feast days and speeches which ring around the towering cloisters of the great hall. The palm held upright softens to gesture to the other side of the pool. “Or you may stay, if you wish. Either way, sending such a flower to the dungeons to wilt and wither would surely be a greater crime than the one you have committed.”

He pauses. There’s a flash of pink as his tongue runs over his lips. His gaze drops to your fingers fidgeting nervously with the sash of your robe, still stained with watermarks from its hasty assembly. “Curiosity is only natural, one supposes,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you reply quietly.

Loki’s eyes meet yours, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but you did.” His voice is deeper, wisps of intrigue catching in every syllable. “In my experience, the path paved with mistakes leads to better stories. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You bite your lip. “Your Majesty are you...sure? I’m-” you glance towards the door, hesitating before you met the prince’s waiting stare, “-naked, under this.” Loki’s long index finger dips teasingly into the water, feigned surprise making his brows rise as he watches it sink beneath the surface. The lip twitches again as his digit skims, slow ripples pulsing out from his body. “Egalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Considering your recent education on my own state of undress.” Heat rises in your cheeks, matching the inexplicable confidence beginning to blossom in your belly. Loki smiles expectantly, resting both elbows casually on the ledge.

His lips form a soft o as your robe falls around your feet. You feel his stare roaming your body as keenly as though its his hands. Can he see the translucent sheen of arousal smeared down your inner thighs as you step into the pool? Possibly. Probably.

It’s true what they say about his body, about his temper, about his cock, after all. Why not his powers of perception?

The water licks against your skin, the thrill of this forbidden meeting making every hair on your body stand to attention. Pores tingle against the embrace of heat as you sink beneath the surface, perching on the flat stone seat beneath. The curve of your mounds bob above gently lapping water.

The same spot you’d been in earlier. But now, the view is entirely different.

You imagine that the archway behind you is a beautiful scene. Asgard’s moons would be shining, their light halo’ing your wetted hair against a blanket of stars. And yet, Prince Loki’s eyes never leave yours.

Although ten meters stretch between you, the whisper of his breath seemed to curl against your ear. You widen your legs beneath the water, immediately squeezing them closed again. Your lips purse, stifling a whine. “Your first royal audience, I gather?” Loki asks politely. You nod. This is madness.

Slowly, he shifts. One arm slips beneath the water, then two. His chin dips, observing you seductively from half-lidded eyes. “Why have I never seen you before?” The question hangs amidst the steam rolling over soft ripples.

“I find myself new at court, your Majesty” you hear yourself answer. It isn’t true. But it's better than the embarrassing reality. You're an invisible cog. “Liar,” he murmurs seductively. The corners of his eyes crease with mirth, a wet curl falling down to the side of his cheek. Somehow, your fingers find their way to your clit; hidden beneath the sweet-smelling veil of the baths.

“How can I have overlooked such a jewel in the midst of this grey wasteland?” “Wasteland?!” you scoff. It's bold, a peal of laughter escaping in spite of yourself. “Hardly.” The god cocks an eyebrow. “Despite my hyperbole, the sentiment remains. How did I miss you?”

There’s a moment of silence; anticipation choking the air. A suspicious disturbance begins to swell at the water by Loki’s mid-section and a chill of desire makes you shiver despite the temperate water; imagining those long, elegant fingers wrapping around that long, elegant cock. You began to toy with yourself, sparks of pleasure thrumming through your veins. Your shoulders began to roll in time with the pressure of your fingers. Unmistakeable. Breaths rise and fall in your chest, breasts bouncing lightly at the surface.

He grits, throat working as the straight lower line of his perfectly white teeth flash into view. The swell of water above his groin crests to a flurry; his deep, filthy exhales wrapping around your inhibitions and choking them. All pretence gone, you release the moan you’ve been holding.

Loki breaths out hard, a low ragged breath that seemed to part the steam caressing the water’s surface. “Mmm,” he grunts, neck stiffening. A vein at his throat stands hard and thick, straining as water began to splash against him from his abuse beneath. This is a scandal. You are a scandal. If anyone finds out, you’re finished...and yet. As the prince’s chin points to his glistening chest, wet from the splashback from fucking himself beneath the surface, you find you care not one jot.

His eyes darken, long lashes curled up to knitted brows. Loki’s lips are parted, tongue hovering and forming senseless words between laboured breaths. His cheekbones flash in the low light, soaking hair strewn over his milky skin. And always, his gaze is on you. The lofty, untouchable, inscrutable god that you’ve fantasised about is looking at you as he pleasures himself. Thinking about you as he sits across the water tugging his flawless cock. And if this is the shining, glorious moment which would burn out in a blaze of reputation-ruining glory to ash then so be it. Worth it. His dulcet moans of onanism grow louder, timing with your own. Only once do you tip your head back as you feel climax rear, a growled command of ‘look at me,’ through gritted teeth snapping you forward again.

If you’re ever deigned worthy to feel the prince inside you, have his marble body flush to your own in the throes of passion, feel his lustful praise hot in your ear– just once – you would die happy. But this? This could be enough. “S-so dutiful,” the prince moans, his shoulders juddering as he strangled the words. “B-brave,” he gasps. His brow furrows deeper with one last longing stare at your glistening neck and shoulders as you cum hard, a quiet mewl of his name echoing around the baths. It’s all you can do not to scream. “G-gods,” Loki chokes. Every muscle you can see in his body seems to tense, a thundering roar like ripping leather cascading from his throat. His mouth hangs open, grimacing to the atrium above. In the death of his cry, there’s silence but for the splash of water as the two of you compose yourself. Still flushed from orgasm, you push your hair back. The prince raises the hand that had been pleasuring himself out the water, inspecting a thick, white string that clings to his fingertips. He turns his gaze to you as he sucks the cum from his digits. God he’s fucking filthy, you think. I knew it. It takes every piece of willpower not to wade across the baths and lick it from his mouth. You bite your lip, matching his sultry demeanour and the prince’s eyebrow twitches. Your reaction is clearly to his satisfaction. “This has been amusing.”

He stands abruptly, breath stealing from your lungs as his entire body comes into view again. You aren’t prepared. The god’s cock is still hard. Long and perfectly formed, it’s earlier fairness now replaced with the blush of his work. Above, his abdomen glistens; pearled droplets of oily water running leisurely over muscled ridges. You open your mouth and close it again. Loki smiles. He turns and the toned meat of his ass shifts on his ascent up the short steps out the baths. With a click of his fingers, the robe and slippers he’d discarded are upon him once more. Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” you blurt as he approaches the door. Prince Loki’s profile slices into view, the perfect arc of his bone structure lined over one broad shoulder in dancing torchlight. His eyes cast down and move to yours with theatrical precision.

“Your name?!” he purrs incredulously. “We must keep some mystery, surely.” And with the swirl of his robe and a thud of the ancient latch, he’s gone.

Loki’s stomach churns, emerald slippers feeling heavier with every step. He feels along the wall, blinking away the dizziness growing behind his eyes. Risky. Even for me. He pauses at the end of the corridor, steadying his breaths. There was something about her. Something which shattered any semblance of decorum he usually clung to in the presence of the court, however strange the situation. Her audacity. Gods, the look in her eyes as she brought herself to climax; pinning him under her gaze like a starving wretch at a feast. He stares at his feet, jewels throwing prisms from torchlight. “Brother?” Loki looks up, immediately rolling his eyes. “Spying on me? Truly you need to find something more wholesome to occupy your time, brother.” “Of course not. I intended to join you.” Loki’s stomach lurches as he notes the robe hanging off his brother’s shoulders, the plush red towels stacked in his glowering manservant’s arms. “No,” he snaps as Thor attempts to pass. The hand pressing against his brother’s chest is still wet, and he has a sudden hope it’s only water. “The temperature is not pleasing tonight. Tepid, at best. Trust me, brother.” “Is that so?” Thor asks, eyebrow rising. If he finds her in there, she’ll be punished. He won’t think twice before running to father like a dog. The thought wouldn’t usually cause him alarm but there it was again, that niggling feeling that greater fates were at play. He studies Thor’s face. "Trust me," Loki says. His brother sighs. “I trust you with very few things, Loki, but the temperature of bathwater is verily one of them.” He waves a hand and the servant scuttles away into the gloom. “In truth, brother, I hoped to speak to you about the Rite.” A hiss blows between Loki’s teeth, eyes darting to the side. “In my own time.” “Your own time?!” Thor stomps forward, making the torches rattle. “You’ve had five hundred years to find someone, Loki. Nine moons; that’s all you have until you must wait another five centuries for the alignment. Don’t you want to secure yourself in the succession? What if something were to happen to father? To me? The people of Asgard must be assured of your suitability.” “The entire thing is a farce. The fact that you succeeded, proves it.” Thor’s face darkens. “Don't speak of our sacred traditions that way. You know they’re in place for a reason.” A snort steals from Loki’s nostrils. “I have no doubts of my skill, I know I could rule Asgard’s people selflessly and with great enthusiasm; why must it be paraded in an inane peacocking which will make the high-lords wilt with inferiority?”

Silence hangs thick in the narrow corridor.

“A fact which makes your refusal to participate even more perplexing," Thor says, narrowing his eyes and yanking the sash at his waist in a way Loki assumes he thinks to be dramatic. "Nine moons, brother.”

As Thor's footsteps die away; he listens for splashing, for movement, for sneaking. But there’s nothing. He steps out the emerald slippers and pads back to the door, turning the handle with a final, furtive glance behind him.

He expects to see you draped nude over the chaise in the corner, or perhaps spread for him at the edge of the baths with hungry longing in your sharp eyes...but you’re gone. Loki frowns and stalks to the pillar which concealed you before. “Borr’s blood,” he hisses under his breath, scanning the room.

And then he sees it; something silken and knotted loops around the balcony pillars, glimmering in moonlight. He realises suddenly that the draping which normally billows in the evening breeze is gone. Loki smirks as he paces to the balcony and casts a cursory look over the edge. The makeshift ladder hangs to the level below. The royal laundry, if he’s not mistaken; the same hot spring source. “Nine moons,” he repeats quietly to the silence, rapping his knuckles against the marble twice before turning away with a smile.

💖Thanks for joining me for this lil journey! 🕯️Tags in comments x Read Chapter Two, Successional Pleasure HERE

#loki x reader #loki smut #the rite #loki fanfiction #loki x you #loki x you smut #loki odinson #loki odinson x reader #lokismut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki x yn #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki imagine

1K notes · View notes

milliesfishes · 7 days ago

Text

౨ৎ꣑ৎclark when you get overstimulated౨ৎ꣑ৎ clark kent x fem reader

The fork in your hand scraped your teeth as you drew it out of your mouth and you withheld a wince. It was the fifth time it had happened in the past ten minutes, and you felt as though you were hanging on by a thread. Your ears were already ringing from the steady ripple of background noise attacking from all angles of the restaurant, and you didn't need another of your five senses turning on you.

Clark was watching you. You could feel it, but you kept your eyes on your plate. The food was always good at this place, and you forced yourself to swallow each bite, knowing that on normal days you pined for such a treat. He'd brought you here because he knew you liked it. But the onslaught of little issues throughout your day had stacked up to create a monster you didn't have the energy to slay. Right now you were wishing for your warm bed with cozy blankets, big warm cozy man to snuggle up with too.

Shaking your head, you took another bite, maneuvering your fork out of your mouth without issue this time. Risking a look up, you smiled at Clark, injecting a shot of something sweet and hopefully convincing. Almost over. Almost over.

He reached across the table, sliding his palm under your fingers. Your shoulders dropped when he touched you, your other hand pulling at the neck of your sweater. Clark's eyes were laser focused on you, and you almost felt flattered. A man with powers nearly beyond description, abilities that could and had saved the masses, and he was centering it all on you. His super-senses homed in on your distress, something that was invisible to everyone else. It wasn't that you were bad at hiding it, it was that he was better at seeing you.

Even though the restaurant was loud, you could hear him clearly. "Do you want to go home?" He was only asking to be a gentleman. You knew well by now that his first instinct was to get you out of any situation causing you pain, and it wasn't one he'd ignore when it was this simple.

So you nodded, sat still while he signed the check and thanked the waiter. You weren't leaving behind a full plate by any means- thank goodness you'd managed to consume most of your food before the oceans within overpowered you. Guilt would have given your hurt a crown if you hadn't.

When he stood up, you followed suit, reaching for your coat and purse on your chair. Dutifully, Clark held your bag and coat while you stepped into it, and when you turned to face him, his hands were at your collar, straightening it and thumbing at your cheek. A real little smile turned your lips up, and he kept your purse on his arm as he led you outside, big warm body chasing away the cold.

He didn't bring anything up until you stepped through the door of the apartment, by which time you were feeling miles better. The walk had done you good, movement centering your mind back where you needed it.

When you'd hung your coat and he'd set your purse on the counter, it was like magnets drawing together. You didn't know who'd moved first, but you suspected that perhaps it was a little of both. Either way, you found yourself pressed to his chest, any outside sound muffled by his heartbeat tapping at your ear.

"You okay?" His voice was low, healing something strained from today inside you.

"Better now," you whispered, pulling at the neck of your sweater again.

Clark kissed the top of your head, the frame of his glasses nudging you for just a moment. He fingered your top for a moment. "Baby, is this itchy?"

There was a beat of silence. Then you nodded against his chest, face still hidden there. You felt another kiss in your hair. "C'mon, let's go change."

He turned for a moment when you were pulling your sweater over your head, facing you again holding your favorite sweatshirt. The white one with a cartoon cat wearing a bow and flowers surrounding it. Beautiful! was written in bold pink cursive letters at the top. He'd brought it home one day after work, claiming he saw it in a shop window and thought of you. It warmed your heart to imagine your burly man in the feminine sort of shop that would sell this kind of thing, searching the walls for exactly what he saw walking down the street.

"Oh, honey," he said softly, reaching a finger out to lightly skim over your chest. The area on and below your collarbone was irritated from the itchy fabric of your sweater. "Are you hurting?" You shook your head meekly, pouting as you looked down at yourself. On such a day as this, the direct sensory issue had only caused you more grief.

Clark tossed your sweater into the laundry basket while you pulled the sweatshirt over your head, taking your skirt too when you handed it over. You sat on the bed, flopping onto your back and closing your eyes. When he took one of your feet, you lifted one lid to watch him slide a pair of his boxers up your legs.

Smiling, you sat up and swung your legs back and forth, opening your eyes all the way. Your man of steel had removed his tie, and he was just about done unbuttoning his shirt. Watching Clark get undressed was always a treat, and he found your fascination amusing. Sometimes you watched for the pure sex appeal that seemed to effortlessly radiate off your boyfriend in waves. Tonight it was a comfort, a domestic privilege. He was utterly yours in these moments.

"C'mere." Once he was outfitted in a crewneck and boxers of his own, you reached out for him with arms and legs both, sticking straight out from the bed. He scooped you up completely effortlessly, and you buried your face in his neck. The journey to the couch wasn't more than a few seconds, and when he flopped down, you settled nicely draped over him.

The last of what felt like the attack of the day on you faded away when he began to stroke your hair. Clark held you one-armed while he grabbed a blanket from where it was hanging over the couch edge, fluffing it out and covering your back.

You nuzzled into him, and he shuffled around for a moment before the sound of your favorite movie began to play softly in the background. Clark shifted you to the side so the screen was in your vision, kissing the top of your head and adjusting his arm around your waist. You cuddled into him, murmuring, "I'm sorry about tonight."

He stroked you for a moment, pressing another kiss to your hair. "It's okay, baby." You reached up for him, hand finding his curls. Clark's glasses had slid down his nose, and there was a tiny smudge he must have acquired during the day. He was still as you touched him, letting you do as you needed. "I'm happy with you in every way."

Burying your head in his neck, you sniffled softly. "Oh, my baby," he muttered, rubbing your back softly. "You're okay. It's okay. It was really loud in there, huh?"

"Yeah," you said softly, lower lip trembling.

"Yeah," he repeated quietly. You rested your head on his shoulder, watching the movie again. Here in the safety of your home you finally felt ease, recharging for the next time you needed to leave your paradise.

"Just be with me," Clark whispered, rubbing your side. "You're safe."

And with him, you always knew you were.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #dc superman #clark kent x you #clark kent david corenswet #superman 2025 #superman x reader #superman x you #superman fanfiction #clark kent fanfiction #dc universe #clark kent fluff #clark kent imagines #superman fluff #superman imagine #milliesfishes clark

387 notes · View notes

naffeclipse · 1 month ago

Text

Lone Mistletoe

Reader x Rich!Sun & Moon

Commission Info

This request was made by the darling @deliasmoothie for a little Christmas date centered around her Rich Boys AU and a reader who owns a bakery! After a late closing, the reader gets a visit from millionaire heirs Sun and Moon and a reminder that they have a very special evening planned. The lovely artwork is done by @deliasmoothie as well! Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

———

You’re late.

You scramble to put away the dough that will rise softly through the night in the storage area. The clatter of baking sheets echoes over the faint jingle of Christmas music which plays in the entrance of the bakery. Gathering bags of empty flour that were left undisposed, you throw those into giant waste bins and rush to clean off counter tops before muttering under your breath that the front needs to be swept lest customers enter tomorrow morning and find dirty floors.

A glance to the clock quickens your already frantic heart rate. You should already be out the door, dressed for a fine night of dining and whatever plans your dates may have. Oh, you’re going to be disappointing.

A nervous perspirant begins under your pits as you frantically fly through closing chores. Your employees would usually be more than happy to finish everything up without you, but one called out for the day citing a family emergency, and the other needed to go home early for the sake of a sick child. You are left to stack up the jars of ginger spice and vanilla used in gingerbread men and Christmas cookies respectfully and set them where they belong.

The minutes turn into half an hour. You’re going to melt into a puddle on the floor but you won’t allow another mess to be made when you just finished sweeping. Snagging your phone after leaning the broom against the wall, you begin punching in a quick text of explanation and apologies when the front door opens with a soft jingle from the welcome bell.

You curse under your breath. You should have locked it by now if your mind wasn’t cutting through the checklist of things needing to be done.

“I’m sorry,” you call out as you walk to the counter. “We’re closed—”

You stop short, the breath caught in your throat.

Two handsome animatronics stand in the lobby of your bakery. Among the Christmas decor of candy canes stuck to the window and boughs of holly hanging along the walls, they stand in glamor and confidence.

One animatronic sports a crown of sun rays around his head, sharp and brightly yellow, with a grin to match. His pale blue optics lack the sunglasses he would so often sport during summer. He wears a stylish long coat of red, with a white shirt sporting a high collar, and brown slacks, all done in a bold and daring style. The other holds a crescent marking upon his face, half silver, half dark, with a deep blue nightcap trailing down his back decorated in stars. He dons a black coat, simple yet striking, and a deep blue turtleneck sweater and dark trousers. They share matching figures of lithe limbs and slender waists, their clothes accenting every handsome part of who they are.

Your dates.

Most importantly, the heirs of a national billion-dollar company.

“Sweetie pie?” Sun laughs with equal affection and concern. His blue eyes are wide upon you. “Are you alright?”

Your hand immediately flies to your hair. It is a mess of wisps and strands escaping from the messy bun you had it pinned into today.

Moon looks around the shop, his brow quizzical, as if searching for a threat before his gaze rests on you. His expression softens.

“Sun, Moon? What are you two doing here?” Your attention slips past them to the open windows. You quickly rush forward. They step apart to let you fly between them, and watch as you quickly yank down the blinds and lock the front door.

They can’t be seen here. Your bakery is small, hardly a blip on the map, and people don’t know who the heirs are dating—though the tabloids have speculated who their newest beau may be.

You made it clear to Sun and Moon when they first asked you out for a little coffee date over this very same counter that you would go with them because you enjoy their company, not the names they carry nor the fortune they hold. The public, however, will assume the worst: you’re in it to make your bakery known and catch more sales. Or perhaps, the opposite. The heirs are lording over you with their black credit cards, enticing you into their demands.

Neither is true. Regardless, you don’t want them spotted here with you, alone.

You turn around and huff a breath, pushing a wisp of hair back from your face.

“Cinnamonroll, you are late for dinner, and the restaurant is only a few blocks from here.” Moon steps forward, his hands reaching for you. His pale pupils track you with a gentle study. “We were concerned.”

You keep trying to power walk back behind the counter but another set of arms stop you gently.

“Sweetie pie, breathe for a moment.” Sun stands over you. His hands hold your arms gently, keeping you in place. “It’s alright. They’re not going to withdraw our reservation.”

He gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You flush, bowing your head slightly. This was not how the evening was supposed to go.

“I’m sorry.” You confess what happened throughout the day, losing your employees one by one until you were left to close.

“Do you need any help?” Moon steps closer. He brushes a hand against your cheek. When he draws his touch back, you find pale flour on the tips of his silver digits. His grin is mischievous but sweet when he chuckles. “Messy little treat, aren’t you?”

A deep pink fills your face as your heart swoons within you.

“No, no,” you shake your head fiercely, “I mean—I’m done, I just… Can you give me a few minutes to get ready?”

“Of course,” they answer in unison.

You look between both of them, a sweetness filling your mouth as your shoulders lower in relief. You dust your hands together. With that, you fly behind the counter and to the upper floor where your apartment is located.

Dinner is waiting.

Dinner is, as always, incredible. You’re not sure how Sun and Moon find the most delicious—and expensive—restaurants but they manage to surprise you each and every time. Of course, you almost fall out of your chair when the bill is brought and Sun flips out a sleek, black credit card without glancing at the numbers to resume asking about your thoughts on the holiday season—and how you would like to spend it. Moon in the same fashion orders a few desserts for you to try at your leisure while candlelight softly flickered over the table.

Now, you walk softly between them, both of your hands occupied by long and large digits cradling your gloved hands. The air nips at your nose. Snow litters the park plaza as around you, people skate on an ice rink set before a towering Christmas tree and couples huddle close together, sipping hot cocoa.

You have to crank your neck back to take in the majestic glow and glitter of the decorated tree in the pitch black evening. Lights twinkle like starlight and golden garland wraps its thick, evergreen limbs. Tinsel shines like silver against its emerald dark hue. Ornaments, large and painted in rich blues, greens, and reds, hang to the edges.

Sun and Moon shelter you in their warmth. Their coats, made of fine material with brand names that look far too French and expensive to be something you ever hope to possess, drape against you. Sun lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. Moon rubs your palm, ensuring you keep warm despite the frigid night.

To your relief, no one seems to notice them. Of course, it helps that you and your dates are swallowed up in scarfs and hats, but you find yourself prickling with slight anxiety while glancing around. It’s the same nervousness that has plagued you throughout the entire evening.

You feel your best when you’re alone with Sun and Moon, with no eyes upon you, judging and deeming what is right and what is wrong. All you know is that it feels good when you hear them laugh or they ask you how another busy day was at the bakery.

That should be all that matters, but your self-conscious fears are a niggling thing in the back of your mind.

Moon shares a glance with Sun, who gives a slight nod. He then suggests taking a walk further down the park, where there are less people gathering under the light of the tree and watching the ice skaters.

You’re more than happy to.

A few little shops are sprinkled along the path turning deeper into the snowy covered park. Moon asks if you would like hot cocoa or a new pair of ice skates. You politely decline. Sun says they might need to buy you a new coat since you’re shivering so much, but again, you shake your head with a smile.

They like to give. This is not a manner of ego and flaunting, but a manner of kindness, you’ve learned.

The soft silence is muffled by the white frost decorating the ground. Moon and Sun clutch your hands a little tighter whenever patches of ice pop up along the sidewalk. In the peace and stillness, your eyes fall upon a snow-white arch down the path you take. Hung in the center of it, tied with red ribbon, is mistletoe.

Your ears warm despite the sub-zero temperatures. Glancing between your dates, you nervously rub at their fingers. Sun and Moon slow, their eyes landing on the very same plant.

“There is something we can give you, sweetie pie,” Sun declares as he begins to stride forward, pulling you along with him.

“Oh, Sun,” you try to protest while struggling to hide your flustered tone. “What if someone sees?”

“It’s only us, cinnamon roll,” Moon rolls low over his tongue. “Don’t worry.”

You blush fiercely. Reaching the white arch, Sun and Moon stop. Your heart beats heavy within you while softly, Sun face faces you. Moon slips behind you, his touch resting on your hips. You begin to warm despite the chill, afraid you look pink from head to toe.

You trust them both. A certainty clings to you that you are safe in the quiet of the night and the cold of the snow so long as you have them.

Sun cups your cheek in his palm. His gaze glimmers gently while he leans in closer. You find his hand and tuck it over your heart, clinging to his fingers as if you’re afraid to lose him. Maybe you are.

But every thought within you fades when his lips touch yours. He pushes gently into your affection. A slow pull of his mouth teases you before he returns to reassure you that he is here to stay. You taste him. Confidence and want burn together in how he effortlessly strokes your cheek and tilts your head slightly in his soft fervor.

Pulling back, he sighs while brushing his thumb over your lips. You hold his gaze despite the heat in your cheeks.

His hands rest on your shoulders. Moon, however, gently twists your hips until you’re facing him. Sun’s hands remain on you, falling down your spine.

Moon’s gaze is warm and heated in the dark. Under the mistletoe, he leans in closely as he takes your chin in his hand. Head tilted up slightly by his touch, your lips part. He leans closer, hovering above your mouth while his eyes study the shape of it.

His optics close as his mouth claims yours. You follow into the sweet darkness, your head tilting back at his firm but rich affection. He pushes and pulls against you as steady as the tide. His other hand remains on your hip, stroking you softly underneath the layer of your coat.

When he breaks the kiss with reverence, you breathe out mist. Floating upon a hazy, sweet cloud, you drift between their celestial bodies as they cuddle you close under the mistletoe.

“Merry Christmas,” they whisper to you, one voice in each ear.

You hum a happy sound.

“Merry Christmas.”

#naff's writing commissions #rich boys au #get yourself two boys who will spoil you rotten!#they really just want to give you everything <3 #naff writing

323 notes · View notes

birthedstars · 1 year ago

Text

“The Duchy”

Birth Parlors are an extremely exclusive, and extremely underground business that have begun cropping up due to this advance in technology. There were little to no limits as to what could happen here…as long as you had the money. A patron could spend millions on customization in a single night on a single labor & birth experience or even a full package Impregnation experience. The amount of money this business made was unprecedented for such a taboo.

“The Duchy” was one of the most popular and untouchable Parlors in the business. As long as there were no bodies to bury, the doors stayed open and workers stayed employed.

Millie, A petite woman with pale skin and red hair, cries out in her room. She was a newer worker here and this was her first labor and birth. Her large belly quivers as her patron raises the intensity of the orgasm function on his remote.

"Oh God, I'm gonna cum!" She said as she felt the pressure build in the base of her belly.

The man stroked his cock at the sight of the woman riding a dildo. "Yeah, pop for me, cmon!"

He specifically ordered to see an orgasmic labor and popping. That much Millie knew. Afterwards, a quick birth that he'd paid extra for Millie not to know about. Her entire body shook as she came and her waters burst around the thick dildo. She grasped her bump as it contracted hard.

“I-is there anything else you need sir?” Millie asked.

“Nah, part two is already starting,” the man groaned as he rubbed his cock.

Millie was about to ask what he meant, but a severe contraction took hold of her body. Her baby shot through her cervix as fast as lightning. Millie cried out and desperately hopped off the dildo, falling onto the room's couch. Instinctively, the young mother began pushing down on her unexpectedly fast coming baby.

“What did you order!” Millie shrieked as the big head forced open her tight pussy. Her whole body shook as the heavy babe spread her wide to the point she'd feel like she was going to tear.

Her pussy lips were drawn tightly around the head. The man smiled and jerked his cock as her labia strained to stay together. This is exactly what he'd paid millions for.

Kelcie, a more experienced birther next door, was groaning under the strain of labor and the need to cum.

Her body wasn't her own at this moment. It was this woman's, who rubbed her tits and throbbing clit endlessly.

“Let me give birth already,” Kelcie moaned softly. Her birth had been stalled at full crown for nearly an hour. Her affluent patron had her strapped up in a harness, legs spread and arms overhead for at least double that.

The woman caressed Kelcie's bump and tits hungrily with one hand and her fingers twisting Kelcies clit with the other.

“We still have so much time left, I want to savor you more,” the woman whispered.

Kelcie just let her head roll back and bear the brunt of the pain burning her pussy. Fluid squirted onto the ground around the big head. This wasn't the first time she had a birth stall, but god did she wish they'd turn off the pressure and pain sensitivity because it was maddening to push with no progress.

In a few rooms over, a group of white collar business men were hazing their new underling.

“We do this with all of the newbies, just gotta pump her full and enjoy the show,” one of the older guys said.

The young man stepped toward Zora, with his cock tenting through the zipper of his pants. Tense, he slowly thrusted his dick into Zora. His face scrunched as he felt her tight canal around him.

Zora trembled as the young man thrusted into her. It had to have been his first time with how hard he was trying not to cum within his first few thrusts. But it was no use, he came in huge, clearly pent up bursts of cum.

Zora had been pregnant before working at “The Duchy”, but she’d never experienced what was about to happen as the young man's seed took.

Her stomach bubbled, then began to swell. Swiftly and suddenly she felt her flat stomach rapidly grow from a pouch just below the navel to a giant round belly with a poked out belly button.

Zora's nails dug into the bed as the weight crashed onto her barely prepared body that still leaked cum. She gasped as her tits strained and leaked against her lingerie. Her legs flared out as the babe dropped into her pelvis. She groaned as her bump subtly twinged and movement fluttered beneath her palm.

Then, she felt a familiar pressure in the base of her taut stomach. Her stomach seized against her and then her waters burst onto the linen. Before she could process it, a huge head drove through her cervix.

“Too fast, too fast!” Zora shrieked.

As she cried out in pain, pushing on her rapidly grown baby, the salarymen jacked their dicks off at the sight of her. She pulled her legs back as the young man's baby quickly spread her pussy to a full crown. The burn encompassed her entire lower half.

Her back arched, poking her huge belly in the air. Zora shrieked as the huge babe popped out of her pussy in a rush of fluid. She fell into a heap on the bed, panting. The afterbirth didn't even have a chance to come out before the men started laughing and chatting again.The men then pushed another newbie forward.

In the basement, a large scale birth show was occurring. Dozens of patrons filled the seats, cheering and hollering as their entertainment spread their pussy wide for them.

Alex grasped their hands around the pole with a fully crowned head between their legs. Their low hanging belly, still full with three more babies, swayed stiffly as they bore down and sensually rotated their hips. They moaned in a showy manner despite their body dripping with sweat.

The patrons whistled as the quadruplet carrier slid up and down the pole. They pleasured themselves as fluid squirted around the shoulders and Alex moaned over the crowds clamoring. Their belly twisted and released in repetition until their first baby fell out of them, onto the cushioned floor of the stage.

The crowd shouted in celebration.

Alex's hand shot straight to their bump as one of the The Duchy employees gathered the child. The second baby was ready to make its rapid descent.

“Oh god, the second baby is comiiing!” Alex moaned into their mic. They slid down the pole and got onto their hands and knees. Their huge belly grazed the ground as they shook their ass. Soon after their waters burst for the second time in the night, making the crowd go wild.

Riley, “The Duchy"s owner watched from the box booth above the amphitheater as she rubbed her own swelling twin belly. She could hardly bear watching her beautiful workers have all of the fun. This was how she made her money and she wouldn't have it any other way.

But, she definitely needed to add some more new hands to the roster. People were becoming insatiable for new content. Time for a recruitment rally.

#birth fiction #birth kink #labor fiction #maiesiophilia #labor kink #preg kink #labor fic #birth fic #fpreg #nbpreg #birth denial #rapid pregnancy #multiples pregnancy

2K notes · View notes

acis-arts · 5 months ago

Note

I really love your art, the color scheme you use is so fucking soft it makes me want to eat it

anyway my narilamb design: swap version because why not if you do this only with pictures, or any other reason, feel free to ignore this request

narinder in this au is, indeed, a little stinky feral black cat. he was decapitated like the lamb, so he covers his neck, and also wears a white veil, though it only covers his eyes. his outfit is basically his god outfit but with long sleeves to cover his arms, since while we was a prisoner he used to eat his own meat to not die of starvation. he brings to his god "presents" (aka pieces of their enemies)

Lambert, god of mercy and revenge, has three eyes, and a flower crown decorating their head. their horns are extremely pointy, and their teeth too. they weared during their captivity a metal collar that was ensured to four chains keeping them on their knees. they wear a long red fleece decorated with white symbols, and tunic under it.

Thank you! :3

Your designs sound very cool! I hope I got close to the way you imagined them with my drawing.

#requests #art #cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #cotl lamb #narilamb

357 notes · View notes

sonjalikestodraw · 1 month ago

Text

It's our favorite poor little meow-meow, Voice of the Broken!

Design notes:

Based on a ring-necked pheasant: gaudy fowl bred and released by aristocracy, who hunt them as leisure.

As a part of Slayer's psyche, represents Resignation and Grief.

Molting in patches and scratched from self-harm.

Wings cut off since long ago, body emaciated and small for his (seeming) lack of confidence and power.

Inspired by Karma Karmeleon's Broken, his claws were filed off in willing submission

Inspired by @itsonlypolite 's Broken's clothes, mine always carries a thick blanket, which is often slung across the shoulders like a priest's stola. Brokes mopes and needs comfort, or preaches and is reverent.

As Tower decreed, she is brillant radiance and Slayer is quiet shadow: Broken wears black. In a twisted way, he thinks he's doing what's best for Slayer by giving in and giving up.

As a classic groveling submissive to his classic mean Dominant goddess, he does enjoy subservience and being controlled by the Tower. Which is why he wears a collar with a ring big enough to fit Tower’s finger. (His neck is bright white… almost like a painted target…. almost like a collar was meant to be there ~ )

In Apotheosis, the ring grows to fit her even larger finger. His stola turns white for devotion to her.

In Cage, he allies with the Princess (white trousers and sympathy necklace of chains) and thoroughly scolds everyone for their inconsiderate and violent urges (red stola: a passionate preacher indeed).

For Tower!Fury, his collar ring broke and tarnished. For Adversary!Fury his blanket/stola is colored like Fury!Cold's: White (Princess sympathy) going into red (passion and emotion guiding) going into black (strength from knowing what you are: The Long Quiet).

In Wild, besides the repaired clothes and poppy flower crown, he gets a ribbon as gentle, adoring decoration from the Princess.

#stp voices #slay the princess #vot broken #voice of the broken #pristine cut spoilers #stp #stp tower #injury tw #self harm (fictional) cw #art #character design #Pristine Cut did him justice I already liked him and now he's even better #man knows what he likes and he's so fun

213 notes · View notes

targaryenrealnessdarling · 7 months ago

Text

Postcards

Summary: Tom Bennett is sweet on the Post Office girl, but only dares to approach it just as he's conscripted for war | Word Count: 7.2k~ (oops) | Warnings: ww2, mentions of death, smut, fingering

A/N: A very VERY Happy Birthday to @ewanmitchellcrumbs <3 I hope you enjoy this and have a lovely day! ❤ And thank you so much to @theoneeyedprince for skimming over this 😘

“Get ‘im a cuppa, would ya darlin’!”

Her grandfather’s low baritone seemed to rumble through the floorboards so much so it made her eardrums throb, and she shook her head as she descended the creaky staircase at the back of the store room, running a hand over the collar of her dress to keep it flat.

“Yes, Granda,” she sighed, filling the kettle and placing it on the lit stove. Gone were the days when she was young, afraid of the tiny flame that appeared when her grandfather struck a match to light the gas. He’d always laugh at her concerned expression, chuckling that no grandchild of his was going to be such a ‘scaredy-cat’.

He’d had her lighting matches on the stovetop since she was eleven years old. No exceptions.

A harsh but fair upbringing, given that she was his only grandchild.

She brushed a wavy lock of hair from her face, her pumps clicking on the floorboards as she let the water boil and joined him at the front of the post office. She rolled her eyes when she saw him struggling with the sack of post, grunting and grumbling to himself as elderly men often do.

“Get off, granda, let me.”

“Cheeky beggar! Can do it on me own, ya pesky-”

“Granda.”

He finally turned, perhaps recognising the same tone he’d heard in his wife and daughter in years gone, and knew not to argue. She saw that when her grandfather, turned while bent over and withered with his years, with a smattering of white on his chin and waved sparsely on the crown of his head, had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the end almost chewed right through with the effort he’d used in trying to lift what he easily could have several years ago.

He raised an eyebrow, bringing the cigarette from his age-weathered lips and blowing the smoke out, “Go on then. Tea on?”

“Course, it is,” she sighed, bending to pull the sack of post from the floor and into the corner to be sorted later. “I’ll do that later, you go upstairs”.

“Bollocks, will I. I’m staying ‘ere.”

Her grandfather was stubborn, though it was something they accused each other of being regularly. A family trait, some would say.

The postman, clad in his dark uniform trudged through the front door, ringing the bell with it. His satchel was empty and his cheeks were pink like the wind had been at them.

“The usual route please, darlin’”.

She nodded. “Cuppa first?”

“Yes, ta, milk, one sugar-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she smirked, “same as every day.”

As the postman settled into the familiar chair, reserved for him if anyone asked, her grandfather gave a low grumble, shifting his weight with the slow deliberation of age. He looked over at his granddaughter, the same stubborn glint in his eye that she mirrored back at him.

"You're not still jawing, are you?" he muttered, taking another drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray like he had done a thousand times before.

The kettle whistled, and she moved with ease, pouring the steaming water over the tea bags, the rich aroma filling the small, worn kitchen. She added the milk and sugar to the postman's cup, stirring it with a practised hand.

"Here you go," she said, placing the cup in front of him. "Warm yourself up."

"Bless you, lass," the postman replied, wrapping his hands around the mug as if to soak in its warmth.

The grandfather watched the scene with a softened expression before he straightened, a hint of urgency in his voice cutting through the usual routine. "Put the sign out, will you, love?"

With a tired sigh, she set her teaspoon down and retrieved the sign her grandfather had already sorted that morning, today’s headline written in white chalk across the blackboard surface. She didn't usually pay it much attention, but as she held the frame in her hands, her eyes were drawn to it. One word stood out like a beacon:

‘Britain Declares War on Germany’

“It’s official now,” her grandfather mused, having clocked her shocked, mildly terrified expression, his voice carrying an air of aged wisdom. He had seen another war before this one after all, even then, he had been too old to actually fight in it.

Her breath caught for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. "Today?"

"Aye, today," he confirmed, as if it made any difference, a solemn nod accompanying his words. "The world’s about to change."

She stepped outside, the gravel crunching under her feet as she made her way to the front of the shop. With a steady hand, she hung the sign where it would be seen by all who passed by. She stepped back as if to make sure the words were true and not a trick of the eye, and couldn't help but feel the gravity of the situation settling in. The world was indeed about to change, and their quiet corner of it would not be spared.

As she stood there, contemplating the significance of the headline, she heard the familiar sound of a bicycle approaching. Douglas pulled up, half-dismounting with a hurried air.

“Y’alright, Douglas?” she greeted him, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Douglas’s eyes flicked to the sign, and he visibly flinched. A deep furrow appeared on his brow, and his jaw tightened, frustration evident in his tense posture.

“Not seen my boy, Tom, have ya?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

“Fortunately not. Why, is he in trouble?”

Douglas let out a frustrated sigh. “Is he. If you see him, send him back home.”

She nodded, then glanced back at the sign, understanding the unspoken pain in Douglas’s reaction. “I will, Douglas. Take care.”

Douglas gave a curt nod, his eyes lingering on the sign for a moment longer before he mounted his bike again. He gave her a brief, strained smile, the weight of his past experiences clear in his eyes, and pedalled away. She watched him go, feeling the heavy burden of the news. He and Tom were alike in many ways, stubborn mostly though, and set in their ways once their mind was made up. But Douglas was gentler since the first war had changed him, and Tom was never the same after his mother. Turning back to the house, she couldn’t shake the feeling that their small world, like so many others, was on the brink of something monumental. Something far beyond their understanding.

The week passed in a blur of routine tasks and quiet contemplation. She worked diligently, covering the post office as her grandfather went off to the social club, seeking the comfort of familiar faces and shared memories. The steady stream of customers brought a sense of normalcy, yet the weight of the headline hung over her like a shadow, and many others as well.

Each day felt heavier than the last, as the reality of the declaration of war settled in. Conversations with customers often turned to the uncertain future, and the usual gossip was replaced with talk of enlistment and preparations.

As the afternoon sun began to wane one gloomy day, the door to the post office swung open with the chime of the bell. She looked up from the counter, her heart skipping a beat as Tom Bennett walked in. His usual carefree expression was absent, replaced by a seriousness she’d rarely seen before now.

She smiled. “Three guesses who you're skulking away from.”

Tom approached the counter, a faint smirk rose at the corners of his mouth, and his serious depression faltered somewhat. “Box of matches, please.”

She rang him up, the familiar clink of the register grounding her amidst the day's uncertainties. Even from here, behind the counter, she caught the faint scent of cigarettes on his weathered coat, for some reason making her head feel airy. As she handed him the matches, she couldn't help but broach the topic.

“Heard you signed up,” she said, her voice gentle but curious. “What made you do that?”

Tom’s face hardened slightly. She knew immediately why but dare not say. “Don't carry on, had enough of this off Dad.”

“Not Lois?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Tom let out a short, humourless laugh. “Nah. She can’t wait to see me gone.”

“How will she cope?” she smiled, attempting to lighten the mood.

Tom shrugged, pocketing the matches. “She’s tougher than she looks. She’ll be alright, both of ‘em will.”

Granda trudged past the doorway leading to the back room, leaving a large heaved sigh with a cigarette between his weathered lips. Tom nodded up at him, “y’alright, Granda? Keeping steady?”

She couldn't help but smile as she glanced back. Nobody called him by his real name, only ever what she had always nicknamed him, from a time where she was unable to say ‘grandad’. At first it embarrassed her, but now to hear everyone else call him Granda, well, it was endearing.

Her grandfather simply glared with hooded eyes, blowing smoke between his lips and permeating the air with musk, “bugger off, ya bone idle twat-”

He was still muttering things as he walked off and she gave Tom a face that showed she was trying her hardest to remain stoic.

“Your own fault really. Should know better.”

Tom chuckled, “Yeah, I should.”

From the first day she stepped behind the counter, Tom had made it his mission to tease and charm her, testing the waters with playful remarks and lingering glances. He would lean in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, just to watch her cheeks flush a delicate pink. It was a game they played, a dance of words and looks that neither was quite brave enough to escalate.

She found herself looking forward to his visits, the highlight of her day amidst the routine tasks of sorting mail and ringing up customers. Tom seemed to delight in the effect he had on her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned in close. “You’re going to spoil me with all this attention,” he’d say, and she’d laugh, trying to hide how much she enjoyed their playful but enigmatic banter.

Now, as Tom stood before her, the weight of his decision to sign up for the war added a new layer to their unspoken bond. The cheeky glint in his eyes was tempered by a newfound seriousness, and she felt the fragile line between them tighten and shift.

As she handed him the change, their fingers brushed, and she felt a familiar warmth rise to her cheeks. “You know,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “you’re going to make a right mess of things if you keep winding everyone up.”

Tom leaned on the counter, his smirk widening. “Oh, you like it when I wind you up. Admit it.”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t suppress her smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word for a post office clerk-ow!” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief, rubbing his shoulder in faux offence when she smacked him lightly. If she were honest with herself, it was just an excuse to touch him.

“One of these days, your cheek will get you into real trouble,” she warned, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

Tom leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll be the one to give me a proper telling off.”

She rolled her eyes, busying herself with doing a recount of the till, mostly so that she could have something to do with her hands. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible to resist?” he quipped, his grin widening.

“Impossible to deal with,” she corrected, though her cheeks flushed with a hint of colour.

Tom watched her for a moment, his smile softening, blue eyes flickering to the pile of post she still had to sort. “Got anything for me? I'll take it back on my way home.”

She hummed a laugh, shaking her head as she sorted through.. She always sorted the Bennett Household’s post separately, so she’d be prepared for another one of Tom’s spontaneous visits. “To face the wrath of Douglas?”

He scoffed, leaning back against the counter with a mock look of horror. “Don't make me laugh. I can handle my old man.”

“Brave words, Mr. Bennett,” she teased, handing him a small stack of letters. “But I’m not sure anyone can handle Douglas when he’s in a mood.”

Tom took the letters, their fingers brushing for a brief moment. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough,” he said with a wink. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

She smiled, feeling the familiar warmth spread through her. “I believe it. Just don’t go getting yourself into too much trouble, alright?”

Tom’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “No promises. Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go.”

As he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder. “And don’t worry, I’ll come back before I ship out. Wouldn’t want to miss another chance to see you blushing for me.”

With that, he straightened and headed for the door, leaving her with a smile and a heart a little lighter despite the day’s heavy news. She watched him go, the weight of their unspoken connection lingering in the air. In her heart she knew she was afraid of truly letting him go, at the prospect of not seeing him walk through those doors every other day. Her heart felt like lead, deep in her chest, wondering if it was already too late, with war reaching their horizons, to admit how she really felt about the man who had just signed up to fight in it.

The days continued to pass in a blur of activity and mounting tension. The declaration of war had cast a long shadow over their small town, and everyone was feeling its effects. Life carried on, but the underlying anxiety was palpable.

A week later, Tom walked into the post office, a different kind of seriousness in his eyes. He held an official-looking envelope in his hand, and she knew immediately what it was.

“Got my papers,” he said, handing her a letter to post. “I’m shipping out in a few days.”

She felt a lump form in her throat but forced a smile. Don’t cry. “So soon?”

He nodded, looking around the familiar space of the post office.

“There’s a…leaving do at the Cross Keys, if you want to come and see me off with the others.”

And why on earth would she have said ‘no’.

A small gathering was held at the local pub to send off the men who had conscripted to do their bit. It was a tradition of sorts, a way for the community to come together and show their support. Friends and family gathered, raising their glasses to wish him well and offer their prayers for his safe return. It was all bright faces, pink cheeked from ale, clinking glasses and all. And all she could do was watch from her seat. Watch him. As if she wanted to print the very image and soul of him into her mind on the off chance he might not return to her, or if he already had a sweetheart to write to, and wouldn't spare a second glance to her.

The pub was filled with laughter and conversation, but she could see the sadness in everyone’s eyes. As the evening wore on, people began to drift away, leaving behind a quieter, more intimate group.

Tom found her sitting at a corner table, nursing a drink. He slid into the seat next to her, a playful glint in his eyes. “Mind if I join the prettiest girl in the room?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. Tom looked around, then back at her. He was antsy, she could feel his nervous energy a mile away. He was probably annoyed as well. Douglas hadn’t come to the pub that night, and there was always something in Tom that craved his approval. “Got anything you want to say to me before I go, or are you just going to miss me in silence?”

She looked down into her lap, tracing her thumb over the rim of her glass, taking a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t know what to say without sounding like a fool, Tom.”

“Then be a fool. I won’t mind.”

Her chest was all tight with anxiety when she finally had the courage to form the reply, looking up into his blue eyes, “this place just won’t be the same without you.”

She’d always seen Tom a certain way. Sure. Cock of the walk. Ever since his own mother died he’d almost put on this thick outer layer that was impenetrable. But here, sat with half a beer left in his glass, tapping his fingers against it nervously, his eyes gave way to something more vulnerable. They both know he was off to go and do something important, that he needed to feel valuable in some way, and this was his way of proving it. But his expression showed that he was also a young man, like so many others, who was afraid.

“I won’t miss much about his place.”

Her heart sank a fraction, deep, forming a pit in her stomach. And it seemed Tom sensed it, as he twisted his body to face her, nudging her arm with his elbow to grab her attention again.

“But I will miss you. Especially you.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze. The pub was nearly empty now, the noise reduced to a low murmur, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable in her chair, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt in a gesture of uncertainty about herself. “Tom, I–”

His lips pressed to hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a moment they had both imagined countless times, but reality was far sweeter and more poignant.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers and chuckled softly. “About time we stopped dancing around it, isn’t it?”

She could laugh. Cry even.

Tom sensed her surprise and something that lingered deeper, but his bravado didn’t allow him to approach it, but it was enough that his thumb brushed a wayward hair from her face. “Had to get that in before I left. Didn’t want to regret missing my chance.”

She let out a relieved, breathy laugh. One that expelled all the tension from her body for a moment. Her eyes never quite left him, as if in wonder. And she was hit with the endless thought that she did not want this moment to end, she didn’t want him to leave. But knew she could never ask that of him.

“Promise me you’ll write,” she said instead.

A classically-Tom Bennett smirk rose to his face. He always did that when he saw the colour rise to her face. “I might.”

They both laughed lightly, with some uncertainty, when she swatted his shoulder. That attitude would get him in trouble, if not with her.

“How about I do you one better,” he started, “I’ll come back, and we’ll have our time.”

She knew then she could ask no more of him. She felt a mixture of hope and fear, knowing how much she was already relying on his return, how much she already craved it. But in response to his weighty promise, she nodded softly, her eyes feeling heavy with tears she did well to keep back.

It almost felt cruel, to have this moment the day before he would leave her for the seas. There had been no time…

Tom’s cheeky grin returned, albeit with a touch of tenderness. “Good. Now, let’s get you home before I change my mind and decide to stay here with you.”

She wished he would.

It was only when she was at her doorstep, watching him walk away, the darkness gradually enveloping him, that she finally took a deep breath, clutching the memory of his kiss and the promise of his return close to her heart.

The days following Tom’s departure were filled with a bittersweet mixture of hope and anxiety. She busied herself at the post office, trying to keep her mind off the worry gnawing at her. The routine tasks that once felt mundane now served as a distraction from the ever-present uncertainty.

On the morning Tom was scheduled to ship out, she was on shift, sorting through the morning post with a heavy heart. She couldn’t bring herself to go to the docks to see him off, knowing it would be too much to bear. Instead, she stayed at the post office, her mind wandering to thoughts of him, imagining his cheeky grin and the promise in his eyes.

After a fortnight, she was giddy with joy when she was sorting the post and saw her name amongst the pile, she nearly gave herself a papercut in her fervent attempts to open the letter, wanting to see his words, in his hand, it would give her happiness beyond belief.

Little Miss Postie, You wouldn't believe the state of things here. It's a lot different from our quiet little town. The lads are a good bunch, though, mostly, and they’ve already learned to put up with my jokes. They’ve got no choice, really. It’s either that or Hitler and I wouldn’t like those odds. I miss seeing your face every day, the way you blush when I tease you. You remember that night at the pub? I bet you do. I wasn’t joking about regretting not kissing you sooner. Let’s just say I’ve had some pretty vivid dreams since then. Don’t worry, I’m keeping my head down and staying out of trouble. Mostly. But it’s hard not to think about you when I’m supposed to be focusing on training. The open sea allows a man to think a bit too much, and every time I see the stars at night, I think of you. And, well, there’s not much else to do out here except think… and maybe imagine a few things I shouldn’t put in a letter. Write me back soon. Tell me everything. And don’t leave out the parts that make you blush. Yours, Tom

She sat at the counter, Tom’s latest letter in hand, a smile tugging at her lips as she read his words again. The warmth of his cheeky tone and the sincerity of his affection made her heart flutter. She knew she had to reply, but she wanted to make it special.

Rising from her seat, she walked over to the display of postcards near the entrance of the post office. The assortment included scenic views, cheerful illustrations, and wartime propaganda. Her fingers brushed over each one until she found a postcard that seemed perfect—a World War II specific postcard featuring a charming drawing of a sailor in uniform, waving from a ship, with the words “Keep Smiling and Carry On” printed in bold letters.

She took the postcard back to the counter and carefully penned her reply, choosing her words with care and affection. When she finished, she read it over, her cheeks warming at the bolder parts. With a satisfied smile, she addressed the postcard and prepared to send it off.

Dear Tom, I’m glad to hear you’re getting along with the lads and keeping them entertained. The town isn’t the same without you, and I miss your cheeky grin and those comments that always get under my skin—in the best way, of course. I hope you continue to write to your father and Lois, they miss you greatly. I’ve been thinking about that night at the pub too. More often than I should admit. Sometimes I catch myself smiling like a fool. Granda thinks I’ve gone mad. He’s just a few pennies short of putting me away. Since you were so forward in your letter, I suppose I can be a little brave too. I’ve had a few dreams myself, some of them involving a certain navy man and that uniform you hate. I’m looking forward to seeing you out of it as much as in it. Stay safe, Tom. I can’t wait for your next letter. Yours, ‘Little Miss Postie’

Little Miss Postie, I knew there was a reason I liked you. I couldn’t stop smiling when I read your letter. And blushing? Don’t worry, I’ve been doing plenty of that myself. Don’t tell anyone though or I’ll tell everyone you’re lying. I can’t wait to get back and see if those dreams of yours are as good as mine. Maybe we’ll have to find out together. And as for that uniform, well, I’ll make sure to wear it just for you. But you might have to help me out of it later. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while. Training is tough, and they’re keeping us on our toes, but thoughts of you keep me going. The lads are starting to wonder why I’ve got this goofy grin on my face all the time. I’ve been telling them about you—well, only the parts that won’t make them too jealous. They all say hello, by the way. Take care of yourself, love. And keep those letters coming. They’re the best part of my day. Yours, Tom

Her reply was affectionate, written with that telltale blush to her cheeks that Tom would have made fun of her for. Every scratch of the pen on paper, telling him that him blushing at her letter would be their little secret, and that he shouldn’t give the lads too high of expectations of her, made her heart feel as light as air. And as she signed off the letter, urging him to come back to her, she would not let that little whisper of uncertainty grow at the back of her mind. And as she turned over the postcard, appreciating the watercolour design on the front, she thought of his face when, and how she imagined it would light up when he received it. Just as hers does.

She waited for a response. But none came.

She found herself anxious, restless. Had she said something wrong? Gone too far? Scared him off with her incessant affections and flirtations? Surely not, she thought. But the lack of any real response had tensions rising in her gut, and the seed of doubt had long been planted.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, she checked the post every morning with a mix of anticipation and dread. Each time the mail arrived, she sifted through the letters, hoping to find one from Tom. But there was nothing. No letter, no word. Her heart sank a little more with each passing day.

Her grandfather and the regular customers noticed the change in her. She became quieter, more introspective, holding onto the hope that Tom would keep his promise and return. The thought of his words, “I’ll be back, and we’ll have our time,” became her lifeline, the thing that kept her going through the long, uncertain months.

Sometimes, she'd allow herself a trip to the house Tom used to inhabit, remembering the times she'd pass by on her way to the post office and spot him leaning against the doorway, smoke blowing from between his curled lips, amused to see the way she was watching him.

She'd hand Lois the post, come in for a cuppa, sometimes Douglas would say a quick hello as he was passing through the kitchen. But whenever she saw him, she was reminded very much of Tom, thousands of miles away from her, and the way his eyes crinkled like Douglas’ did when he smiled.

Every morning, she performed her duties with a determined smile, greeting the postman with a hopeful glance, on the off chance that some letter had accidentally ended up at Douglas’ home, only to be met with a sympathetic shake of the head. She would take a deep breath, steel herself, and continue with her day, refusing to let despair take hold. If she ever let it stick, it would swallow her whole.

It was funny how life had a way of testing people in their worst times.

Granda had always been stubborn. So much so that even when she told him she would put out the sign in a moment, he was too impatient. She only found him later, collapsed alongside the sign for that day's news. But no news seemed as important to her as that very minute, knelt beside her dying grandfather and shouting at passerbys for help.

If her little town was good for anything, it was community. Her grandfather left enough to cover the costs for the funeral, but all who remained put in as much as they could so that they could give the very beating heart of their slice of peace a good sendoff. Her grandfather would have hated it, everyone snivelling and crying over him. But it took the edge off her grief to see that he had touched the hearts of so many, despite his grumpy attitude.

At least, she thought, she wouldn't have to let go of the post office and go work in a factory. This small slice of peace was all she had left of her grandfather. And she counted her blessings that he had left her a good amount in his will, and what remained of his savings.

She only hoped that this brief didn't come in pairs. And she couldn't help but think of Tom now she was truly alone, running the post office by herself, her loneliness only exacerbated by the fact she only had herself to make a brew for in the morning now. She has the most vivid nightmares about the day someone would come and break the news that he wouldn't come back.

Then, one crisp morning, as she stood behind the counter, sorting the latest batch of letters, the door to the post office swung open with a familiar chime. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat as Tom Bennett stepped inside, dressed in his navy uniform, looking weary but very much alive.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The weight of all the months of worry and hope melted away as he crossed the room, a tired but genuine smile spreading across his face.

“I told you I’d come back,” he said softly, his voice carrying the same mix of cheekiness and sincerity that she had missed so dearly.

For a moment, she stood frozen, unable to believe her eyes. Then, in a rush of emotion, she ran around the counter and threw herself into his arms. As she hugged him tightly, the dam of her emotions broke and she began to sob uncontrollably. He smelled of cigarettes and the sea, a mix of salt and smoke that was uniquely him. The scent brought a rush of memories and emotions, grounding her in the reality of his presence. His uniform carried the faint tang of saltwater, a reminder of the long months he had spent away from her, battling the elements and the enemy.

Tom hugged her back, a bit confused by the intensity of her reaction. “Hey now, what’s all this? I’m back, aren’t I? In one piece and everything.”

She laughed through her tears, clutching him even tighter. “You look terrible in that uniform,” she said, her voice shaky but filled with affection.

Tom chuckled, a familiar warm feeling pooling in her gut, rubbing her back soothingly. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t join the navy for the fashion. Besides, I was hoping you’d be so happy to see me that you wouldn’t notice.”

She wiped her cheek, feeling like air was finally making its way into her lungs. “Y-You didn’t write me back. I thought I'd lost you too.”

“I’m sorry, love. I never meant to leave you in the dark. It was just complicated out there, I–”, Tom furrowed his brows, his head cocking down at her slightly. “Too? I—”

He only had to look around. It was never usually this quiet. And she saw the realisation dawn across his war-hardened face when he spotted the framed picture of Granda on the counter.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “When?”

“A few months ago,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “Stroke. The tobacco must have caught up with him.”

Tom’s expression softened, and he pulled her into a tighter embrace. “I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, resting his cheek on her head, “you're more a soldier, doing all this on your own.”

She held onto him, his presence like a balm for her aching heart, growing stronger every day around the pit that was grief. “I didn't feel very strong.”

Tom didn't reply. He hadn't felt very strong himself either. And she knew from the way his large hand rubbed her back to comfort her, that there was more to his easy-going facade than he wanted to let on. And he knew for her equally, that the months were tough on her own, and that she was still healing.

“Missed you so much,” she confessed, pulling away slightly to look up at his half-worried expression, “it felt like I was losing both of you at the same time.”

Tom sighed, a light, almost pretty sound from his lips, his gaze drifting down slightly to her lips, as if he were just remembering all the details he didn't want to admit he'd forgotten all those months at sea.

“Don't cry.” His thumb lingered, swiping away a tear from her under eye, before he lightened the atmosphere with his smile, “I'd prefer to see you blush again. Suits you better.”

She couldn't help a smile breaking across her face, and the warmth that crept up her neck made her feel like a schoolgirl.

Tom winked. “There it is.”

Before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, as if testing the waters. Her hands instinctively found their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his uniform as she kissed him back, the warmth of his lips against hers sending a shiver down her spine.

She pulled back slightly, a playful protest on her lips. “Tom, we’re still open…”

He gave her a devilish smile, turning around to flip the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and locking it with a swift motion. “Not anymore, we’re not.”

He wasted no time, pulling her back into his arms, his lips growing more insistent and passionate. His hands roamed her back, finding the familiar curves and contours he had missed so much, but had no time to explore before he’d left. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire.

She felt her own longing mirror his, her body responding eagerly to his touch. “Show me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

Tom’s grin turned wicked as he trailed kisses down her neck, his hands exploring with newfound urgency. “I've been dreaming about this,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot and tantalising. “Every fucking night.”

She laughed softly, feeling a delightful mix of anticipation and excitement. “Tom Bennett, you are impossible.”

He gave no reply, his fingers already working on the buttons of her blouse. His movements were deft, practised, as if he had imagined this moment a thousand times over. She gasped as his hands brushed her skin, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through her body.

His lips found hers again, their kiss deepening as he pulled her blouse free, letting it fall to the floor. “Yeah, but I knew you’d come around,” he said with a cheeky grin, his hands sliding to her waist and pulling her closer.

Their kisses grew hungrier, their bodies pressing together with an urgency that had been building for months. She reached for the buttons on his uniform, her fingers trembling slightly in anticipation as she worked to free him from the fabric. He shrugged off his jacket and pulled her into his arms again, his hands caressing her bare skin and breasts through her brassiere, sending waves of heat through her.

She sighed, her head falling back as his lips trailed down her neck, his kisses leaving a path of fire in their wake. “Tom,” she breathed, her hands clutching at him, needing more.

“I know, love,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm. “I know.”

He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the small sofa in the back of the post office where she sometimes took breaks. Gently, he laid her down, his eyes never leaving hers. Their movements became a dance of passion and longing, each touch, each kiss, a testament to the months they had been apart. Tom’s hands explored her with a reverence that made her feel cherished, loved.

As if by muscle memory from those dreams he would write about, his knee slid between her thighs as his hands roughly bunched up her skirt to her hips, two fingers tucking between them to tease her bud through her knickers.

“Tom,” she gasped, her body arching against his.

“Shh,” he soothed, his lips capturing hers once more. “I’ve got you.”

She was enraptured by the way he nipped at her lips, that she only realised he had pulled the gusset of her underwear aside when he gently, but insistently, pushed two fingers inside her, crooking upwards and finding that rough, sweet spot with unyielding precision.

He swallowed every sound she made, every now and then a grunt of approval slipping past his own lips as he stretched her open on his fingers, his pace teasing. Her fingernails left crescent moon shaped welts in his now bare shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath them.

Tom hummed against her lips, pleased with himself. “Not so shy now, are you?”

His teeth slid across her neck, no doubt marks left behind, but she couldn't even focus on that with the way he was insistent on teasing that wild spot inside her that made her body feel like white, fluttery flames.

“I've missed your reactions…especially this one.”

His thumb joined in his ministrations, applying gentle but firm pressure to her bundle of nerves in tandem with his fingers plunging in and out of her wet heat. And if her face hadn't been buried in his shoulder, she would have cried out, embarrassed at the sounds she and her body was making. Tom however, seemed to revel in it, his hand soaked with her arousal as she teetered on the edge.

The tightness in her gut spiralled as she clutched him tighter, her body aching pleasantly with the force of her peak rushing through her, all while Tom grinned and didn't falter, as if to watch her linger on that border of pain and pleasure.

Before she had even fully come down, his fingers were gone and she felt she was able to fully breathe again. Her flushed expression snapped open to him as he pulled her thighs towards him, on the sofa, and watched as he righted himself and slid his belt through the loops of his trousers, a sound that made her belly flutter.

He raised his eyebrows, pulling his trousers low enough to free himself and leaned over her again. “Missed me that much?”

She laughed, and hid her face, the dull ache still thrumming through her body ignited again as the head of is cock parted her folds and nudged her bud. “Tom-”

Warmth crept to her face again when his hand turned her face towards him again, his pupils near eclipsing the blue with want as he sheathed himself within her, holding her there to watch her expression as her walls stretched to accommodate him.

In any other scenario, she would want to slap that self-impressed look off his face, but not now, not when it felt this good.

His eyebrows barely furrowed, struggling to keep his composure. “Christ, you're so fucking tight—”

His words shot straight to her core, clenching around him and eyes slipping shut as he began a tortuous pace, like he hadn't gotten to this part in his dreams before. His arms wrapped around her like choking ivy, pushing her body to his with every needy thrust, his breath hot against her neck and the metal of his identification tag cold against her chest.

For a few brief moments, the world outside the post office ceased to exist. There were only the two of them, reconnecting in a way that was both familiar and new. Tom's cheeky comments and playful touches had yielded to blend seamlessly with his genuine affection, creating a moment that was perfect in all its imperfections.

She can feel his hips growing tired the closer he gets, and if she is being truthful, the cooling sensation of the buckle of his belt and the friction it gives her is only flinging her to the edge right alongside him. And when he breathes her name all shaky and low like that, she can't help herself, and she lets go again with a choked cry, the second sneaking up on her so quickly it feels like she never really recovered from the first.

With a stuttered groan, mirrored by his own hips, he crushes her in his arms and pushes forward as hard as he can, burying himself as deep as he's able as he comes hard nestled in her silky walls. She held him on top of her, his weight a comforting reminder that he was real, that he was here. Her fingers gently traced the contours of his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, the rise and fall of his breath.

Her heart was still racing, but not just from their shared passion. It was the sheer relief, the overwhelming sense of having him back in her arms after so long. Every night of worry, every day of longing, all melted away in this moment.

She buried her face in his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of him, mixed with the faint hint of the sea. Tears of relief welled up in her eyes, but this time they were tears of joy, of profound gratitude. And she wanted to say so much, but whenever she tried, her throat closed up, not wanting to interrupt this quiet, loving slice of peace in her arms. For the first time in months, she felt whole again.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and flushed, Tom rests his forehead against hers, his eyes filled with love and mischief, her his voice low and intimate. He means to say so much more. The depth of his feelings, the fears, and the nights he had spent longing for her, it all threatened to spill out, leaving him vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to. She saw it, though, in the way his eyes darkened with emotion, the unspoken words lingering just beneath the surface.

“I think we might need to close early more often.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

427 notes · View notes