#you seriously know what he thinks or feels without him doing of acting

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 11. Something is wrong

PREV PART trigger warning: medical + physical + emotional neglect, 'humor' filler chapter (not my best chapter), the Penguin makes an appearance, shouting, cursing main m.list       series m.list

You feel suspicious, you can’t help it. Not only is Damian following you around like a chick would follow their mother, Duke has moved in but is acting strange towards your family. The tension between them higher then you have ever felt, however you’re also being followed (not that you told Duke, he would absolutely try to find whoever is following you and try to fight them. And you would like to keep him alive) to your work and back.

For example, you sneaked out of your room and now you’re walking to your work plus being followed. “You know,” you say as you turn around, stopping a street before you arrive at the restaurant. “if you want something, you can just ask. But I would prefer it if you didn’t stalk me to my work.”

When no one came out of the trees or make themselves clear to you you just sigh, adjusting your uniform to sit just right as you continue your walk. This time you saw your mysterious supervisor at the door and when you pass him you say; “I’m being followed, look up on your left.”

He says nothing, but you can see his eyes narrow and harden. You’re correct, you’re being followed, and it’s not a friend of your boss. Matter of fact, it’s someone he must hate. Because just 2 hours in your shift you’re called to the back by your supervisor, and there he is. Cobblepot, but he’s here as the Penguin. He has to be with that look in his eyes, he looks like he’s about to rip a head off and you just hope it isn’t yours.

“Mx. (Last name),” he greets you, his eyes heavy with contempt. But not for you, no never you. The person who had brought normal civilians into his establishment by being so open, by gushing over the working conditions, strengthening his front. You’re a great employee, beyond expectations, all without breaking the law. “you’re being followed by Nightwing.”

A groan leaves your mouth, you couldn’t help it. You had heard he was back in town, but to think he’s following you? Now that just pisses you off. “Why me,” you whine, making it clear that you are quite pissed. “if he doesn’t stop I’m calling the cops on him.”

Your supervisor laughs behind his hand, obviously trying to stay professional and he’s failing immensely. Then shouting is heard from the front, you frown as you look at the two. And when Cobblepot sighs and goes out there to check it out your supervisor and you follow him. You seriously hope the waitress subbing in for you wasn’t being shouted at, she’s too sweet to be yelled at, and you’ll absolutely fight whoever yells at her.

Turns out it’s Nightwing who was panicking about the fact he couldn’t see you.

And the moment he did he rushes towards you, checking you all over for any visible injuries until you smack in his hand away in shock. “What the fuck,” you curse, kicking him in the shins (which obviously did nothing, but hey A+ for effort). “don’t touch me you ass.”

“How can you be so reckless?!” Nightwing suddenly shouts, which makes you look at him like he’s crazy and the patrons to look over. Especially the villain ones. “You shouldn’t be here at all, especially in your condition!”

You roll your eyes, but then it hits you. You don’t know Nightwing, how can he know anything about you? “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” You ask, looking at him like you would at Bruce. Your eyes harsh and if looks could kill Nightwing would be six feet under. He freezes and shakes his head, which makes you scoff; “Then why the fuck are you stalking me? Aren’t you supposed to be a hero?”

Well that shut him up real quick, he’s looking at the ground and keeping a half-smile on his face as he tries to look for a way to bullshit his way out of this. “Go bother active criminals,” you say as you take in how he’s standing. “these folks are here to eat a nice meal. And you clearly got an issue with me, not them. So bother me when I am not on the clock.”

“But-”

“Uhuh,” you say, putting your finger up in front of you. Looking like a sassy English teacher that’s about to give him detention, if he didn’t feel so awkward he would absolutely love this interaction. It’s almost like sibling banter! “absolutely the fuck not, fuck off. Jesus, you remind me of someone-”

“Awh thank you,” he gushes, thinking it was positive. And he could hear the family groan in his ear.

“If (Name) finds out about our identity through this I am quitting,” Red Hood mumbles through the comms and Nightwing just ignores him.

“It’s not a good thing, he’s a dick.” you say, and you can see your boss back off with a grin. Bringing your supervisor back to the back. And the patrons are enjoying the show, as well as your co-workers. Great. “Now could you kindly leave if you’re not going to order food? Thank you~!”

NEXT PART this is absolutely a filler chapter for the next one, so yes, I tried to humor my way out of this chapter. Did it work? Not really- is it a great set up for the next part of this story? Yes (well I hope so).

Taglist (closed): @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[mallory524]

the thunderbolts when you’re sick

tags- fluff, you’re sick, medicine, comfort, implied teammates to lovers, everyone lives together post-thunderbolts

notes- i am sick and this is how I’m coping. i want to make more of these so gimme ideas!

Yelena

Yelena knows you’re sick before you do. She notices that you’re coughing and sneezing throughout the day, you’re burning up every time you touch, and you’re sleeping a lot more than usual. One afternoon, you wake up on the couch to see Yelena sitting next to you with a carton of orange juice and a bunch of medicine. “You’re taking some of this” “Yelena, I’m not-” “DO NOT give me that. I know you’re sick and I think you know it now, too”. You may not be the most cooperative patient in the world, but Yelena does not care. She will keep bugging you to take your medication, rest, and eat healthy until the day when you finally feel better.

Bucky

Bucky knows you. He is not going to listen to a second of the old “I’m fine / I’m not sick / I can still do whatever I always do” routine. Bucky uses those kinds of phrases for everything, so he knows exactly what you’re doing. (Super soldiers can’t get sick, but if he could, that’s just how he would act, too). He makes sure the Thunderbolts leave for missions while you’re still asleep so that you don’t have the chance to try to convince Bucky you’re fine. Everyone goes along with this plan because they all know you’re in no condition to get back out there yet. Every time, without fail, Bucky leaves a little note letting you know where he is, when he thinks they’ll be back, and that he loves you.

Ava

Ava isn’t too perceptive when it comes to this sort of thing. She doesn’t pay attention to the little indicators that you’re coming down with something... at first. The day you’re on a mission and she has to slow down so you can catch up, it’s like she finally sees. The weary look in your eyes, the messy hair, the old clothes, the overall drowsiness, it all adds up. She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before. After that, Ava doesn’t want you going on any missions for a while, or even leaving the tower for that matter. She doesn’t want you to think it’s because she doesn’t believe in you or something. She’s just worried. She can’t stop imagining you trying to fight someone, and your opponent taking advantage of your weakened state and seriously injuring you. Plus: if you ever say you’re achy or sore, her heart will break, because she remembers what it’s like to be in constant pain.

John

You told John that you weren’t feeling good, and he told you to take some medicine and a nap. The next day, he walks into the living room and sees you curled up in a chair, fast asleep. He gently sets the back of his hand against your forehead, and he can feel that you're burning up. Now he feels awful because you’re clearly a lot worse off than he thought, and he had dismissed you. Careful to not wake you up, he carefully wraps a big, soft blanket around you, and walks out the door to buy some cold and flu medicine. For the rest of the time that you’re sick, he makes you soup, does your laundry, sits next to you on the couch and lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, anything you want. He can’t even pretend to be annoyed. You’ve been there for him time and time again, and he’s going to be there for you now.

Alexei

Alexei is caring to the point of being over the top. He will try to make you whatever food you want to eat. (The key word being "try"... some food is burnt). He will sit on the couch and watch whatever tv show or movie you want to watch. He will carry you to your room because, “I am strong! How can I, in good conscience, make you walk to your room on your own when you are so ill?” You want to remind him that you’re perfectly capable of walking from one room to another, but it’s so nice and you are feeling pretty weak right now so maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world… The rest of the Thunderbolts are starting to get annoyed, though. They think you’re being pampered too much, and that you’ll never even try to get better and rejoin the team. They’re probably just jealous that they still have to walk places.

Bob

Bob’s really worried about you. You tell him that he doesn’t have to fuss over you, that you’ll be fine, and that you’ll just stay in your room until you’re better. His heart breaks because you’re starting to sound like him every time he’s ever gotten sick. You deserve to be fussed over. He makes you tea, he regularly takes your temperature, and he proudly tells you one morning that he folded your laundry for you. Plus, the man is bulletproof and more powerful than all the Avengers combined; I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say he probably doesn’t get sick anymore. It’s so nice that you can just cuddle up and not worry about getting him sick, too.

[tacobacoyeet]

Oh pudge!!! But it’s reader with the pudge either they’ve just had a baby or our pregnant. I feel like Patrick would be obsessed with how he was able to change his partners body.

a little blurb. sorry i can't take anything seriously. SMUT 18+, pregnant!reader, mentions of body troubles

-----

It starts with a quiet war against your own reflection.

The mirror catches everything: the flush of your cheeks, the slope of your belly, the fine sheen of sweat collecting beneath the swell. You’re not glowing. You’re not radiant. You’re tired. And you’re prickly. In more ways than one.

The razor in your hand feels like a joke, some useless little weapon you’re no longer equipped to wield. Your fingers strain, stomach tight with effort, and still—there’s just too much of you in the way.

So it starts with a complaint.

"I can't see or reach," you huff, struggling to bend far enough over the sink. "This is undignified. I'm undignified."

Patrick barely glances up from the bed where he's sprawled, socks mismatched and a spoon hanging out of his mouth. "What are you doing in there?"

You hesitate. The answer feels too stupid to say out loud. "Self-maintenance."

"...Are you shaving?"

You close the door slightly. Not enough to hide, just enough to deny. "Trying. I can't see past the bump."

There's a pause. Then the familiar shuffle of Patrick rising, setting his half-eaten yogurt cup on the bedside table like it's some grand gesture of sacrifice.

"Alright," he says, voice too eager, "tag me in."

"Patrick—no—"

"C'mon," he says, already heading your way. "If Scott Disick can help Kourtney, I can handle a bush."

You groan. "I knew I shouldn't have let you watch Keeping Up with me."

He grins. "You say that, but I’ve been preparing for this moment for months."

He’s already crouching in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s not kneeling in your cramped bathroom between a bathmat and the trash can, about to get way too intimate with your third-trimester jungle.

"So what’s the emergency? Hair? Access? Aesthetic crisis?"

You glare. He softens.

His voice shifts, more grounded. "You think I care that you’re hairy? Babe, I’ve seen you puke with a toothbrush in your mouth and still wanted to kiss you. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?"

You look down at your body—heavy, flushed, marked in every direction. You don’t feel cute. You don’t even feel human. You feel like a host.

Patrick must see it on your face. His teasing quiets, but he doesn’t get mushy. He just nudges your knee apart with two fingers and says, “Okay. Here's my official statement: your body is hot, your pussy’s hotter, and I’m about to make your night."

Your jaw drops. “That’s your statement?”

“Do you want a PowerPoint?”

"You sound like a feminist porn director," you mutter, half-laughing.

Patrick shrugs. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

You don’t know whether to smack him or kiss him. But he’s already settling on his knees like he’s clocking in for a job he takes very seriously. The air shifts—not because he says something sentimental, but because his whole posture changes. Intent, hungry, locked in.

His hands run slowly up your thighs, thumbs skimming the crease where they meet the bump. His breath ghosts over your skin. He looks up, not for permission, but to remind you who you are to him.

There’s a moment where he just stares. Not at your face, not even at your pussy—but at all of it. The shape of you. The curve. The softness. The undeniable presence you carry now.

It undoes him a little.

Every time he sees you like this—round, flushed, a little breathless—it sets something low and aching in his chest. Not arousal. Not even pride. Something more like awe.

He used to trace your waist when you were asleep. Now he does it without thinking, just to feel the give beneath his palm. The way your body feels like home. Like time made visible.

He doesn’t repeat himself. Doesn’t keep hammering the same line. He just stares. And then he acts.

He’s on you.

Not gentle. Not delicate. Just hungry.

He nuzzles in like he belongs there, beard scratchy, mouth confident. He licks you like he’s starving, like you’re dessert and dinner and everything in between.

You gasp, legs twitching. He growls. "Don’t even think about it."

Your head tips back against the mirror. Patrick anchors you, hands firm, tongue relentless. The words he mutters are crude, yes—but they’re also true. And it’s that truth, hot and messy and absurd, that finally undoes you.

He moans into you when you come. Like he’s proud. Like it wrecks him.

When he pulls back, his face is slick and smug.

"Still wanna shave it?"

You’re speechless.

"Didn’t think so."

He kisses your bump. Then your mouth.

Later, when you're breathless and boneless against the bathroom door, the silence hums between you like a held note. Your legs are still shaky. The room smells like soap and heat and him.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, then another to the underside of your belly, soft and lingering like a thank-you. Not for the sex. For staying. For carrying this weight. For letting him see you, really see you.

"This is why I can’t trust you around reality TV," you murmur, eyes still closed.

Patrick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. "Reality’s never been this entertaining."

He helps you up, steady hands under your arms, and guides you back to bed like he’s afraid you’ll tip over. Once you’re beneath the sheets, he crawls in beside you without ceremony. No smugness now. Just warmth.

You’re already half-asleep when you feel his hand settle over the curve of your belly. He doesn’t say anything. He just rests there, grounded and quiet, like he could stay that way until morning.

You roll your eyes. But your hand finds his warmth, and stays there.

[humanjarvis]

whose?

synopsis: what’s his is yours.

tags: fluff, smut (handjob), kind of comfort, in a way. jealous/possessive reader, reader needs reassurance, caleb subs himself out to give it to them. reader is a bit delusional but he’s into it, of course word count: 1.4k

a/n: i have reached the point in writerdom where my “drabble ideas” exceed 600 words and must become full fics. i like this one though

“So, how was it?” 

Caleb looks up as your voice echoes from the living room, having just returned from a Fleet meeting. That afternoon, there’d been a new recruit skill showcase, and he’d been summoned to judge.

“Nothin’ special,” he calls casually, strolling into the room. “The guys at the DAA were a lot more passionate, and a lot nicer to be around. Although…I think this one girl was trying to get on my good side. Kept lookin’ over at me during her trials like she wanted to impress me. She even came up to me afterwards saying she liked my eyes—I had to turn her down. Shame you weren’t there with me, otherwise we could’ve saved her the trouble,” he ends with a sheepish chuckle. 

Unfortunately, Caleb was too wrapped up in his storytelling to notice you flinching at four particular words: “girl,” “liked,” “my eyes.”

Bristling in irritation, you shoot him a skeptical glance before turning your attention back to your phone. “Whose?” you ask, your eerily calm voice cutting through the dry air.

“Huh?” he blinks confusedly. “Whose…what? She said she liked my eyes, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he repeats.

You tut, ticking your head up to the side and raising a sloped eyebrow. “Whose?”

Caleb feels like he’s back in a college classroom, sweating with nerves as he stares at an exam question that hadn’t been on the study guide. 

What had he said wrong? He racks his brain for an answer, and then—oh. He knows what you're doing.

Lately, when other people commented on his body—the body you'd waited so long to touch without consequence—you got a bit…sensitive.

He knows what you want him to say, now. And, like always, he was happy to indulge your adorably territorial request.

“…Yours,” he swallows.

“Good.” With a haughty sniff, you click your phone off and lob it across the couch. “Come here.”

And now, Caleb feels like he’s back in high school, suddenly getting called to the principal’s office. Except this time—because it’s you—a thrill rockets down his spine, propelling him forward in long, obliging strides. 

He sits obediently when you pat the spot next to you, and you turn to face him with a light scowl on your face. An act, he thinks. You’re no more than a lion cub trying to be brave, but you need the validation, the reassurance. And he’ll gladly give it to you.

“I wasn't doing it on purpose,” he pouts. “It's not my fault. Just wanted to tell you about my day.”

“It is your fault,” you grumble, “for being so damn hot and charming all the time.” 

He uses all his effort to take you seriously. To listen solemnly instead of preen at your praise.

“But I am glad you told me, because that means I can remind you,” you add, climbing on top of him. “These,” you start, fingers tracing the outlines of his purple irises, “are mine.” He inhales sharply when you come forward, his eyes fluttering shut to let you press twin kisses to their lids.

He shivers for a moment before opening them gently, encouragement and poorly hidden delight in his gaze. “Yeah,” he rasps in agreement. “Yours.”

Humming in pretend contemplation, you trail your finger down the bridge of his nose. “This too,” you declare, tapping it lightly. 

You take his quick nods as a sign to continue. 

Just a few more centimeters, and your hand reaches his full mouth. “And these,” you start, lowering your voice as you lean in, “are definitely mine.” Claiming his lips in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, you tangle a hand in his hair as he groans into you. His large palms splay across your back, tugging you even closer, and you’re almost upset when you have to pull yourself away. But you have a point to prove. 

“Am I right?” you ask through uneven breaths, and he answers you with hazy eyes and swollen lips. 

Onto the next part.

Running your hands down his bulky arms—also yours—you inch back on his lap just enough to see the full pane of his clothed abs. Like usual, he knows what you want before you even ask and swiftly tugs his shirt off, exposing himself to you with unconditional trust. 

You let a soft smile grace your lips as you count the smooth muscles, chiseled by years of hard work and restraint. “Each of these,” you begin, lightly tapping each one, “is also mine. So I certainly hope she’s never seen them,” you warn with a deceptively playful squint. 

“Nope,” he says proudly. “Nobody outside this room has for a long time. I just keep ‘em in good shape because I know their owner likes them,” he smirks and squeezes your hip gently. 

Flustered by how readily he plays along, you clear your throat bashfully. Damn him. “Y-yes. Well. I do,” you stutter, cheeks burning when his grin widens.

Alright. Evidently, he’s eager—almost too eager—to be put in his place, if you can even call this that. You have to shift the power in your favor, to get the ball back in your court. And luckily, you’re in just the right position to do that. 

Meeting his gaze defiantly—he is not in charge here—you reach between your bodies to slip your hand into his pants. As your warm fingers wrap around him, he lets out a choked whine and screws his eyes shut, only to blink them open seconds later with a pitiful stare. 

“Mhm,” you hum in approval. From Caleb, that look is a show of submission—his favorite card to play when you score the upper hand. That look—the furrowed brow, the pleading gaze, and the slightly quivering bottom lip—means he’s yours to control.

“And whose is this, Caleb?” you tease with reclaimed confidence, squeezing gently around his hardened length. 

“Yours,” he breathes shakily, the response automatic. “Only have it for you—so you can use it.” 

“That’s right,” you smile in satisfaction. Giving him a quick kiss, you lift his heavy cock out of his boxers, watching in admiration as the head glistens with growing need. “Mine to use. Why don’t I show you?” 

Reaching up, you run your thumb across his tip and down his rigid length, coating it thoroughly until he’s slick with his arousal. You figure it’s okay to reward him—that’s part of learning, right? Rewards for good behaviors, punishments for bad. And despite the small hiccups, the moments where he’d siphoned your dominance, he’d been so good for you tonight. 

So you start with slow strokes. Gentle praises and twists of your hand, up and down, down and up, until his face contorts in bliss. Frantic gasps and whimpers fill your ears, and you’re happier than ever that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. You know there’s no one else—you’ve always known, deep down—but that doesn’t stop you from needing to hear it. From needing him to say it. So you’ve started to ask for it in…creative ways. “You’re all mine, right Caleb?” you murmur between pumps, savoring the pleas that fall from his lips. 

“Forever,” he moans, glassy eyes trying their hardest to focus on your face. “Only yours. Only want to be yours.” 

The fuzzy feeling inside you is a bit out of place in the moment, but as your heart swells, you decide not to care. Latching your lips onto his, you increase the pace of your strokes until he’s struggling to return your kiss, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. Giving him space to breathe, you take the opportunity to whisper in his ear: “Let go, Caleb. But remember, that belongs to me.” 

And as your words envelop him, he spills into your hand with a mewling groan. After two more lazy pumps, you settle yourself back in his lap, positioned right over his twitching cock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, kissing his cheek gently. He buries his face into your shoulder in response. 

Chuckling, you ease his head back and gaze into his—your—violet eyes. “I almost forgot,” you add softly, placing a hand over the erratic thud in his chest. “This? This is mine, too.” 

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLOVE MY BODYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : The Most Basic Question. Tits, Ass Or Thighs?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Tits. 100%. Classy.

You catch his eyes dipping to your chest mid-conversation. Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing—a tight dress, his button-down shirt, or even just a tank top and pajama pants—he’s looking. Bruce is an ass man in public, a thigh man in theory, but when it comes down to it? He worships your tits in private like they’re sculpted by gods.

He's the type to wrap a diamond necklace around your neck, only to trail it slowly down between your breasts, eyes hooded, voice gravelly:

“You have no idea how hard it is to focus when you look like this.”

Loves sucking on them when he’s stressed. Burying his face in your chest when he gets home late. One hand palming your breast while the other types on the Batcomputer like nothing's wrong. He’s obsessed in that quiet and unrelenting way. The way a storm looms on the horizon. Cold fingers sliding under your bra while you’re trying to talk about something innocent.

And when he’s really in the mood? He’ll sit you in his lap, kiss down your chest like it’s the last thing he’ll ever taste, and say with that low rasp:

“These are mine. You know that, right?”

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Ass. Without shame.

Dick is an ass man to his core. It’s not even a debate. He’s the type to openly admire it in the mirror while you’re getting dressed. The kind who walks by and gives you a casual, playful slap that’s way too possessive to be innocent.

His hands naturally find your hips, always pulling you closer until your butt’s flush against him. He’s the type to lay on the couch with you on top of him, hands running down your sides just to grip your ass like it's his anchor.

“God, babe… you’re killing me. You seriously expect me to behave when you’re walking around looking like that?”

When you bend over—even slightly—it’s over for him. He gets feral. He’ll pause mid-sentence just to gawk. Like a golden retriever seeing food.

Dick’s favorite position? Anything where he can grip, spread, and praise that ass like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. He’ll smack it, groan like a sinner in church, and whisper against your skin:

“You’ve got the best ass in Gotham, baby. Don’t even argue.”

— JASON TODD ⋆

Thighs. The Sinner’s Choice.

Jason is a thigh man and you know he is. It’s the way his gaze lingers when you’re sitting with your legs crossed. The way he kisses your inner thighs for way too long before doing anything else. The way he grips them like a man starved.

Big hands squeezing your thighs while you're straddling him? That’s his therapy. That’s his church.

He especially loves when you wear thigh-highs or those tiny shorts you think he didn’t notice. You’ll catch him staring, jaw clenched, knuckles white, and five minutes later he’s on his knees, spreading your legs, murmuring,

“You really gonna tease me like that, baby? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Jason doesn’t even try to hide it. He’ll rest his head on your lap and just inhale you like your thighs are made of heaven. Obsessed with hickeys on your inner thighs—territorial and tender at the same time. And when he's feeling really possessive?

“No one gets to touch these but me. Say it.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Tits & Thighs, but he lies and says it’s your mind.

Damian acts like he’s above it. That he’s too focused, too honorable, too disciplined to be distracted by something so carnal.

But the second you stretch, yawn, or lie on your stomach in one of his shirts? His eyes zero in like a falcon on prey.

He’ll never say it out loud, but he’s a tits and thigh man. Dual weakness. He worships your body with that intense, reverent devotion that makes your heart race. He doesn’t just look—he memorizes. The curve of your thighs when you're asleep, the weight of your chest in his hands, how your nipples react to his touch. He's studious and unrelenting.

When you ask him directly?

“What do you like most about me?”

He’ll narrow his eyes, smirk like the smug bitch he is, and reply,

“Your intelligence, obviously.”

All while his hand is halfway up your thigh and his other is resting on your chest.

He kisses your thighs like he's pledging allegiance, palms your breasts like he’s claiming a throne. In private he’s downright filthy. He’ll pull you into his lap, growl in your ear in Arabic, and say with absolute finality:

“You are mine. Every inch of you. And I will never tire of you.”

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

Ass. But he tries to pretend he's not down bad.

Terry thinks he’s slick. Thinks he’s keeping it cool. The boy grew up in Neo-Gotham, wears a skintight Batsuit, flirts like he’s Bruce Wayne himself—but he’s not fooling anyone.

He’s an ass man through and through.

You’ll catch him staring when you walk away. You’ll feel his hand ghost over your lower back during hugs, just low enough to be suggestive. And when you call him out, he’ll smirk like he’s innocent.

“What? Just admiring my girl. Can’t a man appreciate fine art?”

Terry likes bending you over his bike, holding you tight against his chest with a hand planted firmly on your backside. Night flights? Always an excuse to touch. Back home? He’s got your ass in both hands, eyes glazed over like it’s the cure to every bad day.

But the filthiest part? He talks during. Low, breathy praise in your ear:

“All mine. You know that, right? Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody touches what belongs to me.”

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

Thighs. Gentleman. Pervert. Dangerous combo.

Barry looks like a soft, calm man. Wheelchair-bound, polite, smiling, with warm hands and careful eyes.

But beneath that? He’s got the mind of a freak and a thigh fixation that runs deep.

It’s all about control for Barry—the way your thighs twitch when he kisses the inside, the way you squirm when he goes slow. His hands are always on your legs. Stroking them, gripping them, resting possessively over your knees in public like a silent claim.

“You're always so tense, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

He has a special seat adjustment in his chair so you can straddle him when he pulls you into his lap. There’s something sinful about the way he kisses your thigh with adoration, then bites like he’s claiming you inch by inch.

And when you wear short skirts around him? You’re not leaving the house without a long, lingering stare and:

“Don’t test me. I may not walk—but I’ll drag you back to bed.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

Tits. Doesn’t understand why he’s obsessed. Just is.

Cassian doesn’t speak a lot. He expresses himself with action. Touch, breath, the sound of a soft grunt in your neck.

But the one thing that makes him visibly weak?

Your tits.

He gets flustered when you’re in anything low-cut. His eyes dip without meaning to, jaw tightening like he’s mad at himself for looking—but he can’t stop. He likes resting his head there. Likes the feel of you against him. The way you fit in his lap, soft and warm and everything he doesn’t think he deserves.

But don’t mistake his silence for innocence. Cassian touches you like he’s memorizing. Like your breasts are sacred, fragile, and sinful all at once.

kiss, kiss, press his cheek to them, breathe hard—groan like a sinner breaking.

He’ll get rough sometimes—biting, sucking, marking—but afterward, he looks at you like he’s ashamed of how much he needs you. Like he’s afraid he’ll ruin you just by loving you too hard.

You tell him you like it, and he just nods. No words. Just pulls you to him again and palms your tits with reverent, desperate hands.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

Ass & Tits. Greedy.

Stephen is energetic in the sheets. The type to laugh mid-makeout, worship you like a goddess, and never stop touching you. But if he had to pick?

“Ass. No, wait—tits. Shit. Can I pick both? Please? Come on, don’t make me suffer.”

He’ll literally spin you around in his hands, grabbing your ass, motorboating your chest, moaning like you just gave him a million bucks. Every moment with him is hands-on, mouth-on, needy.

He’s the one smacking your butt in the kitchen, squeezing your tits while you brush your teeth, throwing himself into your lap like he deserves it all.

“You’re so hot, babe, I could write poetry about your curves. Limericks. Whole damn musicals.”

Stephen’s a playful lover, but when he gets serious? He gets serious. Pushes you against the wall, whispers in your ear with a trembling voice:

“No one’s ever gonna touch you like this. I’ll kill them. You get that, right?”

Then immediately follows it with, “Also, your tits are amazing. Just saying.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: noncon, nsfw, morally grey reader

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about your loser colleague… He’s the nerdiest guy, and he’s got the biggest, fattest crush on you—and it makes him utterly blind to all your tricks and how you manipulate him to do your work around the office like your own personal errand boy.

You’re not mean. You swear it! You’re not mean—you know it’s wrong of you to enjoy and abuse his attention like this without any intention of ever reciprocating it! Of course, you know it’s awful of you to string him along, never telling him you’re not into him like that, that he’s wasting his time on you, that he should move on. You’re a nice girl! You promise! Of course, if he were to actually confess, you’d tell him the truth at once! You’d let him down easy. But as it stands right now, he hasn’t asked—and so it’s innocent—both his unworded crush and your unspoken flattery. Sure, it might be a little narcissistic, but it’s not a crime for a girl to bask in attention!

Do you lead him on? Mh… well… not exactly. You’re being nice, is all. Sure, some might call what you do flirting back, but you act that way with plenty of people, not just him. If he reads into it, that’s on him. Right?

Okay, fine, so you’re a little mean. So what? Is it really so wrong of you to play with him just a little bit? No. Or… at least not entirely. Think about it—in a way, you’re making his day with your little tricks. How you return his long longing stares with your own lingering looks and coy smiles—taking him outside with you to smoke during your break, talking to him in giggles over small inside jokes you’ve developed between just the two of you, applying your lipgloss all exaggeratingly as they do in the movies, borrowing his jacket when it gets too cold for you in your inappropriate tops, squeezing your arms tightly over your chest, making your tits squish up to meet him and his shameful leer.

Truly, adults shouldn't act this way—but you just can’t help yourself!

And it’s not as if he isn’t equally guilty! Looking at you like that! It’s not as if you don’t know exactly what perverted little thoughts go tumbling through his head—picturing you naked in compromising positions, probably playing with your image like a toy doll, dressing you up in kinky clothes to fit all his dirty fantasies, making you say all sorts of vile things for him.

You’re both awful! So it’s fine. A quid pro quo, as they call it. A tit for tat if you’re nasty.

And honestly, a nerdy guy like him should know better. A pretty girl like you—popular and a sweetheart, to top it all off—he can’t seriously believe he has an actual chance, can he? Of course not—that would make him delusional. You’re not torturing him. In any case, he’s torturing himself!

And you seriously think he might just keep it up forever.

But you might be going too far this time—laying it on too thick—stretching him too thin—asking him to drive you home after an office party, giggling and all but moaning all your words in the passenger seat next to him, wearing nothing but a short little black slip, no bra, no nothing except for a pair of strappy little heals. 

“Oh! What a night—these shoes are killing me!” you sigh while taking them both off as he drives. Even in your drunk state, you can see the way his hands tighten around the wheel and how he shifts all uncomfortably in his seat, breathing thickly—it makes you smile.

You throw your head back in relief once they’re both off—chest jutting forth as you rub your thighs together. And he swallows thickly—jaw clenched so tight, he couldn’t say anything even if he had anything to say. But you know he doesn’t—you, with your milky skin on display, have rendered him speechless. 

Your smile curls at the corners, and you know it’s cruel, but you have absolutely no idea how to reel it in anymore. He makes you feel like an untouchable goddess being worshipped—makes you want to laugh as he bows his head in the dirt and prays to you with all he has.

Oh, the poor boy, you’ve got him wound so tightly around your little finger—you don’t even know how to release him anymore. You’re both in way too deep, it’s getting hard for either of you to think clearly anymore.

“I’ll follow you in—just to make sure you get to bed safely,” he offers once stopping outside your place. And lost to the wine in your bloodstream, you haven’t the slightest little hang-up over how he knows your address without having asked.

Completely oblivious, you keep floating on cloud nine, smiling while murmuring, “What a nice guy~ How ‘bout you carry me up the steps as well—” 

You’d meant it as a tease, but he takes it in all manners of seriousness, rounding the car, opening your door, and then scooping you up before your bare feet even have the chance of meeting the pavement below—but you don’t complain.

Only cheering, “Oh~” 

It’s surprising, maybe even a little bit impressive. He’s tall, but he looks more lean than anything—like an overgrown boy—a far cry from a rugged man of strength, but here he is, acting just so, carrying you like a princess—with ease, you might add. But you suppose it’s been hard for you to tell his true build from beneath those big, cozy sweaters he always wears. Resting on it now, you can tell his chest is actually quite firm.

“I didn’t know you were so strong~" You keep flirting, paying no mind to how his hands grope into your exposed skin—you can allow him that much. Otherwise, feeling too swept up in your own feminine guiles—aroused by your sheer seductiveness—hot and bothered and thinking you’re going to touch yourself to yourself tonight and laugh about how you have the poor office loser waiting on you, hands and knees.

You find your keys in your clutch and unlock the door from the cradle of his arms—before you’re carried inside like a queen, all the way to your bedroom, where he lays you down gently on your bed. 

You sigh happily at the soft, nice embrace—feeling successful while melting into the cakey mattress—all but ready to find your vibe and ride the high.  That is, until feeling a certain pair of hands start undressing you.

“Hey—what’re you doing?” you jolt, gripping your dress in a panic—looking shock-eyed into his round ones.

“Just making you comfortable,” he says softly, looking a little bit like a kicked pup—making your nerves return calm. 

Oh, of course, he is—you can’t blame a guy for trying. However, there are limits to what’s allowed in this little game of yours. And you think that’s crossing one.

“Thanks, but…” You chuckle—faking being shy while batting your lashes. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. You see—” Voice sultry as you admit, “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

How you have the gall to keep teasing him is beyond you, and so you keep blaming it all on liquid courage—otherwise, certain the devil is making you do it.

“Thanks for taking me home, though.”

You smile before turning to rest on your side, facing away from where he stands by your bedside with hope in his poor eyes—oh, you almost feel bad—if only your well-fed ego weren’t already making you feel on top of the world. 

“You can leave the key beneath the welcome matt. Drive safely. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Eyes closed in bliss while grinning from ear to ear, you’ve come to terms with your terrible nature and have found the perfect way of sleeping at night despite it. Your poor colleague, so hopelessly infatuated with you and such a sucker for it—making you relive your mean girl queen bee school days all over again.

It’s the drink! You swear! It makes you feel all types of demonic—wanting to play with your favorite toy—see just how far you can take it before making him break. But, as always, one should be careful what one wishes for.

“You know…” A dark voice occupies your bedroom. From behind you. You’d thought he’d left already—gone out to his car to beat his blue-balled cock to his fantasy of you, but no. 

“Playing hard to get is one thing…” he continues. “Being a stuck-up bitch is another.”

You try to whip around, but it’s too late by then.

“You’ve had your fun with me. It’s time I have my fun with you.”

Nothing could have prepared you for his sudden change—the moment when all your teasing and tricks finally made him snap! 

He’s on top of your back. Straddling you—a heavy hand in your hair, pushing your face back down into the soft mattress below, while the other hand picks your dress up, pulling over your butt and leaving it exposed.

“Hey! What are you—” You try to make him calm down—to stop—but it’s as though nothing you say has any impact—or, no—instead, it has the complete opposite effect of what you want.

A sharp feeling blossoms across your ass cheek. It takes a moment before you realize he’d hit you—spanked you.

His grip on your hair tightens, pulls your face up to meet him where he leans down to your ear—voice venom-laced and shy of unhinged, “You’ve enjoyed yourself tonight, haven’t you? Teasing and toying with me—thinking I’ll just sit back and take it.”

His hand digs between your thighs—slipping through despite how you mend them shut—now dragging his fingers through your puffy slit, forcing two inside your tightly needy hole, uncaring to the cry it reaps from you.

“I’m the one who made your pussy wet like this, so it’s only right I have my way with it.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shoto, Shigaraki, Shinso ♡ JJK – Nanami, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kageyama ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Isagi ♡ WB – Sakura, Suo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[zenithsturniolo]

⮱ teach me how to whimper - chris sturniolo

1.8k words — swearing, sub chris, dry humping

a/n: I love edging horny bitches

you’ve thought about it way too many times. the way chris's jaw clenches when he’s annoyed, the cocky little smirk he always wears, and how he’s always pushing your buttons. but now, as you stand in front of him with that teasing grin on your face, it’s different. it’s a whole new thing, this pull between you two, thick and heavy.

“you sure you wanna do this?” you ask, a teasing edge in your voice. you're leaning against the doorframe, watching him stand there, all riled up but trying to act unaffected. his eyes flicker over you, full of that same damn cocky confidence he always carries around, like he could take on the world and still look effortlessly hot doing it.

he shrugs, his smirk widening. “i mean, i’m always down to show you how it’s done.”

you raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “you’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who has no idea how to whimper.”

“pfft. i don’t need to whimper,” chris shoots back, his voice dripping with that typical arrogance. “i can make you beg without doing that.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the laugh that bubbles up. “sure you can, hotshot. but let’s make it fun. let’s see if you can do it.”

chris looks at you for a second, lips curling up at the corners. “and what do i get out of it?”

“you get the satisfaction of knowing you can do something i’ve never asked anyone else to do.” you let the silence hang in the air, letting him feel the weight of it. “that’s a pretty big win in my book.”

he tilts his head, his gaze flickering over you like he’s weighing whether he’s about to make a mistake. then, with a smirk, he shrugs. “fine. show me what you want me to do.”

you step closer, slowly, every movement deliberate. the tension between you is practically crackling now, and you can feel the heat from his body pressing against yours as you stop in front of him. there’s a challenge in your eyes, something teasing, and you can’t wait to see how he reacts.

“start by making it soft,” you say, your voice low, like you’re coaxing him into something. “a little needy. think desperation. you want to sound like you need it.”

he frowns, confused for a second. “you’re insane,” he mutters under his breath. but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “this is gonna be a joke.”

“just try,” you insist, taking a step back and watching him closely. “don’t overthink it.”

he shifts, awkward at first, trying to wrap his head around what you’re asking. he lets out a forced noise, barely anything at all, before glancing up at you like he’s waiting for you to approve.

“seriously?” you ask, your lips curling into a smile. “that’s not even close. you can do better.”

“you’re being impossible,” he grumbles, but his voice is tight, like he’s trying not to show that it’s getting to him.

“i’m being serious,” you say, crossing your arms again. “i don’t care about the ‘cocky act.’ you’re gonna whimper like you mean it, chris.”

you’re so fucking close to him now, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. you’re not even touching him, but the electricity in the air is enough to make your heart race.

he takes another deep breath, clearly trying to get out of his own head, and you watch as he closes his eyes for a second, focusing on the task. then, the sound comes—a quiet, almost imperceptible whimper. it’s there, but barely.

you tilt your head, not impressed. “nope, not it. you can do better.”

he mutters something under his breath, and you hear the frustration in his voice now. “this is stupid.”

but you’re loving every second of it. watching him falter, watching him try to get this right, it’s turning you on more than you want to admit.

“think about it,” you say, taking a step closer again. “you’re supposed to sound desperate, chris. needy. think about how bad you want it.”

he glares at you, eyes flashing with something almost too intense. “you really wanna hear it that bad?”

you lean in, so close you can feel his breath on your skin. “i do,” you whisper.

he hesitates for just a second before letting out another sound, this one deeper, a little more genuine. it’s better this time, and you can feel the heat between you two shift, that invisible line you’ve both been skirting finally beginning to blur.

“better,” you say, your voice almost teasing as you step back again. “but you’re still not there. come on, chris. i know you can do it.”

he takes a sharp breath, looking at you like he’s trying to figure out whether this is all some big game or if there’s something else happening here. and you know exactly what that look means. he’s not sure if he’s winning or losing, but he’s in it now.

“you’re insane,” he mutters again, but this time there’s something softer in his voice, something almost pleading. “tell me what you want.”

you smile, leaning in closer again, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “whimper like you fucking need it.”

he shudders, eyes closing as he lets out a real sound this time, a soft, needy whimper that makes your heart race. the tension snaps between you, and for a moment, it feels like everything stops. just the two of you, and this moment that’s been building forever, finally reaching its breaking point.

he opens his eyes, staring at you like you just broke him. “there,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “happy?”

you nod slowly, your smile turning into something darker. “yeah. i think you’re starting to get it.”

the tension in the air is thick enough to choke on. your bodies are still pressed close, the heat of him radiating against you, his breath ragged against your neck.

but now, it’s your turn. you don’t know what exactly comes over you, but you need to feel control. you need to see him break, feel him under you. you’re done waiting.

you pull back, just enough to meet his eyes—wide, searching, desperate. his lips part, like he’s about to say something, but you don’t give him the chance. without warning, you shift, climbing onto his lap, straddling him in one fluid motion.

his eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting this. his hands immediately grip your hips, but you catch his wrists, holding them there for a second, feeling that subtle tension in his muscles. he’s trying to stay in control, but you can see it now, the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the way his breathing betrays him.

“don’t even fucking think about moving,” you murmur, voice low and teasing. you could practically taste the power in your words, the way he freezes under you, like he’s waiting for permission. waiting for you to make the next move.

you roll your hips experimentally, and the groan that escapes his lips is all you need to know—you have him. you can feel his breath catch, his hands twitching against you as you continue to grind against him, slow at first, just enough to make him ache. his eyes flutter closed for a second, and you watch, intrigued, as his lips part, desperate for air.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible, but you catch it. you’re not letting him get away that easily. not now.

“say that again,” you tease, your voice dripping with the control you’ve taken. “what was that?”

he swallows hard, his hands now attempting to move again, but you don’t let him. you press his wrists down, holding him firmly in place. he doesn’t resist. “you’re such a tease,” he whispers, but there’s something in his voice—something that tells you he’s not in control anymore. the tables have turned.

you don’t respond. instead, you give another roll of your hips, this time harder, faster, making sure you feel every inch of him under you. the low whimper that escapes his throat is enough to make you shiver, his head falling back slightly as he bites his lip, like he’s trying to hold something back.

“you like this, huh?” you ask, voice dripping with a hint of mockery. but there’s no hiding the way your body reacts to him—the way your core burns with the friction, the way the tension in the room builds higher.

chris’s hands twitch under your grip, and he stares at you, pupils blown wide. “fuck, please,” he breathes, and you feel a rush of desire at the way his voice cracks, the desperation clear in every syllable.

you grind down harder, feeling the way his hips instinctively move with yours, but you don’t let him take control. not this time. this is yours.

“tell me what you want,” you purr, your lips brushing against his ear. your hips continue their slow, deliberate pace, making sure he feels every inch of the movement. “say it, chris.”

he gasps, his chest rising and falling too quickly. “please—i need—”

you don’t wait for him to finish his sentence. instead, you roll your hips even harder, the pressure building in both of you. the sound of his breath catches, and it’s impossible to ignore. you can feel his muscles tense under you, the way his hands twitch, wanting to touch you, but you keep them in place, making him stay at your mercy.

the way his body reacts to every little movement makes you want to tease him more. you slow down just slightly, pulling back to watch him squirm. his eyes are dark now, pupils blown wide with need. “c’mon, chris,” you taunt softly. “you’re so desperate for it. just tell me what you want.”

and that’s when you see it. his entire demeanor shifts. he’s breaking, giving in. his hands finally leave yours, but they don’t go anywhere. instead, they land on your thighs, gripping tightly as he meets your eyes.

“please, don’t stop,” he mutters, his voice trembling. “please—i need you.”

and god, you can’t hold back anymore. you roll your hips one last time, the pressure and friction too much to ignore, and you both collapse into it. the feeling is too much. he whimpers again, and this time, the sound is louder—more desperate, more broken.

“that’s it,” you whisper, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “you’re doing so well.”

you keep going, slow and steady, watching the way he reacts to every single movement, every single roll of your hips. you’re in control, and he’s giving himself over to it.

his whimpers grow louder, more frantic, and you can feel him getting closer, his grip on you tightening, his breath shaky. he’s so close now, and it’s almost too much. you want him to break for you.

but for now, you’ll keep him right where he is—on the edge, begging for more.

no taglist yet but I might make one

divider by @enchanthings

© zenithsturniolo

[tojicide]

DOCTOR, DOCTOR! ☆ ZAYNE.

summary. when you’re feeling under the weather, doctor zayne is quick to prescribe you with what he knows will have you feeling better in no time.

warnings. fem!reader, boyfriend!zayne, pet names, praise, masturbation, fingering, oral ( fem. receiving ), cockwarming, unprotected p in v, mirror sex, creampie, aftercare. the rocking chair is featured. wc. 3.9k.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Zayne is an intelligent man, that much was evident, but for the first time in his career, he’s absolutely stumped.

Why is that, you may ask? Well for starters you, his beloved girlfriend, have been a bit distant lately. Not cold, not rude, but distant.

With his busy schedule, he didn’t see much of you during the day, and by the time he got home, you were usually fast asleep. It was easy to think that he was simply missing you and that was why his brain had led him to feel this rift between the two of you, but alas, he couldn’t be more wrong.

This entire ordeal truly got him thinking…

He saw a few tissues in the trash bin—perhaps you were catching the common cold. But when he prepared a spoonful of bitter medicine and a glass of water to wash it down, he was met with your denial that you masked with a smile.

If it wasn’t that, what could it be? Zayne asked the same question.

Maybe you were stressed out because of work. He finds that to be probable, so he made it a point to get home as early as he could last night to give you a massage after he cooked you your favorite meal.

You seemed to be soothed by his touch, murmuring a few ‘ah’s and ‘ooh’s of satisfaction as his skilled hands threaded into the tense muscles of your shoulders. Once you were at ease with your head resting back on his chest, he gave you a tender kiss on your cheek before he turned in for the night.

Call him overly analytical, but when it took you awhile to join him, he had a feeling that the massage hadn’t quite accomplished what he hoped it would have.

His mind then started to wander even further. Had he forgotten to run the dishwasher? No, of course not. Had he forgotten to pay the utility bills? Absolutely not, he took his credit score very seriously and a late payment was simply unlike him.

Had he forgotten to put the toilet seat down…? Okay, he definitely did, but that couldn’t be why you were acting so unlike yourself.

And then, as he sat at his desk with a fresh plate of food in front of him, it dawned on him. When was the last time you orgasmed? More importantly, when was the last time he’d given you one himself?

It was almost inhuman how fast he jumped up from his office chair to inform Yvonne that he would be out for the remainder of the afternoon, because oh was he feeling downright horrible.

He was back at your shared apartment in no time, pushing the door open and setting his shoes in the nook positioned in the entryway.

(He had a bad habit of trucking on the hardwood floors without removing his shoes, and considering he was already on your shit-list, he made sure to do it now.)

“Honey?” he calls out to you, making his way towards your closed bedroom door. “Sweetheart, I’m home.”

Zayne’s eyebrows raise as he glances around, finding that your apartment looks rather empty and desolate. “I’d like to apologize. I know I haven’t been present for you lately and—”

And then, he hears something. Something that makes him stop in his tracks. His eyebrow quirks up with intrigue as he presses his ear to the door, listening in.

He’d know those beautiful sounds anywhere, even if it’d been awhile since he had lured them out of you himself. Your moans were muffled by the door, but they were enough to make his cock stiffen up beneath the fabric of his black slacks.

“God… please,” you muttered, clearly out of breath and in frustration. “Damn it!”

Behind the door, you were resting on his side of the bed, hoping that his scent would be enough to make you finish. Your fingers toyed with your clit as you desperately tried to get yourself off, but nothing seemed to be working.

Zayne was practiced in a way that only he could be. He knew female anatomy better than you did, but more importantly, he took pride in learning yours. He knew what you liked and what you didn’t, what made you crumble and cry out.

And now that you’ve gone without him for so long, you’re finding yourself more pent up than ever. A huff of frustration leaves your lips as you try again, again, and again—only to be edged with your release without reaping the benefits of it.

He exhales, twisting the doorknob as he cracks the door open. To no surprise, there you were, sitting on his side of the bed with your hand slipped beneath the fabric of your panties.

You hardly looked horrified at the sight of him, more so desperate if anything. He pulls his tie loose as he takes a few steps towards the bed, his knees finding the plush comforter as he sinks onto his stomach.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost sounding sympathetic. He runs his hands over your thighs as he hikes them over his shoulders. “Let me see.”

You roll your eyes. “Who’s to say that you deserve to?”

Zayne gives you a look that you know all too well, one that silently reads ‘girl, are you serious?’ And no, you aren’t serious by any means, so you nod your head to give him your permission.

He pulls the damp fabric of your panties to the side, his gaze slimming as he sets eyes on your cunt for the first time in what feels like forever. (It’s been two and a half weeks at most, but you’re both awfully dramatic.)

“I’m sorry,” he speaks into your heat, almost as if he were apologizing to both you and your pussy. He raises his eyes to yours as he flattens his soft tongue to swipe along your wet folds. He moans at the mere taste of you, his grip on your thighs tightening as he pulls you even closer to him. “I had no idea. Truly, baby, I didn’t.”

You whine at the sensation of his gentle voice rumbling against your sensitive skin, your hand delving into his hair. “No idea about—hah—what?”

Zayne takes a moment to reply. His mouth is certainly distracted with the way it’s buried into your soaking cunt while his tongue laps at your inner lips, his nose brushing against your clit with each movement he makes.

“I hadn’t realized I was neglecting your needs,” he clarifies, cracking his eyes open just enough to look at you with hollowed cheeks as he sucks onto your sensitive bundle of nerves.

He releases it with a ‘pop’, his tongue quickly replacing his lips as he curls it in up and down motions that stimulate you in ways you can’t even comprehend. “My girl is too sweet to be treated like that,” he whispers, thumbing at your folds to give himself better access.

One of his hands continues to rub your thighs for some sort of comfort for his behavior, and soon, the other reaches up to take your hand in his own. You squeeze onto it immediately, finding the gesture to be much appreciated.

“So, you… mmh— you remember I exist after all?” Your words are meant as a joke, but he doesn’t seem to consider them as such with the way he presses a kiss to your clit before pulling away.

“Honey, I’m being serious,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on your thigh. “I’d never want to make it seem like I don’t consider you and your feelings.”

He gives your hand a squeeze before he smiles, adding an earnest, “and truth be told, I’m rather surprised that I’ve gone so long without tasting this pretty pussy of yours,” before he delves right back into eating you out like a man starved.

Zayne hasn’t noticed it until now, but he truly was starving, and not for the lunch that he left on his desk back at Akso Hospital. He wasn’t much for alcohol, but getting drunk on your pussy was one of his favorite pastimes, and he’ll never go this long without doing it again.

He was a man of science, and even then, he would never be able to explain the chemical imbalance that tasting you set off in his brain. Sure, medically speaking, the preoptic area of the brain is what triggers an erection, but what you did to him was far beyond that.

It was safe to say that Zayne was almost as in love with your pussy as he was with you, and judging by the way he’s making out with it right now, you have no doubts about that.

Your head tilts back against the headboard as he reintroduces his middle finger to your entrance, feeling the way your walls clench around it.

“Mm, quite sensitive, are we?” he lowly asks, licking a few swipes at your clit before adding, “Is it because you’ve been using your own hand for quite some time now?”

It’s almost pathetic how quickly you nod, your fingers grasping onto his dark locks as he presses an open-mouthed kiss onto your folds. “It’s the only choice I had,” you whine.

(He makes a mental note to give you his credit card so that you can purchase anything and everything you’ll need in order to satisfy yourself whenever he isn’t around. The fact that he hasn’t thought of that sooner is a problem in and of itself.)

He nods in return, though the movement only invites him to make hard licks at your pussy, collecting your slick on his tongue. His cock is rock hard, but he’ll get his turn soon enough.

Even if his turn never came, he’d be more than happy with this alone—that much was incredibly evident.

“I know it, my love,” he whispers, pressing a kiss on your sensitive clit as he slides another finger into your hole. “Is this alright?”

Your thighs tense up at the sensation, but you nod, tilting your head down to look at him. With your permission, he continues, his tongue swiping at you while his fingers fuck you into oblivion.

When you tilt your head back, he squeezes your thigh. “Eyes down here, I need you to watch closely.”

A sharp whine escaped you as his mouth somehow latched onto your pussy in the time it took you to look at him. He pulls off of you to speak, his lips coated with your arousal. “There will be times like this in which I won’t be able to give you what you need, and as much as it kills me, your pleasure can’t be limited to the times I can have you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What… what do you mean?”

Zayne nods his head, urging you to tune in. He curls fingers inside of you, hitting your g-spot with each push. “Hm. I suppose I can teach you how to touch yourself a bit more effectively. Would you like that?”

Your hand goes flying to his shoulder as you nod, your teeth pressing down onto your bottom lip. “Hah… mhm.”

He nods, grasping onto your hand. He presses a few kisses on your knuckles as he guides it to your clit, helping you swirl the pads of your fingers around it in smooth, moan-earning circles. “Very good. You look happier with me already.”

“You’re still a jerk,” you huff.

“I’m sure I have been behaving like one, yes,” he murmurs with a laugh. “Don’t let me off the hook too easily, either. I need to get a few orgasms out of you before you should consider that.”

That sounds perfectly fine to you, so all you do is moan in reply, which makes him smile. He likes to please his woman, and knowing that he hasn’t done a good job of that makes him even more determined to make up for it.

“It’s okay to use two hands, sweet girl,” he continues teaching, tilting his head towards his own hand that was still thrusting two fingers inside of you. “While it may be mine right now, yours will work just the same.”

Something switches inside of you the moment he begins to help you masturbate, his own fingers fucking inside of you while yours stimulate another part of your puffy cunt. You always had a thing for acts of service, but when it came from your boyfriend, you were practically putty in his hands.

“That’s right,” he purrs, a smile tugging on his lips. “Such a pretty girl. Perhaps you just needed to be reminded of how to treat yourself.”

His hazel eyes are still on your face, watching as you pinch in absolute ecstasy, your thighs shaking on his shoulders. “I see that I’ve underestimated you,” he teases, dipping his head to lick at your folds, his tongue brushing against your fingers as he continues to guide the movements of your hand. “It seems like you’re doing just fine for yourself after all.”

You huff, shaking your head. “No, no… it’s all you.”

Zayne chuckles at that, sucking your fingers that were circling your clit into his mouth before he places them back on your sensitive pearl, giving you a bit more lubricant. “There’s no need to be so hard on yourself, I’m merely helping you. We’re practicing together, sweetheart.”

You almost roll your eyes because the last thing Zayne needed was practice on how to please you. He may have been a bit distracted, but that could never take away from how perfect of a lover he was.

And… it was difficult not to be hard on yourself when he’s practically taken away your ability to orgasm on your own. With the way he’s making you feel right now, his absence was almost worth it.

Your eyes haze over as you look down at him, a soft moan leaving your lips. “Mmh, ‘m gonna cum,” you choke out.

To that, he nods in understanding. He thumbs apart your folds, leaving you to play with yourself as you please while he dips his head in to lick at your cunt in any way he can, feeling the way you clench around his fingers. “That’s right. Look at you, honey, such a quick learner.”

Zayne grasps onto your thigh with his free hand, pressing a few wet kisses along your inner skin as you come down from your high. Your hand still has a death grip on his hair, but he doesn’t mind it. He knows that he deserves to lose a few strands of hair after how he has left you alone.

You pant, your chest heaving as your body reels from your orgasm. While your vision is blurry, you can still make out the picture of your boyfriend sucking his fingers into his mouth, cleaning them free of your release.

“Mm, you know, the release from an orgasm does much to calm people,” he murmurs, giving your mound a chaste kiss before he rises up to give you one on your forehead. “Do you feel any better, my dear?”

You do feel better, but a part of you, one that you can’t quite shove away, is still yearning for more. Despite that, you nod, brushing your hand along his cheek as he dips his head to give you a kiss.

Sugary and sweet are two words you’d used to describe kissing Zayne, because those were adjectives you’d also use to detail how he always behaves when around you.

He pulls away from the kiss, propping himself up on his elbow above you while he uses his other hand to brush away your hair. “I really am sorry,” he whispers, his voice soft and full of a raw honesty that makes your heart squeeze.

You shake your head with a smile. “I know you didn’t mean to,” you reply. “It’s just… you made me feel like you didn’t need me, like what I felt was one sided.”

Zayne’s expression seems to soften as he shakes his head. “Of course I need you, I always need you. Your needs are never one-sided, especially not needs of this nature.” He brushes his hand over your cheek. “And I was serious about my endeavors of making it up to you, sweetness. C’mere.”

Before you know it, you’re plucked from your position on the bed and carried to the corner of the bedroom. Zayne takes a seat in the rocking chair positioned there, spinning it around until it faces the body length mirror just in front of the two of you.

He then undresses you entirely, kissing along your thighs, your hips, the curves of your back, on the cheek of your ass—everywhere and anywhere he could. Sure enough, you hear the rattling of his metal belt buckle behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his cock is pulled out from the confines of his boxers.

His slacks are still bunched up around his thighs, as are his boxers, but he pays no mind to it. He raises two fingers as he beckons you to sit in his lap, and you do.

Zayne rests one hand on your hip while the other grasps onto his shaft, pumping it in his fist a few times before he smears the head of his cock along your folds, gathering your slick. “The ‘teaching’ is over, but now, I simply want to show you just how much I need you.”

His words stir something within you, and when he leans up to press a kiss on your shoulder, you already feel like your lover is here to live up to his word. “Is that alright?” he asks against your skin, prodding your entrance with his tip.

When you nod, you’re already sinking down, taking him inch by inch until you’re cockwarming his thick length. He smiles at you in the reflection of the mirror, his eyes drifting over your body that he will never forget to worship again.

“So beautiful,” he coos, his hands mapping out the curves of your waist, your hips, your thighs. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

Your cheeks flush at his words. “Thanks.”

Zayne shakes his head. “There’s no need to thank me for speaking the truth,” he whispers. “That’d be like thanking Einstein for developing the theories of special and general relativity—it’s practically a given.”

You aren’t sure where the correlation is, but when one of his hands slips in between your thighs while the other grasps onto one of your breasts, you don’t care about fighting it out.

“Point is, I mean it. Every word,” he adds.

You feel like a goddess being worshiped as his mouth finds your shoulder, the smacking of his lips omitting into the otherwise quiet room as he places open-mouthed kisses on your skin. His middle and ring finger work to toy with your clit, his other hand squeezing onto your breast.

And then… he begins to rock.

You gasp at the feeling of his cock just barely moving inside of you, your body entirely engulfed in the sensations that he is so eagerly providing you.

“You feel—hah—so, so good,” he whispers against your skin, his lips climbing the curve of your shoulder. His fingers circle your clit at an agonizingly slow pace, and when you place your hand on his to guide his movements, he smiles at you in the reflection. “There’s my girl. Such a quick learner, just like I said.”

You lazily return his smile, your head resting back on his shoulder. He removes his hand from your breast to pluck his glasses from his face, placing them on yours instead.

“My baby is such a smart girl,” he purrs, his lips finding your neck as he admires you. Flushed skin, hair messed up, his glasses resting on your nose. He could come inside you at the sight, but he wants to prolong this. He doesn’t ever want to leave this moment with you. “And so beautiful too. Absolutely ravishing.”

You chuckle at that, though your laughter was interrupted by a soft moan as his fingers pick up the pace as they circle your puffy clit. “You’re… hah—handsome,” you manage to return.

Zayne chuckles at your words, nodding his head as a silent thank you. He presses another kiss on your shoulder, though he quickly leaves another one once you begin to rock your hips. He sits back, catching a glimpse of how you look when you bounce on his cock.

He grins, his hand finding the swell of your ass as he gives both cheeks a nice squeeze. “We can move back to our bed if you’d prefer, sweetheart. I don’t want you to have to put in any more effort into your pleasure tonight.”

You shake your head, glancing over your shoulder to look at him. “I wanna see you,” you breathe.

“Honey, there are positions—”

He’s interrupted by your hand reaching back to hold his jaw, pulling him up so that he too could see the reflection of you both in the mirror.

And oh, was it a sight.

“I wanna see you,” you repeat.

Zayne is in no position to deny you, so with a nod of approval, his hands find your hips. “At the very least, let me help you.”

The sound of slapping skin and your breathy moans fill the room, his large hands keeping their iron grip on your hip bones while your hands rest on top of his. He peers out from behind you, watching as your tits bounce just as you do, your hair flying messily.

“Pretty baby,” he pants, more to himself in reaction to the mere sight of you. “Such a lucky man you’ve made me, fuck… take it, baby, yeah. I love you so much, so much…” he babbles, not quite sure what he’s saying, just that he’s speaking whatever graces his mind.

“Oh, I… I love you too, Zayne,” you gasp.

You whine, grinding your hips in fluid motions as you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching. You were sensitive to begin with, and the feeling of his cock stretching you out was more than enough to bring you here.

“Shit,” he rasps, his head falling back onto the rocking chair as his eyes screw shut. “You take me so well, you fit me so perfectly, baby… I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna… oh, shit.”

You weren’t far behind him, and as your movements grow lazier, you opt to sit on his cock entirely as the both of you find your orgasms only second apart.

Ropes of white paint your insides, your cum coating the base of his cock as the two of you become one in a way that you’ve missed so dearly.

Only bliss envelopes the two of you as you slump back onto his chest, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him. The two of you sit just like that for a moment as you find your breaths that have run off, relishing in the feeling of your combined warmth.

Zayne reaches up to carefully grasp your jaw, turning your head back just enough so that he could kiss you. Your breaths mingle to add to the scent of your love that looms in the air, his other hand running soothing strides along your hip.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathlessly says with a lovesick grin. “Quite frankly, I don’t. You’re wonderful to me.”

You shake your head, leaning down to kiss him again before he slowly helps you up onto your trembling legs. “Oh, stop that. Just because you’ve been a little caught up with work doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly a bad partner.”

Zayne sweeps you into his arms, carrying you bridal style towards the bathroom. “See? You’re simply too good to me. Such a lovely personality, the most contagious laugh I’ve ever heard, the cutest snores when you sleep, the sweetest pussy in existence… my dream girl in all capacities.”

You smile as he sets you down, pressing a kiss onto your forehead as he crosses the room to draw you a shower to your liking. Warm—not cold, but not hot enough to the point that your skin tingles. He’s had plenty of practice in this area, and he’s gotten it down to a science by now.

“I do not snore,” you murmur, shaking your head.

As he peels off his clothes, discarding them without care on the bathroom tile. He extends his hand to you to invite you inside the shower behind him. “Mhm, sure you don’t.”

You scoff, tipping the toilet seat shut. “You can tease me for my snoring once you, my 27-year-old man, master the art of putting the damn seat down.”

“…Oops.”

note. my dr. zayne would never forget to please his woman! but i really liked the concept sooooo :3 it was rly difficult for me to write him lol the dialogue might suuuuuckkkk but i hope i did him justice < 3 thank you for reading, interact if you enjoyed !!!

i ALSO kinda wanna do a similar version of this with sylus except… not nearly as gentle ig?? would you be interested??? do let me know.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[bjlipss]

synopsis: you challenge satoru to last 24 hours without touching you.

miyan’s notes: satoru you silly goose how could you even think you’d last???

contents: fluff, humor, teasing, light suggestiveness, satoru being miserable because he is a pathetic loser who lives to touch you

it starts with a dumb argument over who’s more clingy.

“you’re like a human magnet,” you say, flicking his forehead as he slouches over you on the couch. “you can’t go five minutes without touching me.”

gojo scoffs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “you’re one to talk. you get cold once and suddenly my body’s a personal heater.”

“that’s survival,” you reply coolly. “you, on the other hand, get withdrawal symptoms if we’re not physically attached.”

he pulls back, just slightly, to pout. “i’m affectionate.”

“you’re clingy.”

“pfft—i can totally go a whole day without touching you.”

“you’re not gonna last.”

gojo’s expression is scandalized. he places a hand on his chest like you’ve just wounded him. “excuse me?”

you shrug, arms folded. “you act like you’ve got god-tier self-control, but you can’t pass by me without touching me, poking me, flopping onto me like a giant cat—”

“not a cat,” he interrupts. “a majestic snow leopard, maybe.”

“still needy,” you reply, trying not to smile. “let’s test it, then. twenty-four hours. no touching me. at all.”

his eyes narrow. “you trying to kill me?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you said you’re the strongest, didn’t you?”

his expression shifts—eyes narrowing like he’s just been challenged to a duel. “fine. i’ll prove it.”

you blink. “seriously?”

he grins. “dead serious.”

hour 1 — 12:04pm

you find him in the kitchen, frowning at the fridge like it personally offended him. he doesn’t greet you with his usual backhug or whiny “babe~”. instead, he just says, “hi,” like a normal person.

you narrow your eyes. “you okay?”

he sniffs. “perfect. totally fine. unbothered. thriving.”

you take your time walking past him to grab a drink, brushing a little closer than necessary. his jaw tenses.

“you’re evil,” he mutters under his breath.

you sip your juice, smirking. “self-control, satoru.”

hour 3 — 2:14pm

he’s pacing around the living room, tossing grapes into his mouth and missing every other shot.

“you’re wasting perfectly good fruit,” you say.

“i’m burning nervous energy,” he replies, flinging another grape too high and catching it with his mouth at the last second. “you don’t realize how often i touch you. like—i go to tuck your hair behind your ear, or bump my foot into yours on the couch, and then i remember. the curse.”

you stifle a laugh. “it’s not a curse.”

“feels like one.”

he walks over to you, leans over dramatically until his face is inches from yours, and breathes, “you’re lucky i’m strong.”

“you’re lucky i’m not keeping score for how many times you almost touched me.”

hour 5 — 5:03am

“okay,” he says, bursting into the room with too much energy. “new plan. i have my infinity on, right? so technically i’m not touching you—”

“no.”

“what if i wrap myself in a blanket first?”

“still no.”

“what if you touch me?”

you squint at him. “are you begging?”

“i’m bargaining.”

you pat his head as you walk past. “stay strong, baby.”

he melts slightly under the touch before realizing. “wait—you touched me!”

you grin. “i never said i couldn’t.”

hour 6 — 6:00pm

dinner is suspiciously quiet.

you chew thoughtfully while gojo picks at his food, glancing at your hands resting on the table. you know he wants to hold them.

you twirl your fork and ask, “so what’s the hardest part so far?”

he groans. “you.”

“me?”

“you’re just so—soft and warm and mine. and now you’re sitting there looking all cute and i can’t even hold your stupid little hand.” he slumps back dramatically in his chair. “i feel like i’m mourning.”

you laugh. “mourning my touch?”

“yes. it’s tragic. i’m gonna die. shoko should do an autopsy on me tomorrow.”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“and you love it,” he says, flicking a grain of rice at you.

you flick one back. it hits his cheek and sticks.

you both lose it.

hour 9 — 9:22pm

you’re curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone, when you feel a stare. a heavy, unblinking, yearning stare.

you look up. satoru is lying upside-down on the other end of the couch, watching you like you’re a limited edition dessert behind a glass case.

“you’re gonna burn a hole through me.”

he groans. “you’re just so huggable. i don’t even want to do anything else, i just wanna lie on you like a warm weighted blanket.”

you close your phone and raise an eyebrow. “just lie?”

“okay maybe a lil kiss too,” he admits.

you grin. “well too bad. rules are rules.”

he rolls off the couch with a dramatic thud.

“you’ve ruined me,” he says to the ceiling, voice meek and void of life.

you walk over to crouch over him. “how?”

“i used to be a strong, independent man. now i can’t go a single day without your hand in mine.”

you snort. “you sound like a victorian woman writing a letter to her lover at war.”

he groans and covers his face. “please come hold me.”

hour 11 — 11:32pm

you’re brushing your teeth when he walks into the bathroom, shirtless, hair damp from a shower, a towel slung low on his hips.

you stare at him through the mirror. he stares back.

“you’re cruel,” he mutters. “you did this on purpose.”

you spit out your toothpaste, trying to keep a straight face. “what, you’re allowed to walk around half-naked, but i stretch once and it’s a war crime?”

“i’m suffering.”

“you’ve got thirteen hours left.”

he points at you with his toothbrush. “when that timer ends, i’m kissing you until we both forget our names.”

hour 12 — 00:03am

you’re in bed now, side by side, separated by a solid five inches of mattress space.

“how am i supposed to sleep when you’re right there and i can’t even wrap an arm around you?”

you sigh. “…fine.”

he perks up. “fine what?”

“i’ll let you imagine holding me.”

“i’ve been doing that all day.”

you snort.

he rolls over to face you, sighing so dramatically you almost laugh.

“…do you miss me?” he whispers.

you raise a brow. “i’m right here.”

“no. i mean, like—physically. touch-wise.”

you pause. and yeah. you kinda do. he is so full of love and your favourite thing to do is accepting that love in any form he gives it to you.

“…a little,” you admit softly.

he groans. “don’t say that. i already spent five minutes hugging my pillow and pretending it was you.”

you giggle, then roll onto your side. “you’re being very strong though. i’m proud.”

he closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “say that again.”

“i’m proud of you,” you whisper.

“…nghhgghghgh,” he moans, pulling the blanket over his head. “stop being cute. it’s killing me.”

hour 16 — 04:11am

you wake to soft murmuring. gojo’s talking in his sleep.

“…love you…mm…’s not fair…no touch…”

you blink blearily and shift. he’s curled around a pillow again, lips slightly parted, brows furrowed.

you almost feel bad. almost.

he reaches out instinctively, hand finding empty space.

“…baby?” he mumbles, still mostly asleep.

you whisper, “still here, toru.”

he sighs and smiles, dozing off again.

your chest squeezes a little. maybe you underestimated how touch-starved he gets. how physical affection isn’t just habit—it’s how he grounds himself. how he knows you’re safe, right there with him.

you scoot closer. not touching. but close.

he sleeps better after that.

so do you.

hour 21 — 9:01am

you wake up to see gojo sitting on the edge of the bed, hair wild, eyes bloodshot, sipping coffee like he’s seen war.

“good morning?”

he turns slowly. “did you know i dreamt about touching you? that’s how bad it’s gotten.”

you stretch with a yawn, your shirt rising up slightly.

he averts his gaze. barely.

“heartless.” he mumbles.

hour 23 — 11:03am

you’re both just sitting on the floor at this point. not talking. not moving. not doing anything but waiting for the final countdown.

he’s staring at the clock like it holds the key to salvation.

“you doing okay there, champ?” you tease.

“one more hour. one. more. hour,” he chants under his breath.

“you really couldn’t handle this being a regular thing, huh?”

he whips his head toward you, horrified. “don’t even joke about that. if you ever pull this again i will literally dissolve into sparkles.”

hour 24 — 12:04pm

the second the timer goes off, he pounces.

you squeal as he practically tackles you into the couch cushions—arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, sighing like a man finally breathing fresh air.

“oh my god,” he groans into your shoulder, breathing you in like oxygen. “finally. finally. i’m whole again.”

“thank god,” he mumbles, lips brushing your skin. “i thought i was gonna die.”

“you’re so pathetic,” you giggle, but your arms find their way around him too.

he pulls back, just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, the blue in them glowing faintly in the dim room.

“i could never live without you, baby,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you—slow and deep, fingers sliding up your back like he can’t get enough.

he pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks and look into your eyes. his voice is a little softer now, more sincere. “i missed you. so much. never doing that again.”

you kiss him. and he kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he went without you.

you smile against his lips.

[tender-rosiey]

yoo rose I started following you a little while ago and I really liked you. I saw that your requests are open and I would like to ask for a scenario where Nanami arrives drunk and his wife takes care of him while he talks about how he loves her I liked all your stories with my businessman <3

unsteady love — nanami kento x f!reader

a/n: so glad that you do, love! <33 hope you like this one too 🫶🫶

kento stumbles slightly into your house, catching himself against the wall before you steady him, “kento… you’re drunk.”

he blinks down at you, the usually serious expression on his face replaced by something softer, more relaxed. there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks, and he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle.

“I am not drunk,” he declares, his voice slurred just enough to betray him. “I’m... just—” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “...enlightened.”

you suppress a smile and guide him to the couch, sitting him down gently. “sure, ‘enlightened.’” you shake your head, amused. “stay put, I’ll get you some water.”

as you move to the kitchen, you hear him muttering to himself. “can’t believe I’m drunk,” he grumbles, almost like he’s scolding himself, “what kind of a husband does that?”

when you return, cup in hand, he’s sitting with his head leaned back against the couch, his eyes half-closed. but when you approach, he perks up immediately, watching you with a soft, slightly dazed look.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says. his voice is quieter, more sincere, and it catches you off guard for a second. nanami isn’t exactly shy about how he feels, but this is a side of him you don’t see often.

“drink,” you instruct, handing him the water to avoid the sudden rush of emotions his words bring. he takes the glass without complaint, but even as he drinks, his eyes never leave you.

after a few sips, he sets the glass down on the table and leans back again, sighing contentedly. “you take such good care of me,” he says softly, almost to himself, “I don’t deserve you.”

you chuckle at the sudden sentimental turn. “kento, you’re acting like I’ve just saved your life. you had a few drinks. you will be okay.”

he shakes his head, looking at you with those hazy, half-lidded eyes. “it is serious. you’re always here for me. always... my constant. my…” he trails off, struggling for the right words in his drunken haze, “you make everything better. I love you.”

his words are raw, unfiltered by the usual restraint he keeps on his emotions. there’s a vulnerability in the way he says it that makes your heart tighten.

“I love you too,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

but before you can pull away, he grabs your wrist gently, pulling you closer. “no, you don’t get it.” he’s more insistent now, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that’s surprising given his state. “I really love you. I think about it all the time, all—the time.”

you laugh softly, though his words tug at something deep inside you. “you can tell me all about it when you’re sober.”

he doesn’t let go, though, his grip still gentle but firm. “I mean it. you make the worst days worth it. you... you’re everything.”

a soft laugh escapes you, touched by his sincerity but also aware of how much the alcohol is loosening his tongue. “I know, kento. you’ve told me before.”

nanami pouts—a rare expression that looks so out of place on his usually stoic face. “but I don’t say it enough. you deserve to hear it.”

he blinks sloppily as he stares at you before murmuring, "I need to marry you."

you let out a soft laugh and kiss his cheek, "we are married, you silly man."

in a once in a lifetime incident, your husband stares at you, eyes wide, face reddening by the second. he looks down at his feet for a few moments, then you see him hum, "that's nice."

his seriousness is almost comical given the state he’s in, and you can’t help but tease him a little. “y'know, you’re awfully chatty for someone who insisted they weren’t drunk.”

he lets out a sigh, leaning his head back again and releasing your wrist, “fine, fine. maybe I’m a little drunk. but it doesn’t change the fact that I—”

before he can finish, he shifts too quickly and almost topples off the couch. you rush to catch him, but you fall with him, and he blinks, disoriented, before breaking into a lopsided smile. “maybe a lot drunk.”

“yeah, maybe,” you say with a laugh, helping him sit back up. “come on, let’s get you to bed.”

as you help him to his feet, he leans heavily against you, his arm draped over your shoulder. you guide him down the hallway, his weight familiar but the situation still amusingly foreign.

normally, he’s the one doing the taking care of—you can’t help but relish this rare moment where the roles are reversed.

once you’ve managed to get him into bed, he pulls you down next to him, refusing to let go of your hand. his eyes, though heavy with sleep, remain fixed on you with that same soft, adoring look.

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion and sincerity, “we have to go to malaysia together.”

“sure,” you smile, brushing your fingers through his hair as his eyes finally flutter shut. “goodnight, kento.”

just as you’re about to pull away, his hand tightens around yours once more, and he whispers, half-asleep, “I love you.”

his words are softer now, less dramatic than before but still brimming with emotion.

you watch him for a moment, his features relaxed in the dim light, and feel a warmth spread through your chest. this side of him—unguarded, affectionate, and a little silly—is one you cherish just as much as his usual seriousness.

as he drifts off, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting his words linger in the air, “I love you too.”

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do not copy or plagiarize

check out my buy me a coffee!

[definitelynotnia]

had a mini breakdown but thankfully my boyfriend handled it (idk how he does it but he's very good at it) and now I'm feeling relatively better

i love this man sm T-T

[thebestsetter]

"Men used to go to war, now they..."

~ Part 2

Isagi Yoichi

...follow you around like a lost puppy.

Need to cook something? Yoichi can help! (Not really, since he doesn't know batshit about cooking and burns everything he touches, but it's the thought that counts, right?) Are you going out? No problem! He's gonna sit put and still on the edge of your shared bed, watching with a fond look as you rummage through your wardrobe trying to find the perfect clothes to go out! (Even though he thinks all of them look perfect on you) Need help shopping? He's already holding all of your bags for you! (Even if he looks ridiculous holding so many bags, but he refuses to let you touch a single one of them). In the end, he's just a lovesick boy who loves acts of service and some good old quality time, so just let him follow you around, yeah?

Chigiri Hyoma

...gossip and do skincare with you.

He literally hates the girls you talk about without even meeting them in real life. Like, what do you mean that Penelope lady cheated on her husband because he was on a 20 days trip? Ridiculous.

Anyways, skincares are a must in your relationship. You guys do it everynight, and, when he's away (for soccer reasons), you facetime to do it. It became a little tradition: he calls you the night before an important game, askijg if you already treated your skin. Then, when you say that you didn't, his eyes visibly, clearly - and a little comically too - light up (even though he already knew the answer. It's the same one everytime. You never do it without him). After that, you both just talk and laugh, trying to calm his nerves down before the game. Most of the times, the call only ends when one of you end up falling asleep. It's honestly cute how comfortable you are with eachother.

He swears he plays better when you do that. His many hat tricks can confirm that.

Nagi seishiro

...can't sleep if it isn't on your lap.

He physically can't anymore, and it makes him pissed.

His sweet pillows that looked oh so comfortable before must as well feel like rocks right now, because NOTHING compares to the fluffiness of your lap mixed with you petting his head. He feels like he's in heaven everytime you do it. He HATES when he's travelling and has to sleep on a 5 star hotel's bed, because how is it SO uncomfortable?? What the heck??

And you can BET the first thing he does when he comes home after his soccef trips is sleep. For a long time. Like, "hibernating" kind of long. One time, you seriously thought he was dead. But it was just the effect your lap has on him. Deal with it.

Reo Mikage

... spend an unholy amount of money on you.

This isn't even surprising. I mean, it's Reo we're talking about: the boy who has more money than what to do with it. And his financial situation obviously reflects on your relationship.

Looked at that hair product for 0.2 seconds more than the last product you saw? He already bought it! Want ice cream? He'll have 4 scoops, please!

The thing is that he was taught money=love (especially by his parents, who tried to make up for their absence by giving him money), so that's what he thought would swoop you off your feet. But it wasn't. It was the tender moments, the gentle kisses on your knuckles, and the goals dedicated to you. So don't think he only gives you money - he gives you PLENTY of quality time too!

Perhaps a part 2 will be written

Masterlist

[coolemmasulivan2]

Back on Track

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: After a fight with Lando, you’re nowhere to be found when he leaves for Austin, making him fear the relationship is over. But when you arrive at the track with Max, he gets a second chance to make things right, and the two of you reconcile.

Word count: 2061

Even though we're going through it And it makes you feel alone Just know that I would die for you Baby, I would die for you, yeah

You and Lando rarely fought. You’d been together since his final season in Formula 2, a bloody long time, and you could count the big fights on one hand. But this one was different. This was the worst of them all.

It was his last day at home before flying to Austin, and somehow everything went down.

"You're being clingy!" He shouted, running a hand through his messy curls, frustration etched on his face.

You stared at him, stunned. "I’m being clingy? Me? Lando, we’ve been together for years, and I have never asked you for anything. The one time I do, and this is what you say? Wow."

"Yeah, well, you’ve never acted like this before!" His face hardened, eyes sparking with irritation you weren’t used to. "Seriously, if you suddenly want some boyfriend who’ll sit around every night, watching dumb TV shows and cuddling you to sleep, maybe you should find someone else."

You shook your head, disbelief morphing into something different, something more hurt. "Maybe I should do that!"

He was beyond pissed. "Then please, do! I'm going out and I'll do the same." He turned, grabbing his jacket without a second glance. and strode out, slamming the door shut behind him.

You flinched at the echo, the silence crashing down around you as tears started to well up. "I hate you, Lando Norris." You whispered into the emptiness of the apartment.

Lando sat in the VIP section of his favorite Monaco club, gazing blankly over the crowded dance floor. The music pulsed, people laughed and danced, but his thoughts were miles away, thinking of you.

Max leaned in, breaking Lando’s trance. "Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?" Lando shrugged. "Was it that bad?"

Lando sighed, his gaze distant. "It was! It was the worst fight we’ve ever had." He swallowed, the words bitter. "She probably thinks I’m cheating on her right now."

Max’s eyebrows shot up. "What are you talking about? Why would she think that?"

"Because, I pretty much said that." Lando muttered lound enough for Max to hear over the music.

Max looked at him, incredulous. "Why the hell would you say that, you absolute idiot? You love her."

Lando exhaled heavily. "I was angry! I didn’t even think. I just… said it. I realized how bad it sounded the second I left."

Max shook his head, staring at him with a mix of pity and frustration. "Well, congratulations: you’re an idiot!"

"Thanks for the information."

It was late when Lando finally got home. The apartment was dark, and silence filled the rooms. He stepped into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, his mind caught between whether he should crash on the sofa or swallow his pride, apologize, and lie beside you.

He waked to the closed bedroom door, standing there for a long moment, nerves filling his body. His hand hovered over the doorknob, but he stopped himself. He stepped back and with the sting of guilt he fell down on the sofa.

You were deep asleep when a hand shook your shoulder. Groggily, you opened your eyes to see your best friend sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes barely open, hair rumpled from sleep.

"What?"

She yawned, rubbing her eyes before looking at you. "Your phone won’t stop ringing."

Blinking, you glanced at the empty nightstand, remembering you’d left your phone in the living room. "What time is it?" You muttered. "It’s probably Lando. We were supposed to leave for Austin early."

She groaned, pulling a pillow over her head and laying down next to you. "Then answer it or turn it off. It’s too early for this, and I’m exhausted."

"She rejected my call!" Lando exclaimed, pacing back and forth in the apartment.

Max raised an eyebrow. "That’s good news."

"How is that good?"

"At least we know she’s okay." He said. "And still mad at you, which is probably deserved."

"I don’t even know if she was still here when I got home last night. The bedroom door was closed, and I just… crashed on the sofa. I only realized she was gone this morning."

Max nodded thoughtfully. "So, what’s the plan now?"

“I don’t know,” Lando groaned, slumping into a chair, rubbing his hands over his face. "The team’s going to kill me if I miss this flight."

"So go!" Max said firmly.

Lando looked up, shaking his head. "No way. I’m not leaving without her."

Max rolled his eyes. "Look, she knows you have to leave, Lando. Sooner or later, she’s coming back, and when she does, I’ll bring her to Austin myself. Just go."

"What if she refuses to go?"

"She loves you. She'll want t make things right. Trust me!"

Lando hesitated. "You promise?"

"I promise."

You slipped into the apartment two hours later, knowing Lando would be gone by now. The silence felt heavy as you shut the door, but before you could make it to the kitchen, Max appeared, stepping out from Lando’s streaming room.

You jumped, clutching your chest. "Max! What the hell? You scared me!"

"Sorry!" He said, raising his hands in apology.

"What are you doing here? Is Lando still here?" You glanced around, half expecting him to walk out from somewhere.

"He left. Had to, or he’d have missed his flight."

You made your way to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and taking a long sip. "I thought you were going with him."

"I am. I was just waiting for you."

You looked at him, understanding dawning slowly. "Max, I don’t think going with you is a good idea." You sank into a chair at the small dining table, and Max sat across from you.

"That’s not true."

"Max, you don’t know how he treated me, the things he said…" You swallowed, voice shaking. "He told me I should find someone else. And said he would, too."

Max leaned forward, shaking his head. "Look, he was furious and stupid. Belive me, I know what he said, and he regrets every word. He didn’t even want to leave. I practically had to drag him onto the helicopter."

Tears pricked at your eyes. "Max, I don't know."

"He’s an idiot, but he’s an idiot in love with you. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone, Y/N. He’s been calling you non-stop, hoping you’d pick up, and he’s completely torn up about it. So please, come with me. Let’s go to Austin."

Lando had been unusually quiet all day. Practice had gone well, but not well enough; the Ferraris were ahead, and so was Verstappen. His mind should’ve been on the upcoming sprint qualifying, but all he could think about was you and the fight. He could only hope that Max was somehow convincing you to come to Austin.

"Everything alright? You’ve been quiet, which is… not like you." Oscar asked, glancing over at Lando as they wrapped up filming a video for McLaren’s social media.

"Just tired." Lando muttered.

Oscar hesitated, then asked gently. "Where’s Y/N? Lily told me she was coming."

Lando’s jaw tensed, his eyes flicking up to meet Oscar’s. "I… don’t think she’s coming." He admitted, his voice low. "I messed things up pretty badly."

Oscar raised his eyebrows. "Want to talk about it?"

Lando shook his head, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Not really. Just… hoping I haven’t lost her." He said, more to himself than to Oscar.

Lando was suiting up, pulling on his gloves and securing his helmet, trying to lock his focus onto the upcoming sprint qualifying. But the knot of anxiety in his stomach hadn’t eased since he arrived, knowing he might have to go through this entire weekend without you there.

Just then, Max appeared in front of him, grinning. "Hey, mate. Just came by to wish you luck. And, by the way…" Max lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder. "She’s here."

"Fuck... thank you for bringing her."

There, standing quietly near the corner, arms crossed and headphones on, was you. You looked a little nervous, a shy expression on your face and when your eyes met, you quickly looked away.

A wave of relief fell over him, and he instinctively took a step forward, desperate to close the space between you. But Max put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"Not now." Max warned. "You’ve got a sprint to think about. You can talk to her after."

"But—" Lando began, his eyes darting back to you, a urge to apologize.

A couple of mechanics also intercepted him, nudging him toward the car with hurried reminders. "We’re starting in a few, Lando."

Lando clenched his jaw, glancing back at you. Taking a deep breath, Lando slipped into the car, his heart beating a little steadier, his mind clearing. For the first time all day, he felt ready. You were here and that was everything.

You watched the qualifying from the garage, heart pounding with every lap. It was always like this: nerve-wracking, pride and fear as you watched him push himself and the car to the limit. But today, your chest felt even tighter, knowing the tension lingering between you.

When the session ended, Lando finished fourth. Relief mixed with a bit of pride washed over you as you clapped, your gaze fixed on him as he came into the garage.

The moment he spotted you, he didn’t hesitate. He strode over and without a word, he reached for your hand, gently but firmly, and led you out of the garage toward his driver’s room, ignoring the curious glances around you.

Once inside, he closed the door. "Y/N… Babe, I’m so sorry."

You looked down, your arms wrapping around yourself. "You hurt me, Lando. You didn’t just walk away, you made me feel like I was… too much."

He stepped closer, reaching for your hand again. "I was an idiot. I don’t even know why I said those things. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. None of it was true. You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re… everything to me."

"I thought you didn’t want me anymore."

He swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. "That could never be true. I can’t imagine any of this, my life, racing, anything, without you." He brushed a stray tear from your cheek. "I was terrified you wouldn’t come. That I’d ruined everything."

You took a shaky breath. "Max convinced me… told me you didn’t want to leave, that you were just… scared of losing me."

"More than you know." He said, his hand holding yours firmly. "Please forgive me, Y/N. I’ll spend as long as it takes making it up to you."

"I don't want you to give up anything, Lando."

"I know. I know. That's not what you asked me."

After a long moment, you squeezed his hand. "I’m here now." You said softly. "Let’s just start with that."

Relief flooded his face as he wrapped you in his arms, holding you close, as if he never wanted to let go. "I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m grateful you’re here. I don’t want to mess this up ever again."

You gave him a gentle smile, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. "I didn’t come all this way to hold onto what happened. Let’s just… move forward. Together."

He smiled. "Together."

A knock on the door interrupted the moment. "Lando?" A team member called from the hallway. "They need you back in the garage in five!"

Lando glanced back toward the door, then returned his gaze to you, clearly torn. "Go!" You murmured. "I’ll be here when you’re done. I’m not going anywhere."

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. You melted into it, letting the last of the hurt dissolve in his warmth.

When he pulled back, he looked at you with a smile . "I’ll be quick." He said, squeezing your hand before reluctantly letting it go and heading toward the door. Just as he opened it, he paused, glancing over his shoulder one last time. "I love you."

"I love you too." You whispered.

[swtheartz]

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

[zyafics]

GIRL WITHOUT A TAIL | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Blurb)

Pairing – Rafe x Mermaid!Female Reader

Summary — Rafe seeks Sarah's help about what to do with you.

Word Count — 1.7K

Content — fluff, protective!Rafe, Sarah acting like a bitch, and you acting clueless and afraid of everything except your mate, also suggestive ending. A continuum of this piece!

Dedication — to @nemesyaaa my own little mermaid, and @promiscuousg1rl for reading it first <3.

“She’s a mermaid?”

Rafe’s telling Sarah about his encounter with you. After taking you back to Tannyhill, you confide in the stranger—your mate—that you’re a mermaid. It’s your first time on land, with legs, and why you wobble with each step. But Rafe didn’t believe you.

However, the conviction in your voice had him second-guessing. The way you peer up at him with such innocent, enchanting eyes that blink with such naivety, he wanted to protect you with all the fibers of his being. He felt like he was being sucked into a trance, not thinking straight, that he sought out a secondary opinion.

Well, more like that she forced him to tell her.

Because Sarah didn’t see a helpless woman who needed Rafe’s help. She saw a stranger, walking around the estate, barely wearing any clothes, except for a half-assed outfit strung together from her brother’s closet.

“Have you gone insane?” Sarah snaps at Rafe, her tone dripping with disbelief. “A mermaid? The fairytales Dad used to tell us about when we were kids?”

Rafe feels insane for believing it.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Rafe declares, “But that’s what she told me.”

Sarah blows out a stream of air, shaking her head. “Seriously, Rafe. What type of women are you sleeping with?”

“I’m not sleeping with her,”

“Yeah, because being naked is a default setting,”

“I found her like that,” Rafe hisses at his sister. “She was at the beach, naked, with these fuckin’ seashells as a bra. What else do I suspect?”

“Not a mermaid,” Sarah insists, as if it was the most normal response. She glances towards Rafe’s bedroom, where you stay, and sighs. “Have you asked her where she’s from?”

“The ocean,”

Sarah glares. “Not funny.”

“That’s what she told me,” Rafe declares.

Sarah shakes her head again as if she can’t believe her brother would believe in such nonsense. “Alright, I’ll do it. I guess men can’t do shit,” Sarah announces, grabbing Rafe’s arm and hauling him back to his bedroom.

You stand near the corner of his desk, going through everything of his. All family portraits hung behind glass, all his trinkets he found from scouting the beaches, all the golden rings he wears, and the expensive colognes he sets to the side. Your fingers trace each and every curve, feeling the magnitude of each touch, without the presence of water, in a way that allows you to feel each edge. You don’t even notice Sarah and Rafe’s return until someone clears their throat.

Turning around, you spot your mate beside another woman, her hand wrapped around his wrist. Your brows furrow together, full, pouty lips pull to a subtle frown, unsure of what to make of it. Back in Atlantis, no partners would be so shameless to be seen with another mermaid. For Rafe to do so, strikes your chest.

Rafe must’ve picked it up. Somehow, he understood the look behind your eyes, the way you scrutinize his sister’s touch. “This is Sarah, my sister.”

All concern drops, and you grin. “Hi, Sarah!”

“Hi,” She drawls sardonically. “My gullible brother is telling me you’re a mermaid,"

Rafe wants to nudge Sarah in the ribcage. But, you didn’t seem to acknowledge the insult, nodding your head diligently, as if you were answering an average question. “Yes.”

Sarah squints her eyes at you. “A mermaid with no tail,” she boasts suspiciously, but you don’t see it as that.

“Yes,” you answer again, your tone indicating causality as if this concept isn’t hard to grasp.

“So a human,” Sarah concludes, drawing back to the board, just as Rafe done before.

“No,” you make a sound of frustration; you went through a similar conversation with Rafe before, and you feel something tense bubbling in your throat. You attempt to walk towards them, to explain further, but you lost your footing. However, Rafe easily appears by your side and catches you.

“Alright, Bambi, slow down,” he murmurs into your freshly-dried hair; soft, voluminous, laced with the sweet smell of the sea. You peer up at him, doe-shaped eyes with complete and total vulnerability, as if you trust him.

“She certainly got the walk down,” Sarah comments and Rafe lifts his gaze to glare at his sister. You shiver under his embrace, and for some reason, Rafe recognizes it’s because of Sarah.

She’s making you uncomfortable and targeted like you can’t seem to grasp that. Rafe can’t explain how he knows this—how he feels it—but he does. You’re frustrated, and a little hurt, and it’s vibrating off of your body like a shaken leaf.

“Stop interrogating her,” Rafe snaps, defensive of you.

“You asked for my opinion,”

“An opinion, not to be a bitch,” he declares, his other arm wraps protectively over your waist, drawing you closer to him. You revel in the feeling of his warmth, nuzzling against his chest to find comfort.

Sarah rolls her eyes; somehow, she recognizes that you got her brother under a spell. “So what happens now?”

Rafe doesn’t know. He’s trying to figure out the pieces and combine mythology with reality, but nothing makes sense. If he takes your words at face value, that means there’s a reason for your presence, rather than a simple encounter. He plans to take a trip to Ward’s office, to look through his treasured collection of sailor’s stories, and figure out a solution from there.

But there’s also another problem: you.

You and your nakedness.

“Can you do me a favor and take her shopping?” Rafe asks.

“Shopping?” Sarah repeats. “For clothes?”

“No, for a ring,” Rafe replies sardonically. “Yes, for fuckin’ clothes. She didn’t have anything, she barely fits into me, and I doubt you’re the type to share.”

Sarah hums, confirming the last comment.

When Rafe turns back to you, in his arms, his expression softens, his voice layered with a sweetness no one ever had the privilege of hearing before. “We’re going to get you some clothes.”

“Clothes?” You repeat, brows wrinkling together at the foreign concept. “Human clothes?” You pick at Rafe’s shirt, running your fingers across the soft fabric.

He nods. “Clothes.”

You beam at this new exploration; this new human concept that you’ve never had before. You try to stand on your own feet, nearly falling, before finding ground. Sarah approaches you and gently grabs your hand, pulling you towards the door—slowly, cautiously to not lose your footing—but, a few steps in, you resist.

Rafe isn’t following you. He’s abandoning you to a strange woman, a strange companion you don’t completely trust in.

You turn back to Rafe, expression full of panic.

“You’re not coming?” You ask, your voice sultry and soft, as if you can’t seem to distinguish between captivation and causality.

Rafe shakes his head, but his heart aches at the look on your face. “I have work to do.”

You frown. You don’t know if you want to go now either, especially without your mate. But his sister tugs on your arm, and despite her tight grip, you resist.

“Sarah’s my sister,” Rafe explains again, hoping to calm the fear in your eyes. “She’ll keep you safe.”

You hesitate, turning back to Sarah, expecting to find the sardonic, humorless look on her face. But all hostility originally boasted has depleted, and she glosses over with a tender look, almost keeping to the promise of what her brother preaches.

Reluctantly, you nod, and follow Sarah out of Rafe’s bedroom, out of the sanction, and away into the open world.

A few hours later, Rafe’s at the kitchen island, going through old scripts. He’s searching through old maps, and old journal entries, to find any clues about your sudden presence at Kildare. His focus tunes everything out—until the noise of you tripping upon return causes him to lift his gaze.

What he sees takes his breath away.

You’re in the most gorgeous, detailed dress; layered with this blue iridescent color that makes you look like a fantasy. It accentuates every curve on your body, strategically revealing tantalizing skin, and boosts this wave of etherealness.

Rafe can’t seem to look away.

Sarah falls in line beside the counter, her arms leaning against the island, noticing the way you caught her brother in a trance.

“Your little mermaid eats fish,” Sarah declares, causing him to snap out of his state.

He turns to her. “What?”

“I mean, for a mermaid, she can eat fish; for some reason, I assumed they only ate kelp,” she chuckles to herself. Rafe realizes that Sarah took you out to lunch, at some restaurant downtown. “If it helps, she’s also very knowledgeable about the sea. Kept going on tangents about different species, how they interact in the ocean, and even challenged a couple of jewelry stores about their pearls. I was almost convinced she’s a real mermaid.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything, his sister’s voice slowly slipping into the background when his gaze returns back to you.

You’re twirling in your dress, catching your footing, and losing it in the same breath, while laughing at the way the fabric spins around you. A melodic, siren-song laugh that sounds enchanting.

“What?” Sarah asks, noting his brother’s lack of response. She follows his line of vision. “You don’t like the dress?”

Rafe swallows, feeling something thick in his throat, before rubbing his jaw. He forces himself to snap out of it—again—before turning back to his sister. The lure to return back to you is hard to resist. “You couldn’t have found something less… form-fitting?”

Sarah scoffs. She can’t believe Rafe’s complaining. “You should be glad I got her into something at all,” she declares. “For a mermaid who’s so fascinated with human customs, she truly does not respect any of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Rafe returns back to you, and the way you find your space in his living room, while Sarah lowers herself to her brother’s level, meeting the shell of his ear, as if she’s trading a secret.

“She’s not wearing any panties.”

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[jaylalolz]

hi! can i request more jealous/possessive nicholas? perhaps with some making up?🥹

ty!!!

❛ 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

SUMMARY, Nicholas and his girlfriend get into a heated argument after he ignores her all night while out with friends, leading her to turn off her location and go out.

A/N, thanks for requesting!! hope u like it

WARNINGS, none

Nicholas knew he had messed up the second he walked through the door. His phone had been blowing up with unread messages, but he had ignored them—too caught up in the chaos of the night with his friends. She was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, glaring at him like she had been waiting for this confrontation all night.

“You couldn’t send one text?” she snapped as soon as he stepped inside, her voice sharp. “Not one?”

Nicholas sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I told you I was going out with the guys. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is you disappeared! You didn’t answer my calls, didn’t respond to any of my texts. Do you know how that looks? Like you couldn’t care less.” Her eyes flashed with anger, and Nicholas could feel his own frustration rising.

“I was just out having a good time. Why are you blowing this up into something bigger than it is?”

“Because you don’t get it!” She stood up, her voice getting louder. “You always do this. You vanish with your friends and act like I don’t exist for the whole night. It’s like I’m not even on your radar when you’re with them.”

Nicholas clenched his fists, feeling cornered. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I just… didn’t think it was that big of a deal to be off my phone for a few hours.”

“A few hours? Nicholas, it was the entire night! I was worried about you!”

She turned away, grabbing her bag and phone from the counter. Nicholas could see her fingers tapping at her screen, and his stomach twisted when he realized what she was doing.

“Seriously?” he asked, watching as she turned off her location. “You’re pulling this again?”

“If you can’t bother to text me back, then you don’t get to know where I am,” she said coolly, her eyes daring him to say something. Without another word, she stormed out of the apartment, leaving him standing there, frustrated and angry.

Hours passed, and Nicholas was left stewing, replaying the argument over and over. She had every right to be pissed, but the way she just shut him out like that, like he didn’t matter… it made his blood boil. He picked up his phone to check if she’d cooled off yet, but instead, he saw it—a new Instagram story.

She was at the club. Smiling. Laughing. And there, standing next to her, was some guy.

Nicholas’s heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door. He knew where she was. He wasn’t about to sit there while some random guy made her laugh like nothing had happened.

When he got to the club, it didn’t take long to spot her. She was leaning against the bar, talking to the same guy from her story. Nicholas’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. She was doing this on purpose. She knew he’d see it, knew it would set him off.

Without a second thought, Nicholas pushed through the crowd, his eyes locked on her. He reached her in a few quick strides, his hand gripping her arm, pulling her away from the guy before either of them knew what was happening.

“Nick, what the hell?” she protested, but he didn’t stop. He dragged her through the crowd, ignoring her complaints until they were outside in the humid night air. He didn’t let go until they reached his car, opening the passenger door with more force than necessary.

“Get in,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

She hesitated, eyes flashing with defiance, but she got into the car, slamming the door behind her. Nicholas got in on the driver’s side, gripping the steering wheel to calm the storm inside him before turning to face her.

“You think that was funny?” he growled, his voice barely controlled. “Turning off your location and posting that story, letting me see you with him?”

She glared at him, her arms crossed. “Maybe now you know how it feels when you disappear on me for a whole night.”

“That’s what this is about? Payback?” His voice rose, his anger spilling over. “I was out with my friends, but you—what? You run off to the club, posting stories, talking to random guys just to piss me off?”

“I wasn’t trying to piss you off, Nicholas,” she shot back, her voice sharp. “But maybe I wanted you to notice. Maybe I wanted you to feel what I felt when you ignored me all night.”

“Well, congratulations. You got my attention,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes dark with frustration. “I don’t like seeing you with other guys.”

“Maybe if you actually paid attention to me, I wouldn’t have to find someone else to talk to.”

Nicholas’s temper flared, and without thinking, he reached out, pulling her closer, his grip firm but not rough. “You don’t need anyone else,” he said, his voice low and possessive. “I don’t want you talking to anyone but me.”

Her breath hitched, their faces inches apart now, the tension between them thick and charged. She tried to stay angry, but there was something about the way he was looking at her, the raw intensity in his eyes, that made her pulse quicken.

“You don’t get to ignore me and then act like you own me,” she said, her voice faltering slightly, though the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

“I do own you,” Nicholas growled, his hand still gripping her waist. “You’re mine.”

For a moment, the air between them was heavy with everything they hadn’t said. The anger, the frustration, the possessiveness—it all tangled together in the space between their heated breaths.

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, Nicholas’s lips crashed against hers, silencing whatever protest was about to leave her mouth. She resisted for half a second, but then she gave in, kissing him back with the same intensity, the same fire.

The kiss was rough, desperate, fueled by all the emotions they had been keeping bottled up. When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads resting against each other, they were both breathing hard, the anger between them replaced by something rawer, something deeper.

“I hate it when you shut me out,” Nicholas murmured, his voice softer now, though still laced with possessiveness. “I hate it when you go to someone else.”

“I only do it because I’m scared you don’t care,” she whispered, her fingers brushing his jaw, softer than before.

“I care,” he said firmly. “More than you know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension easing as they held each other. Eventually, she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t want anyone else but you,” she admitted softly.

Nicholas pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head. “Good. Because you’re mine.”

They stayed like that for a while, their earlier argument forgotten, replaced by the certainty that, no matter how much they fought, they always found their way back to each other.