deeoccasionallyspeaks

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

(one of those) crazy girls

baby, are we over now?

synopsis: you thought you were retired from being the kind of obsessive girlfriend who was convinced her boyfriend was cheating on her. until you started dating a man the rest of the world seemed to want. but when you try to break things off before they can go bad, Nanami reminds you that you aren't the only possessive partner in this relationship.

pairing: bf!Nanami x insecure!Reader

content: mdni, smut and angst, fem reader, mentions previous bad breakups and being cheated on, established (toxic) relationship, self-sabotaging, heavy jealousy, possessiveness, picking fights, discussions of breaking up, unprotected piv sex, makeup sex, light spanking, breath play, light choking, emotional hurt/comfort, creampie

art is by @/enjin13 + divider by @/crynlynnluv

"Do you wanna fuck her?"

Nanami didn't even flinch. Just brought his glass up to his lips and took a long, slow sip.

"Do you want to fuck our waitress?" You reiterated, a calm challenge, tilting your head to the side with clinical precision, to an angle that said you already knew the answer to the question you were asking.

"No," he stoically answered, not a single strand of blond hair out of place, mouth not even twitching or tugging down when he set his glass back down.

"She wants to fuck you," you pointed out, nodding back to where she was shamelessly staring at your boyfriend and giggling with her coworkers behind the bar.

You knew how it'd go. She'd slide him the receipt (with her number scrawled under the bottom) and he'd tell you he'd toss it (but you'd find it in his wallet instead of the trash can). Then you'd call him out and he'd call you crazy just for you to find out a few months from now he'd given her a different kind of tip.

It wouldn't be your first time getting cheated on. And still, you'd never felt nearly as insecure as you did after you started dating Nanami.

You'd met him at a local bakery. He was in line in front of you - and turned around to offer to buy your sandwich too. Blunt. Direct. Asking for your number to set up a date afterwards. Truthfully, it hadn't been that long since you'd been dumped by the last guy that brought another woman into his bed, but Nanami was new. Attractive enough you figured he'd help you get over your exes if you were busy being underneath him. You made a cheesy joke, pointing to the baguette in his hand and winking when you noted the faint color dusting his cheek. You were still pretending to be cool then.

But one date turned into two and then four, and suddenly he was getting flowers delivered to your apartment and calling you his girlfriend even after your mask slipped and you started accusing him of love bombing you - for doing the bare minimum.

He was the kind of guy people stopped and stared at, clean-cut and nicely-dressed, the one your friends warned you to lock down soon and strangers said called marriage material. But he was still a man.

And men traded girls like you in all the time.

Why the hell was he interested in you anyway?

The sex was good, sure, but you weren't special. You'd seen the glances you got whenever you were out together. The pitying ones that screamed he could do better and the ones that felt sorry for you like they just knew you were something temporary.

"And?" Nanami exhaled, and you felt a familiar sting of panic. One that pricked your heart and reminded you how much it hurt to hold onto him when you knew it'd end.

"I think we should break up."

Five months wasn't very long. And anyway, it wasn't like you exchanged anything serious or sappy. It was cleaner this way. Cutting it off before he could cheat, while all your bills were still separate and you were both living on your own. Clearing your conscious of him. He could go fuck the waitress in the parking lot for all you cared.

It definitely wouldn't hurt at all. And you certainly wouldn't go back to curl up in your bed and cry.

(You would.)

Nanami dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, blinking long and slow before slowly placing it down and folding his hands across the table.

"No," he repeated.

Your lips had already parted, ready to say you were glad he could be amicable about it before you paused and processed what he actually said. "I'm sorry, no?"

"I don't think we should break up," he casually said, flagging the waitress over with a veiny hand up in the air. All the tendons and muscles twitching as he effortlessly caught her attention. His jaw was locked, holding his tongue until she scampered over. "I need the check."

"Is it separate?" She asked, all faux innocence and long lashes.

You started to say yes, figuring fifteen bucks for lunch would be worth not fighting with him. You could call a cab or a friend to give you a ride back home. But he glared - shot a cold enough look that she phsycially recoiled.

"Together," he curtly corrected her. She took out the check from her book, sliding it too close, pretty nails clicking against the table as she recovered her composure.

"What a good friend you are," she purred, and Nanami scowled.

"Boyfriend," he clarified, and you were tempted to say not anymore. To let her know he could be all hers.

She frowned. Turning on her heels and walking away as he took his wallet out of his pockets to take out enough cash to cover the bill and toss it on top.

You wondered what kind of tip he left.

"I'm just going to call someone to get me," you muttered, hooking your purse over your shoulder and starting to stand.

You didn't make it four steps before he was following, his hand on the small of your back following you towards the double doors. The pressure of his palm was supposed to be reassuring, but you wanted to slip away. Shrug off his affection and shove it towards someone who wouldn't be bothered by every smile he received.

"I don't want to fuck the waitress," he murmured under his breath once you were past the threshold and out on the sidewalk.

"So who do you want to fuck?" You snapped at him. You couldn't help it. A list of names had already popped up in your head. The sales associate whose hands lingered on his shoulder? The girl at his gym who asked if he'd be her personal trainer? His coworker who always ended her messages to him with Xs and Os?

"You," he huffed.

It wasn't his fault he was so fucking attractive.

But it wasn't yours that you were uncomfortable fighting a million other women (and sometimes men) for an ounce of his affection.

"Sure," you dryly said.

You kept your head forward, walking just ahead of him and starting to pull your phone out of your purse before you bumped into someone and nearly dropped both.

Nanami caught them, the weight of his hand disappearing on your back just for a new set of fingers to grab your forearm and steady you.

"Sorry about that," a warm voice apologized, and you recognized it. You'd seen enough videos that Nanami had been tagged in to know who it was, glancing up at one of his coworkers. Gojo. You half-wished you met him first. He was the kind of pretty boy that'd buy you breakfast the morning after and block your number two days later. None of the messy emotional entanglement Nanami came with. "You must be Nanamin's girlfriend."

"Actually, we just-"

"She is," Nanami interrupted, sliding your purse up on his elbow over his rolled-up sleeves and putting his arm around your waist.

You grinded your molars, throwing an annoyed look over at the blond man by your side, the spot he occupied that you shouldn't have let him.

That he, for some fucking reason, wouldn't leave.

"I heard a lot about you, sweetheart," Gojo purred, and your pulse spiked.

"Bad things?"

He laughed, thinking you were joking, oblivious to just how serious you were. You frowned at him, eyes narrowed as you tried to assess if that was a yes or a no.

"He didn't mention how hot you were," he chuckled, whistling and giving you a long look over.

"Shut up, Gojo," Nanami gritted his teeth. "My girlfriend and I were just leaving."

"What? It's not like I asked for her number," Gojo defensively groaned, but then he winked at you not at all discreetly and Nanami was pulling you away before you could ask for his.

"So I'm not hot?" You grumbled under your breath.

"I never said that. I just don't discuss my private life with him," Nanami brusquely replied, clearly bristling. From you breaking up with him? Or from someone else showing the slightest interest in you?

You laughed. It slipped out. A guy you dated a couple years ago had said almost the same thing. That he didn't tell his friends about you because he didn't want your relationship to be public.

That secrets made everything more special.

You were sick of it. Sick of feeling that you had no right to stand next to him or that he'd stuck himself to a sinking ship.

"You think he's still back there? Maybe I could ask him for a ride," you dryly teased him, about to glance over your shoulder to check before he made a disgusted sound.

"Don't make me hit him."

He made it to his car, opening up the passenger side door like he was waiting for you to get in.

"Nanami," you started, but he held up his other hand to stop you from saying his last name like that.

"I'm not letting you break up with me just because a waitress can't respect boundaries," he spoke firmly, enunciating each word clearly like it would change anything.

"It's not just that," you muttered, glancing down the busy street. People were still glancing at him. They always did.

"Let's talk about it at home," he requested, his voice softening, just enough to make you melt, to second-guess your resolve when he reached out and placed a warm hand over your own.

"Yours or mine?" You begrudgingly asked, hating yourself for leaning in when he bent down to press a kiss on your forehead.

Loathing the fact that fifteen minutes later, you were awkwardly standing a foot away from him on the elevator ride up to his apartment. Five minutes after that, he was hanging up your purse for you, setting your heels neatly on his shoe rack and leaving a casual peck on your shoulder as he stood back up.

"I'm not leaving you," he murmured, brushing his fingers over the spot his lips had just been. "So stop trying to leave me."

"You say that but-"

"I'm not like the boys you've been with before," he retorted. You were tempted to scoff. Any asshole could say that. It didn't make it true.

He couldn't predict the future any more than you could. How could he say he wouldn't cheat?

You'd confided in him once. Wished you hadn't the next morning. But the moment had been comfy you guessed, sleepy and cozy in his sheets, your head resting on his warm chest and your bare bodies connected, still damp with slick and sweat as you came back down.

Traced your fingers over his muscles and murmured a thank you that hung in the air. He asked. He always did - pressed the questions you avoided. You were just tired enough to tell him about the disaster you called a love life. All the boys who broke your heart and buried themselves in other women the second you let your shields down.

That was why you couldn't stay. He'd seen too much of you. If he was the one you caught with his cock out, you didn't think there would be enough super glue to piece your shattered heart back together.

You didn't say anything, staring at the ground like it'd speak for you.

Nanami tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. They were warm. Heavy-lidded and hazel, seeing through you without you having to state the obvious.

You were scared.

"Suppose you're gonna make me show you," he murmured.

His bedroom was only a handful of steps away after all.

But he made it feel like a mile, dragging out every kiss he delivered to your lips. He still tasted like tea. Comforting and clean, washing away all the words you said with his tongue past your teeth.

Murmuring mine between breaths on the outside of your mouth, as if kissing you was the only thing that mattered.

His hands worked fast, groping and squeezing and tracing your outline as if you were worthy of his worship. Twisting you around so he could slip off your dress, discarding your bra before you could suck in a breath at the chill of his air conditioning. His sturdy fingers sank into your soft tits, squeezing as his mouth latched onto your throat, teeth nipping at your skin so hard you wondered if he'd leave little indents there. Cock pressed against your back, throbbing and ready to watch you unravel.

He pushed your face down against the cool blankets. A hand on the back of your neck. Another on your ass, rubbing it softly before bringing down a rough smack!

"Think you're not mine? That this isn't all I need?" He haughtily asked, letting out a sharp exhale before his hand came back down for another spank.

You gasped, already panting as he flipped you around to the front. Missionary or a mating press, you supposed, whatever would satisfy the intimacy he was searching for in you.

Maybe if he met you a few years ago - maybe if you weren't the kind of pessimist who pouted at every compliment and convinced yourself it was all pretend.

He only slowed down to peel off your panties, spreading your thighs apart just to see how damp you were for him.

"Pretty girl," he muttered. "All this for me."

Nanami hummed, approving your small nod of agreement. He didn't hurry to take off his own clothes, enjoying you splayed out and staring while he stripped. Carefully laying out his clothes on the armchair by his bookshelf, dropping his belt with a clink on top before he was on top again.

His fingers wrapped around your throat while his other hand guided his cock against your entrance.

His cock drove in fast and deep, the lewd squelch of him bottoming out in one harsh thrust, claiming you as his in case your body had forgotten it too. You could feel every ridge, no condom to separate you from him, to offer any kind of protection or barrier between you. Just raw need.

Nanami's grip on your throat got tighter, squeezing just enough to make your head fuzzy, the heat in your stomach turn from a flickering flame into a fire.

Hungry kisses and bruising hickies, muscles trembling as your thighs wrapped around his sturdy waist. Nails scratching down his shoulder blades, digging into his skin to leave scratches. But you were still thinking of that stupid waitress with her perfect manicure, imagining what kind of marks she would've left down his back.

"No," he scoffed into your mouth, picking up on some little tell, maybe your nose scrunching or some frown line, interrupting your spiraling. "Stop thinking."

"H-How do you know-"

"I know you," he grunted, grinding against that soft little spongy spot in the back that he made you squirm and shift under his weight. "And I love you anyway."

No. He didn't. There was no-

His hips slammed back down into you hard enough to cut off your protest.

Was this love?

You used to think you knew what the word meant. But you were always wrong.

"Look at me," he murmured, fingers squeezing as you dragged your eyes from the firm clench of his jaw up to his intense stare. It burned with promises you were scared he'd break and even more terrified he'd keep.

"Say you don't mean it," you swallowed hard, lashes fluttering as his free thumb slipped between your bodies to roll over your clit.

He was drawing letters there. Ones you felt in your heart and on your skin.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

"You know I do."

The worst part was you did.

He left a kiss on the corner of your lips, like you could feel anything except for the pressure building in your core and his cock between your thighs.

Nanami fucked you faster. Not sloppy, never sloppy. But his typical restraint had disappeared, drowning in you the way you were drowning in him. Clenching around the thick ridges and throbbing veins of his cock with each swipe of his finger over your swollen bud, practically feeling him in your guts with each thrust.

"Come on, you can let go," he murmured, soft when his hips were so fucking hard against your skin. Quiet where the filthy sounds of his cock making a mess in your cunt were loud.

His thumb rubbed back over your clit, and you were coming undone, moaning his name while he reassured you through it. You clung to his shoulders, clinging to him even though you'd sworn to yourself you wouldn't this time.

But the truth was you wanted him just as bad as everyone else.

He finished inside you with a low grunt, the kind that reverberated through your body and burned its way into your brain. Cum leaking it's way down even with his cock plugging you up.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he groaned, half-collapsing on top of you with a tired sigh.

"You like it," you dreamily exhaled back, another accusation instead of an apology.

He chuckled, the tension finally dropping from his shoulders.

Chest squishing your cheek while you tried to wiggle away, but his hands moved to catch your wrists, holding them firm above your head. Like he was just a really heavy weighted blanket soothing your stress away.

"Ken," You whined, breathless as he grunted, cock still twitching inside you.

"Still want to break up with me, baby?" Baby used to sound condescending when it came from him. But it was kind of comforting now, as if it really did carry his adoration in two simple syllables.

You hesitated, pouting as you shelved the idea.

"No," you begrudgingly admitted.

He exhaled, relieved or reassured. He released you, shifting so you were looking up in his eyes. And maybe there was just the slightest bit of love there you could detect.

"Promise you don't want to fuck Gojo either?"

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

Stoner!Choso when you're in a argument with him.

You were storming ahead on the path, arms folded tight, the kind of walk that meant don’t follow me—which Choso, of course, was doing anyway.

The sun was starting to dip below the trees, casting long shadows over the grass, but you barely noticed it. Your blood was too hot. Your heart too loud.

He was just behind you, walking slow like always, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, eyes half-lidded like he had all the time in the world.

You spun on your heel. "Say something, Choso. Anything. You just gonna stay quiet the whole time?"

He raised his brows a little, not stopping. "I mean... you kinda got it covered, baby."

That didn’t help. Your teeth clenched. "I’m serious. You act like you don’t care about any of this. Like I’m just losing my mind alone while you’re floating through space or whatever."

He scratched the back of his neck, still calm. Still maddeningly calm. “Didn’t say I don’t care. Just don’t think yellin’s gonna help, yeah?”

Your arms dropped to your sides, fists curled. "It’s not about yelling. It’s about you acting like it’s not a big deal when it is. You’re always so relaxed. Like nothing ever touches you."

He looked at you for a long second, then tilted his head toward the bench nearby. “Come sit,” he said, already walking over.

You hesitated. The part of you still riding adrenaline wanted to keep pacing, keep fighting, keep burning. But another part—tired, aching, aching for him—followed.

Choso sat you down with a light touch on your elbow. Then, without a word, he crouched in front of you, arms resting on your knees, eyes locking with yours. He looked so good in this light—hair a little messy, skin warm and flushed, that lazy-lidded look he always had, like he was high on nothing but air.

"You mad at me, baby?" he asked, voice low and soft like velvet.

Your lips pressed into a line, but your chest cracked a little. "I’m mad because I feel like I care too much. Like I’m drowning and you’re just watching."

He nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "I hear you. I do."

You looked away, jaw clenched.

"Hey," he said, a little quieter, reaching up to brush his knuckles against your cheek. "Look at me."

You did. "I don’t always know what to say when you get like this. Not ‘cause I don’t care, but ‘cause I’m scared I’ll say the wrong shit. And I’d rather sit in it with you than make it worse."

Your throat tightened. "You don’t have to say everything perfect. I just... I need to know you’re in this with me."

Choso smiled, slow and lopsided. "I’m in it, baby. Been in it. 'm not goin’ anywhere."

He let his hands slide up, resting them gently on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles. "You feel things big. That’s one of the first things I liked about you. All that fire." His voice dropped a little lower. "Even when it’s aimed at me."

You let out a quiet, bitter laugh, head tipping forward. He leaned into you, resting his forehead against your stomach for a moment.

"I’m not tryna win the fight," he murmured. "I’m tryna keep us okay."

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. Just warm. His hands stayed on you, anchoring you to the moment, to him.

You slid your fingers into his hair, soft and thick between your hands, brushing it back from his face. "I hate when you make me cry like this."

"I hate seein’ you cry like this," he said. "Even if you do look real pretty when you're mad." You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. And when he looked up at you again, eyes soft and a little amused, your heart folded.

"I love you," you said, barely audible.

His expression didn’t change much. Just a slow, knowing smirk, like he already knew. "Yeah?" he whispered. "I love you too."

He leaned up and kissed your jaw, slow and warm. Not rushed. Not fixing anything. Just there. And for once, it was enough.

notes, isn't he just sooo dreamy...

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

thinking about fucking your lieutenant but now he won't leave you alone. (18+)

you thought he'd want to keep it a secret. ghost is the most quiet, secretive, mysterious man you know. he won't even eat in the same room as you to avoid showing you any part of his face.

you don't really know why it happened. you suppose, at the end of the day, ghost is just the kind of man you always gravitate towards—off-putting, angry, sarcastically nasty with the thickest thighs and an eager tongue. he's big all-over, and that might just be your weakness. big hands, pudgy stomach, long legs, perfect cock—the kind that stretches your insides and makes your tummy feel full.

ghost is mean, though. he doesn't play favorites. you've seen others try to get on his good side, try to kiss his ass, but he has none of it. he doesn't give anyone special treatment, and you don't expect it from him now. you don't expect him to even acknowledge you. you let him come inside of you, but that doesn't mean he won't make you run laps or drop and give him an agonizing amount of push-ups.

when you leave his room, you keep your mouth shut. you expect nothing but his back.

color you surprised when a whole group of people stop talking while you're sitting with them. your head in your hands, coffee cooling in front of you, and suddenly the lively table is clearing their throats and looking anywhere but up. when you turn your head, ghost is standing there, staring at you like a hungry animal.

he makes you stay behind after drills. corners you into closets, shoves you behind walls. you're so swept up in the butterflies as he hoists you up against the wall that you don't remember which round it is that day—can't get enough o'me, can ya?

but you don't expect the display. you're running through your demolitions training, soap at your side, and when you manage to untangle the wires and solder a few pieces together successfully, you were not expecting the heat at your back coming to praise you. the grip on your neck, the pull on you until your head snaps back, and then the hard kiss through the mask.

the most embarrassing part is soap who just grins like he expected it. like he knows a secret about you that you didn't even know yourself. when ghost pulls back, dark eyes lidded and heavy, you nearly fall through the floor when he kisses his teeth under the mask and mumbles the most diabolical, "tha's a good girl, int'she, johnny?"

ghost doesn't want to keep it quiet. ghost doesn't want to keep you a secret. in fact, ghost grabs your ass right in front of his captain, thick gloved hand in the back pocket of your cargoes that squeezes so hard, you squeak audibly in the mess hall line.

it makes other soldiers angry—so she gets special treatment cause she opened her fucking legs? it makes others jealous—why is she the only one that gets to have a piece? it makes a small number morbidly curious—what does she have that's good enough to come back for?

it doesn't matter what they say. it doesn't matter what they think. it doesn't matter if they hate you or want to be you or want to kill you. lieutenant simon "ghost" riley has all but claimed you, and that means no one puts a hand on you unless they want to lose it.

"why me?"

it's a simple question, but why is it so difficult?

you have such sad eyes. all wet, lips trembling. you're frustrated. did ghost know the implications of being less than discreet? did he know how people would treat you when they knew you let your lieutenant into your bed and kept him there? did he realize that parading you around like this would only make things worse?

"no one looks at me," ghost says. he says it with his face against the line of your jaw. he says it with his cock still inside of you, cum leaking down your thighs as he pulls out just to fuck himself back in to keep it there.

but you do, is what he doesn't say, and you know it, and it makes the butterflies turn into an ache, one that slips around your heart and tugs it low.

it makes you feel new again. it feels good.

so when a private with too much ego spits at your feet, you don't flinch—"i don't take orders from ghost's bitch."

he brushes a thumb across your cheek, touching where the bruising is starting to bloom. skeleton glove tracing a line down your face, over the split in your lip, over the bleeding cut across your brow.

"you give it back?" ghost asks. he leans down, crowding your space, forehead nearly against yours. you nod, lifting your hand, putting a hand on his wrist as he rubs his thumb across your bottom lip. "he broken?"

"fought a little dirty," you mumble, blinking up at him. you remember the look on the guy's face when the metal folding chair came flying towards his face. "but he had a mouth on him."

"'n 'ow is he now?"

"eating through a straw, sir."

ghost nearly purrs. it must take an enormous amount of self-discipline for him not to force you to bend over—he's done it for less, in more public places, but he's looking at you now, and you wonder if he loves you.

you wonder if he's capable of that.

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

taglist: @ilovesoapandnotthebar @ricabobbie @venus111sworld @nanamisboobies @delusionsofgrandeur13 @x3rox @genericpenname @lovemymustache @sweetybuzz25 @asiavvv @jazz-cat-on-a-broom @violetisheresworld @depornable @sugarandserum @emilyyyyyys-stuff @julesneedshelp @rene-with-an-e @caramelsundaysstuff @adeptua @beautifuleaglealpaca@chronicallyicky @s-void @trulovekay @mary-magdaline @moongir99 @goldiesoaked @backtotheintro @ribbitribbitquack @matumogs @xjustxlookingx @prettgirlwhoreadsatnite @angielove07 @olives10 @zzzz20d @greylykaylee @suikasweetheart @deliciouslydisturbed365 @british-ppl-scare-me @bless-my-demons @tofunoodlesoup @rafaelcallinybbay @blahox @dethspllz @casual-darkness @lem-hhn @astridminsstuffie21 @xdcgfvh @viviansvault3 @mygsbin @booboobear-12 @pink-hufflepuff @just-lilita @succulambb

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

“Leave a light on f’me, yeah?”

It was how he said “I love you and I’ll be back home” in his own way. You were never allowed to know the specifics, where he went, how long he’d be gone. But you could always count on a long kiss at the front door and those words whispered against your forehead in a final embrace.

You continued on in life, waking up to cold sheets, going to work, drinks with friends, and the never ending upkeep of the house. The silent house that technically you shared, but rarely cohabitated. There were no photos of a smiling couple on the wall, no extra set of shoes by the door and no coat waiting beside yours for the next adventure.

But there was always the light. A table lamp, picked up at a thrift shop one day to fill an empty space in the living room. It had seen better days before you hefted it home, a relic of another time of solid metal and outdated fabric. It filled the space in your living room and its dim light became a hopeful beacon home.

As you’d wander off too bed, whether it be an early night where you just couldn’t take the silence anymore or stumbling in after one too many with the girls, you made sure to turn the lamp on. A gentle tug of the cord, casting shadows in the living room and some rays through the closed blinds.

You’d send a small prayer every night that you’d wake up and the light would be off, signaling Simon had come home. Likely asleep on the couch because he always woke you up when he lumbered in, and Simon hated waking you.

The longest you’d gone was 3 months, 90 nights of turning it on and turning in. Only to wake up to that damn light creeping under your bedroom door, getting clicked off with a sigh. But there has always been an end to the storm, that joyful morning, like a kid on Christmas seeing that Santa came. You’d roll over, see no light from the other room, and launch out of bed, attacking the poor sleeping soldier with kisses and tears.

But this had been 4 months. And then 5 months. At the 6th month mark, you started turning on more lights. Each light switch, cord pull or button to push became a little prayer. By the 8th month, your front yard looked like the crack of dawn. Every single light was on. All night. Hoping to draw him home, to be that beacon he always requested. Your poor neighbors probably thought you were crazy, and by then, you felt like you were too.

Your heart couldn’t let you stop, no matter how ridiculous you felt, haunting the halls like a ghost at dusk. Turning on every light methodically, working your way through the house and glancing back to the driveway one last time before bed. Then continuing the routine in reverse in the morning, switching them all off as tears fell.

Until one night, you woke up to a warm body and a rough whisper.

“What the bloody hell is our light bill now?”

.-.-.

Blame it on the fact that I’m from the south and country music is part of my bloodstream. Inspired by: every light in the house by Trace Atkins

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

Reader with daddy issues but in the not fun way, vs price the most emotionally stunted man ever.... :[

You are fine talking with the sergeants, joking and biting back when they tease. Hell, you even talk well with ghost, if not a bit subdued. But price? For some reason he doesnt understand you downright avoid him.

Youre...new. not technically SAS or even 141, but some sort of prodigy in some field that laswell thought relevant enough to bring you on. Ur essential to the mission, which only pisses price off more that you seem hellbent on making any communications impossible.

The last time price tried to talk to you, he had pulled you aside to check some vague points on a file you submitted. It should have been simple! Instead, you answered in clipped responses that proves more useless than the file itself. Price didnt even finished the conversation, snapping the folder closed with a "find me when you feel like being useful." And shouldering past.

Price does not see the way you scrub at ur eyes afterwards, but ghost does.

It goes on like this for weeks, price trying to get shit done only for you to clam up and look like a fool. Its getting on his nerves. The team seemed to pick up on it, gaz or soap offering to talk to you before price got to it. The captain pitied them, because when they returned whatever information was needed has actually been secured. Must've been painful getting you to talk.

Not everything can be avoided, though. As the mission draws closer and price is sorting out the details, he once again needs to find you. The general has been up his ass, and hes trying desperately to organize men with less force than desired. Needless to say, hes not in a good mood.

You seem to sense this instantly when your eyes lock across the lounge, standing up but refusing to step in prices direction. You give mumbled answers and slight nods, not even bothering to meet his eyes. Price, he, well- he snaps, just a bit. Slams the file onto the counter and steps closer, doesnt even register the multiple hurried steps you take back.

"Bloody fuckin' hell kid! Is there anything you can do without me twisting your arm?! Im surprised you've even made it this far, with the way more work for me seems to follow in your wake!"

Hes got more to say, but suddenly a large hand is yanking price by the bicep and out of the room. Ghost pushes price roughly against the wall outside the lounge. He seems pissed, in a way price has never had aimed at him. "You wanna pull yourself together, john?"

John. Not captain. Not price.

"The kids bloody well useless! I swear I dont kno-" price begins, nerves frayed and pissed off.

"The kids scared of you!" Simon cuts in. He yanks his mask off to properly frown at price, eyes narrowed. "The kids scared, and youre fuckin' yellin' is making it worse."

"Why the hell would the kid me scared of me?"

"That..." ghost sighs, steps back. Without the mask, price can see every twitch and furrow in simond face, pained. "...isnt my story to tell. Just- lay off for a bit, yeah? I'll do the talking, get whatever you need. We need this mission to succeed."

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

satoru, who was explicitly told not to touch you until the officiant said he could kiss the bride.

but he’s already tearing up the second he sees you, heart in his throat, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself still by force.

by the time you reach him, he can’t help it. his hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. then he gathers you close, like he’s been waiting forever to.

and only after his breathing evens out and your hands have stopped shaking does he let go, eyes on you, voice whispering.

“ready when you are.”

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

Just thinking about how only doing foreplay with nanami could get me to cum. Teasing touches, long kisses, grinding, humping. Honestly getting hot thinking about it.

Pls if u wrote smth small abt it id be so happy

Omg i looooooove foreplay so obviously i think Nanami does too sksksk

I think he's such a sucker for it, probably had such a dry spell before you and now he has to make up all that lost time.

It starts simple enough: a "welcome home" kiss that lingers for a moment longer than he expected, and then he's thinking about it all night, how soft your lips are, how he would taste the wine you're drinking if he dipped down for a kiss while you're making dinner. His hands trail along your waist, barely there, enough to make you shiver and scold him for teasing you. You know what he's wanting, and you're willing to give it to him, but you've gotta eat first. Maybe he gets sappy once you sit across each other and plays footsie with you, just to keep touching you while he's occupied with eating.

He does the dishes and joins you on the couch. He's right beside you, sides touching while his arm goes around you. He's not as subtle as he thinks he is. You turn to him, cup his face, and give him what he's been wanting all night.

He gets so greedy during foreplay. He can't help himself: once he has a taste, he wants everything. His arms wrap around you, pulling you ever closer, hands roaming from your face, to your shoulders and back, your waist and hips, your ass. He squeezes along the way, just to feel your flesh give beneath his fingers, the squish and softness of you.

Somehow you end up on his lap; it's easier this way. Soft kisses turn hungry, tongue and teeth, sucking his lip and nibbling it, eyes dark as you stare at each other.

"I want you," he whispers, always nervous you'll reject him if he says it out loud.

"Then take me," you reply, grinding on his lap, feeling his manhood harden with each thrust of your hips.

He gets you on your back, legs wrapped around his hips, holding him close as he humps you through your clothes, too eager to move them out of the way. It's desperate, the way he grinds against you, your slick soaking through your shorts, dirtying his trousers. He doesn't care. He needs you so badly.

The constant stimulation to your clit pushes you over the edge, making you moan and tremble through your kisses. When you still, he pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Did you cum?" he breathes. You nod and he sighs longingly. "And we haven't even taken our clothes off. Imagine how you'll be feeling once we're finally naked."

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

being too shy about your body and refusing to let your boyfriend go down on you becomes a night of him pinning you down and eating you out until you give in and except it

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

can't stop thinking about faking an orgasm with simon for shits and giggles and ending up getting ya shit rocked for hours because you were being a brat

simon’s got you pinned beneath him, his thick cock stretching you open so good, each thrust punching a whine from your lips. his grip on your hips is bruising, fingers digging in as he fucks you relentless, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

“that’s it, take it,” he growls, voice rough. “fuckin’ perfect around me, ain’t ya?”

you’re close—so fucking close—but you’re feeling bratty tonight. so when the coil in your belly tightens, you force a high-pitched moan, arching your back and clenching around him like you’re coming. “oh—oh, simon, i’m—!”

he stills instantly, eyes dark as they rake over your face. and then he smirks. “liar.”

before you can protest, his hand slides between your legs, calloused fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. you gasp, hips jerking—fuck, it’s too much, you’re oversensitive already—but he doesn’t stop.

“thought you could fool me, princess?” he murmurs, leaning down to nip at your ear. “gonna make you come for real. as many times as it takes ‘til you forget how to fake it.”

his thrusts start again, harder now, his fingers relentless on your clit. you’re sobbing within minutes, nails scraping down his back as the pleasure crests, sharp and overwhelming. “s-simon, please—!”

“there it is,” he groans, feeling you flutter around him. “that’s my girl. now—” he flips you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up. “—let’s see how many more i can get outta you.”

you’re gonna regret being such a brat. but fuck, it’s so worth it.

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

HOME EARLY

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

18+ MDNI.

Simon is overwhelmed by the urge to breed his wife.

.･:★ Umm ovulation hit, and it’s clearly apparent here. Good luck and happy reading.

Part II

You think it’s your imagination when you hear the front door creek open. It’s almost four am, and the wind is making every wall in the house shake so you dismiss it and try to go back to sleep.

But then there’s a thud from the living room. You shoot up in bed and rush to flick the lamp on, listening out for any other sounds. Cautiously you reach for the metal baseball bat beside your bed and slowly step down the hallway into the living room where you heard the noises. When you get closer, there’s a weird shuffling of clothes rubbing together, with the bat now high in your hands you peek around the corner and see hulking figure by the doorway. It doesn’t seem to move, busy looking down at something in their hands before placing it on the entry way table.

Their calm and careful movements make you sigh a breath of relief. You flick on the floor lamp around the corner, alerting your husband into looking your way as you lower the baseball bat.

“Jesus Simon, you scared me,” you mutter, propping the bat up against the wall.

Simon drops his keys down alongside his phone, “Sorry darlin’ didn’t mean to wake you,”

You eyes widen when you catch full sight of his face, there’s blood crusted all down the side that seems to connect from his cheek to his split lip. You rush over to take a closer look, “What happened?”

He moves out of your worrying grasp by tilting his head away and grabbing your outstretched hands, “Nothin’” he mutters, “Perp’ got scrappy with a knife, had to disarm him. Looks worse than it is,”

You frown trying to look closely at the wound in the dim lighting, “Let me clean it,” Simon is already shaking his head not wanting to make a big deal of it but you won’t let him brush you off, “Let me clean it, Simon. It won’t take long, who knows what was on that knife, could get infected.”

Simon looks down at your determined gaze and sighs, already defeated. Your stubbornness matched his easily on a good day, not that anyone ever believed little Simon’s wife could be capable of that. He’s learnt to just give in when it came to you wanting to take care of him.

“Whatever you want love,” he says softly, letting go of your hands.

“Wait for me in the bathroom.” you reply, stepping out of his way.

Simon does as he’s asked and walks across the lounge room, he’s just about to round the corner when he sees the bar leaning against the wall. All he can do is smirk at the sight of it before disappearing into the bedroom. He’d got you that bat out of protection, and at first you had laughed when he tried to teach you how to use it, calling him paranoid because of his work. All he knows is now he would never want to be on the answering end of one of your swings.

He flicks the switch on to your ensuite bathroom, allowing the warm light fill the small space. Your home was on the smaller side of cozy, being this close to the city meant you couldn’t afford to have a bigger space, but each day Simon was working towards saving up for a bigger place in the suburbs. A place big enough to have little ones running around, the idea is what got him up everyday for work.

He flips the lid of the toilet down and sits on it waiting for you to walk in. He looks down at his hands to see dried dirt and blood under his nails, as well as his wedding ring which glints softly under the lighting. He should have showered at work but it was just one of those nights where he couldn’t wait to get back to you. He was having a lot more of those nights lately, the thrill of chasing criminals just wasn’t his biggest priority anymore.

When you walk in you see Simon hunched over the toilet waiting for you, he watches as you turn the bathroom tap on to wash your hands, “Should take your uniform off.” you suggest.

He hums and begins to unbutton it without question, by the time you fish out the first aid kit from under the bathroom sink he’s already hung it over the shower door leaving him in his white undershirt.

You nod your head in the direction of his top, “Lose the top too,”

He raises an eyebrow at your little smirk but assents, “Yes ma’am.”

You let out a small appreciative hum as he slips it off, carelessly letting it hang from the bathroom counter. With an antiseptic wipe in hand, you step in between his outstretched legs and reach for his chin. Simon tilts his head pliantly in your hold and lets you gently wipe away the crusted blood on his cheek and jaw. Absentmindedly he rests his hands on your bare thighs and feels up and down.

“You’re home early,” you comment, focusing as you get closer to the open cut on his cheek.

Simon grunts when the antiseptic touches the open site, “Yeah, slow night,”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s the third slow night this week, scarin’ all the criminals off or something?”

He wishes, it would be his biggest dream to rid of all the scum in this city if it meant you could walk freely without any danger.

When he doesn’t reply you frown and tilt his chin up with your pointer finger until he meets your gaze, “Seriously, what’s up with you Simon? You’ve been off all week,”

His arms circle your thighs protectively and pull you closer, “Can’t a man just miss his wife?”

You smile sweetly and thread your fingers through his hair to sweep it off his forehead, “That’s it? Nothing else is going on?”

He shakes his head, “You’re the only thing on my mind, love.”

You roll your eyes at his sappy comment and lean over to reach for another antiseptic wipe. Due to limited mobility with Simon’s arms wrapped around your legs you have to grip one of his shoulders and stretch your arm to grab it. You tear the corner open with your teeth and drop the package into the small waste bin before wrapping the wipe around your finger. The cut on his lip doesn’t look as bad, and it’s already starting to scab. So you carefully dab around the edges with the upmost concentration, when you get too close to the open wound Simon hisses and pulls back.

You mumble a small apology but grab ahold of his chin to keep him still, “Almost done, stop moving,”

“Fuckin’ hurts,” he mutters.

You look at him incredulously, but it quickly melts away when you see the small smirk on his face, “You’re such a baby,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss the side of his mouth, “Thought policemen were meant to be tougher than this,”

He tightens his arms around your thighs and squeezes hard in a flex of his strength. You grip his shoulders as you begin to lose balance but he doesn’t seem to care as he rests his chin on your stomach to look up at you, “Can be tough if that’s what you want,”

You pat his shoulder, “Alright sweetheart, no need to prove yourself,”

“Not enjoying the lip you’re givin’ me, love,” he retorts.

You smile condescendingly, “Gonna do something about it?”

Without warning Simon stands from his seat, lifting you up with him. You laugh and grab his shoulders for support before wrapping your legs around his waist. He takes a step before turning to face the bathroom mirror and drops you on the counter, his hands rest either side of your thighs as he leans close into your space.

Even covered in cuts and bruises you can help but admire how handsome he is. You lean back against the bathroom mirror and run your hands from his shoulders down to his chest, the healthy fat that covers his muscles makes a certain part of your brain purr.

Simon notices immediately and drags you closer until your hips are pressed against his, “Somethin’ you like?”

You look up at him lazily, hands still caressing his chest, “Just admiring the view.”

With his hands still gripping your thighs he leans down to kiss you against the mirror. When his lips meet yours you try to be gentle as to not disturb the cut, but he dismisses all your worries of hurting him when he leans in harder. You can only gasp against his lips when his hand reaches under your shirt—his really—and slip beneath your panties.

“Simon—” you start, pulling away to rest against the mirror when his finger teases at your folds.

He shushes you and presses his lips against yours again leaving you no choice but to let him do as he pleases. It’s a gentle tease at first, he’s more occupied with the way his tongue finds yours than the lazy caress of his finger against your clit. You grab his shoulders for anchorage before dragging your fingers up into his hair at the nape of his neck. His finger is joint by another, both pressed together as rub circles around your clit more earnestly.

You can’t help the way you involuntarily bite down on his lip at the sudden burst of pleasure that spikes up your spine. Simon hisses and pulls away, when you realise what you’ve done you immediately start apologises, “Sorry,” you gasp, holding the sides of his face, “Sorry Simon, are you okay?”

Simon zeros in on the way his blood dots your bottom lip, turning it a rosy red. It’s barely anything but it’s enough to make his cock twitch, “You’re killing me, sweetheart,”

You huff, swiping your thumb under the fresh blood that has beaded on his lip unbeknownst to the thoughts that are running through his head, “I didn’t bite that hard,”

You place your hands on his shoulders before he can kiss you again, “We should clean tha—”

“No,” he couldn’t think of anything worse than separating from you right now.

You look at him questionably, “Just so it can heal properly Si—”

“No,” he says more authoritatively, rubbing your clit with renewed vigour just to convince you.

Your head thunks back against the mirror as you let out a moan. You sink your nails into his shoulders and clench your eyes closed as you focus on the pleasure slowly building within your core. When he leans in this time you let him, instead of a kiss like you were expecting, you feel Simon’s tongue swipe across your bottom lip. With a hooded gaze you look at him suspiciously, only to see his pupils have dilated and his breathing has turned more ragged. Rather than commenting on it you tug him closer and kiss him messily, uncaring of the way his bloodied lip tastes.

It elicits a groan out of him and a reward for you as his middle finger slips further down and curls up inside. You gasp, opening panting against Simon’s mouth as he makes quick work of fingering you just the way you like without all the teasing.

“Fuck, Simon—” you moan, clawing your nails down his biceps, “More, please, more,”

Simon grunts, gripping your thigh with his free hand while the other complies with your demands and sinks another finger in. Having you blissed out against the bathroom, with just his fingers alone strokes the egotistical part of his mind— he was responsible for bringing you pleasure, for making you happy. He was such a good husband, and he would be an even better father. A vision of you with your belly swollen and your tits heavy against his palm sent such violent pleasure down his spine that he almost came in his pants at the thought. He has to grip his cock, hard, until it’s stifled to a weak twitch so he can collect his thoughts.

You’re still blissfully unaware, rolling your hips against his fingers until your clit bumps against his palm, completely taking control over your own pleasure. Simon only watches as you bring yourself to the edge, jaw slightly slack as you move with unrestrained inhibition.

“I want a baby,” he announces.

Your eyes fly open, moment completely shattered as your orgasm recedes. You drop your full weight against the counter, hands propping you up by your sides, “What?”

Simon licks his lips, slowly withdrawing his fingers from your cunt, “I want a baby,” he says more clearly.

You pant softly, trying to catch your breath, “Where is this coming from?”

His hands come forward to hike your shirt up, slowly caressing your hips, “Can’t stop thinking about it,” he says cautiously, scanning your eyes for any sense of worry, “I want to take care of you—”

“You do take care of me—”

“And our baby,” he finishes.

At your pause he continues, “Do you not want this?”

You frown, licking your lips in thought, “I do,” you respond tentatively, “I just didn’t think you were ready, I know your job means a lot to you,”

He shakes his head, “Not anymore,”

You sit up properly and carefully cup the side of his face, “Is this why you’ve been coming home early?”

He turns instantly to kiss the palm of your hand, his wordless response says it all. You can’t help but huff and smile at the display, of course there was a reason. There’s always a reason behind Simon’s actions.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You whisper.

He looks at you from the corner of his eye before leading a trail of kisses down you wrist, “Didn’t know how to tell you,”

You laugh, “Well you had no problem telling me now, what changed?”

One of his hands reaches down to rub at your stomach, “I was imagining it,”

You bite your lip and try to laugh it off, but his movements send a shiver down your spine, “Imagining what?”

Simon looks at you more earnestly now as he rubs all around your stomach and hips with his massive hands, “How beautiful you’d look with a swollen belly, carrying our child,” he looks down at you as his hands slide under your shirt to cup your breasts, “How nicely these will fill out towards the end of it,”

You gasp at the rough squeeze of his hands, it makes you throb and circle your legs around his waist. At your response, he grabs your waist and pulls you impossibly closer, you wrap your arms around his neck for balance and stare into his eyes. His gaze is steady, and unflinching, there was no room for doubt.

“You really want this?” You ask.

“Yes,”

You smile and cradle the side of his face, rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone, “Okay,”

“Okay,” He nods. “Now?”

You balk at his eagerness “Now? I’m on the pill, Simon, it won’t work now,”

Your reluctance doesn’t deter him as he leads a trail of kisses down your neck, “Not even if I fill you up?”

Lord help you, the idea is consuming him already. You look up at the ceiling as he pulls the neckline of your shift to continue his trial across your collarbone, “That would kinda defeat the purpose of birth control,”

He pauses, “But it’s not one hundred percent accurate,”

You sigh, “No, it’s not one hundred percent accurate,”

He smirks smugly, “Then I have a chance,”

“A slim chan—” you try to say before he cuts you off with a kiss. It’s urgent, and messy and excited. In his hurry to get the ball rolling he yanks at the old sleep shirt you wearing too hard causing a hole to tear through it.

“Simon!” You gasp, staring down at it, “This is my favourite top to sleep in,”

“Sorry darlin’,” it’s an empty apologise to get on your good side as he lifts the shirt off your head, “I’ll make it up to you,”

You huff as you let the shirt fall away to the bathroom floor, “How?” You challenge.

Simon licks his lips as he stares at your exposed chest, “By filling you up real nice,”

You refuse to acknowledge the way that sends a shiver down your spine, “That’s not really making up to me if it’s something you also want,”

Simon hums, you’re right. It’s completely selfish, he does want this— a lot. So much so, that he doesn’t even defend himself as he reaches for the waistband of your panties, “I’ll spoil you once you’re pregnant,” he promises, pulling your fabric down your legs until they’re all the way off.

He leans forward and latches on to one of your nipples, you gasp and squirm when his teeth tease around the sensitive edge of it until he pulls away, “No missus of mine will lift a finger when she’s carrying our child.”

You moan, arching your back off the mirror to avoid the cold glass pressing against you. Simon continues his path over to your other breast, taking your nipple into his mouth while his hand takes care of the other. You reach for the zipper of his pants, doing your best to remove them without getting distracted.

Simon gives you a hand by shoving his pants and underwear down in one go once you’ve managed to unbutton them. His cock is flushed and aching, it throbs once against his abdomen before you take it in your hand and give it a leisurely pump. He groans and thrusts his hips into your hand as you continue your pace. It’s not long before he lets out a warning grunt, twitching and leaking within your palm, making the slide nice and wet. His forehead rests against your shoulder completely taken over by the way your fingers circle around the sensitive head of his cock taking him closer to the edge. You can tell by his shallow breathing that he’s almost there, so you give him one last flick of your wrist before squeezing the base of his cock cutting off any impending orgasm. He grips your thighs, hard, and clenches his eyes closed at the pleasure coming to a painful halt.

“That’s fucking karma,” you whisper into his ear.

He groans and drops a kiss against your shoulder before straightening up, “No more fucking around.” he states, hooking your legs over his arms so he has a nice view of your dripping cunt.

With one of his hands he guides his cock forward, rubbing the head of it through your wet folds. You lean back with your hands propped against the counter as you watch. When the head of his cock catches, he slides all the way home, stretching you wide open. You hiss at the sting, even after all this time you’re still unused to the way he’s able to stretch you so far.

“S’fuckin’ tight,” he grunts, barely restraining himself from holding still. “How have I still not broken this cunt in?”

You clench your eyes closed waiting for the sting to pass, “Too big,”

He rubs his thumb soothingly up and down your inner thigh, “You can take it love.”

When the pain recedes you let out a deep exhale and rest against the bathroom mirror. Simon takes that has his sign to give a shallow thrust, slowly taking his time until you’re completely falling apart on his cock. Every punch forward sends a breath out of you forcing you to breathe in short pants. He grips your hips and pulls you forward on each thrust sending him as deep as he can in this position.

“Simon,” you moan. “M’close.”

He only grunts in acknowledgment at your warning. You can’t help but reach down with your fingers to circle your own clit, Simon is immediately drawn in watching the way you move against him to get yourself off. It’s not long until you’re clenching tight around him, dragging him down with you into your first orgasm. You rest against the mirror of the bathroom, taking heaving breaths as you try to collect yourself. Simon is still holding your hips with his cock inside you as he does the same.

“Gotta go again,” he mutters.

“Huh? What did you say?” You pant.

Weakly he thrusts forwards to test the waters, you cunt immediately spasms around him in overstimulation. “S’not enough love, I need to fill you,”

“Simon—” you huff as he straightens up, making his cock shift, “We can try again later,” you press your hand against his abdomen when he tries to thrust back in, “I don’t think I have another one in me,”

“Course you do,” he assures, reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ears, “Just one more, and I’ll be satisfied. You can do that for me can’t you?”

You whine when he thrusts forward against your wishes. It aches, and you’re exhausted, but with each gentle thrust the twitching of your thighs slowly starts to fade. Simon hoists you up into his arms, walking you into the bedroom, all while still inside your cunt to ensure his seed doesn’t leak out— he’s got to get the most out of this after all.

Carefully he lays you down on the bed, its soft surface is incomparably better compared to the hard counter. You sigh in instant relief and shut your eyes, Simon won’t let you rest though. With one leg propped over his shoulder, holding you nice and open he grinds down into you. He barely even thrusts out as he focuses on driving as deep as he can into your cervix.

“Fuck!” You shout, holding your lower abdomen. You can feel every inch of him going impossibly deeper.

“I’m gonna make that belly swell,” he slurs, “You’ll have no choice but to have my child,”

“Simon—fuck—come on,” you whine, begging for him to finish inside you.

“Almost there doll,” he groans.

“Want your baby,” you moan, gripping onto one of his hips to pull him closer, “C’mon Simon, you’ll give it to me won’t you? Don’t back out on me now,”

It’s a ragged breath he breathes out in response to your comments, “Need you to take care of me— take care of us, you’re the only one who can do it,”

He clenches his eyes closed and slams into you one last time as he comes again. You’re starting to feel uncomfortably full with both his seed and cock still straining against your hole. You start to feel boneless as sleep washes over you, Simon will take care of everything as always so you feel no need to stay awake.

Until you feel your world tilt as you flip over. When you open your eyes you’re already on your stomach, knees sunk into the mattress with Simon lined up behind you.

“No,” you cry, angling your hips away, “Simon, no more baby, that’s enough,”

Simon is mesmerised by the way his come is starting to leak out of you. Before it can drip onto the sheets, he plugs it up crudely with his thumb, using his other free hand to hold your wriggling hips in place.

“One more sweetheart,” he promises, “Just one more, and that’s it,”

Jesus what the fuck did you sign up for? He’s completely taken over by his own self image of you, pregnant and barefoot that he can’t even see how wrung out you are. You’re completely exhausted, sore, and full. But all he’s seeing is how much more you can take. With his thumb still plugging your hole, he leans over your back to whisper in your ear.

“You agreed with me earlier,” he states, “this is what we have to do, I need to fill you up with as much as I can,”

You pout slumping your shoulders against the mattress, “I’m sore, Simon, I can’t do it again,”

He lays gentle kisses against your shoulder, “You’re gonna look so beautiful with my child,” he repeats, “I’ll take care of everything, including these,” he reaches down to hold your tits in his hands, pinching both nipples with his thumb and forefinger, “When they get full. I’ll do it all for you,”

You moan weakly, jutting your hips back against his pelvis where his cock is already hard and waiting. Without waiting for a verbal response he lines himself up with your already soaked entrance, and slides back in. It’s easy now, you’ve moulded yourself against the shape of him after multiple rounds and the way his come drips out around the sides of his cock makes it a wet slide. All you can do is grip the sheets beneath you and cry every so often at a particularly harsh thrust that makes you even more sore. You must have your wires crossed because eventually the soreness builds into pleasure, and soon enough you’re meeting his thrusts halfway hoping your clit will smack against balls for some extra stimulation.

“That’s it,” he groans, gripping your ass tighter as he pulls you back against him, “Last one, darlin’ make sure you catch all of it,”

“Put it in me,” you slur, “All of it Simon.”

As if hearing your prayers Simon reaches down to rub your clit, immediately sending you over the edge one last time. Your thighs squeeze shut around his hand, and milk him of one last orgasm. You moan at the past pitiful ropes that fill you up, if you don’t get pregnant this time. You’re sure once you’re off the pill you’ll get pregnant next time.

Simon makes sure to push every drop in as deep as he can before finally pulling out. You moan in relief, slumping against the mattress entirely fucked out and at your limit. When he touches your thigh, you bat his hand away.

“Get the fuc’off me,” you mutter, “Fuckin’ manic,”

He chuckles and leans down to kiss your cheek, “I love you,”

You cringe as you feel his come start to leak out of you, “Love you too.”

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

hi!! i love your fics theyre highkey my fav rereads🤭idk if youre taking requests but if you were, could you possibly do a hurt/comfort fic with toji and shy reader where shes mad/upset with him? hope youre having a great day btw!

A/N: Five years later... 🫩👍 I'm sorry this took so long. I really, really appreciate your support 🫶 I hope this turned out at least okay, it's been a minute since i've finished any writing 🥲 Anyway, I hope you're having an amazing day :))

Thank you for sending in this request 💙

Toji and His Shy Girl

It's been a week since you and Toji have spoken, not for lack of effort or opportunities, but because the one sided attempts are not corresponded. It's hard to think about him, it's hard to read his words through your screen and see his name flash briefly, before your phone does its job of sending him to voicemail.

'Maybe we shouldn't be together, Toji. If me simply trying to talk to you is such a burden... I don't know if I should keep trying.'

You said this to him a week ago. You clicked the door shut and he sped off in his car, bleary-eyed, brimming with rage and regret the whole way home. He couldn't get the sound of your voice out of his head—the cracks, the occasional sharp inhales that came with your suppressed emotions. Even in the moment, he knew it was so, so wrong for you to be looking the way you did.

The instant he got home, all hell broke loose. His fists were clenched as he treaded towards his bedroom, and as if possessed by the force of a natural disaster, he tore apart his room—demolished it—throwing things blindly, uncaring if they broke beyond repair. The picture he keeps on his nightstand of the two of you was not safe. The encased memory was thrown with all the strength he has, at the wall, the frame instantly falling apart and the glass shattering to pieces.

He couldn't stop, it all hurt so much. His chest burned, his head was pounding, he felt like he couldn't breathe, and once there was nothing left to throw, nothing left to break, he finally broke down—wholly. Harsh, uncontrollable sobs racked his entire body as he sat there in the debris—the aftermath of losing his mind over you. Barely any sound came of it, his voice was shot, courtesy of the tormented screams that accompanied his meltdown.

This all happened a week ago. You won't talk to him and these days have been hell without your company. You won't respond to his good morning messages, and if he asks to meet up, you always have something to do. He calls you whenever he can, but you don't pick up. You're avoiding him like it's your job.

Everything feels pointless without you around, his little sunshine, the reason he wakes up motivated every morning, the light of his life. His routine has been altered in the worst way. It's work, home, work, home, and he absolutely detests it because if it weren't for that damned day, he would be with you, smothering you with the borderline overwhelming love he holds for you, making you laugh and watching you get flustered over the words he whispers in your ear. He wants it back—all of it. He can't let you go, it would break him entirely.

You don't want to let go of this love you have for Toji, either. You miss being in the warmth of his embrace, and you miss the sound of his voice, and the way he calls you 'sweetheart' when you're not focusing on him. You see every single one of the messages he sends you and the phone calls.

Good morning, baby.

Morning, sweetheart. Make sure to eat breakfast and lunch. One meal isn't enough.

Saw those fields of flowers you point at all the time on my way home. I miss you.

Baby, will you talk to me, please?

[Missed Call]

And you cry, because all you want to do is respond to every one of those messages and hear his voice again, but something always stops you. The memory of when he snapped at you. The sound of his voice—cutting and utterly spirit crushing. The furrow of his eyebrows that made you feel like everything you did was wrong. It hurts to think about the whole situation, and all these notifications only serve as reminders. Reminders of the way you immediately wilted when the door shut, chest heaving as you cried your way to bed and then to sleep, wondering what you did to deserve being lashed out at.

You're lying in bed, scrolling through your phone when he calls again. The instant you see his contact picture, your heart plummets to your stomach, but an irrepressible giggle escapes you. The picture on your screen... it's kind of blurry because he was chasing you and you were laughing so hard that you couldn't hold the phone steady, but you love it. You love the man in the picture, you love that he can make you smile through memories, even during tough times.

"Baby?" You hear through the speakers of your phone. A lump immediately forms in your throat and you painfully swallow. "Baby, can you hear me?" He tries again.

"Yeah, I'm here," you respond, quietly.

"Holy fuck, doll. Can I... Are you busy? Are you doing anything right now?"

"No, i'm home," you mumble.

"Can I come see you?"

"Toji..." you start, your tone conveying what you haven't even said yet. Your uncertainty.

"Baby, we have to talk. It's been a week and-- This can't be it. Please, just... just five minutes. Five minutes and i'll go."

You know it won't be five minutes. You can't force a solution out in five minutes—not a sincere one at least. Some part of you is soothed by the sound of his voice, regardless of how frantic and desperate he sounds. That's your love right there, and no matter how much hurt lingers from this whole dilemma, there's nothing you can do about your heart's response to him. So you open a door for him.

"Okay, Toji. I'll be here waiting for you."

"Thank you, pretty girl. I'll be there in a few. Love you."

There's a heavy, tense pause. Neither of you has hung up the phone, because something hasn't been done yet and he knows you know what he wants to hear. It would be enough for him to believe that you haven't forfeited. It would make him feel even the slightest bit of relief if you said those words he's been aching for.

"I love you, too, Toji," you utter, hanging up a couple seconds after.

Toji would be bouncing off the walls if he wasn't in such a hurry to get to you. He's been deprived of any form of love from you for a week and he was starting to go crazy, but hearing you say those words was all he needed for now.

Twenty something minutes later, you get a text from him, letting you know that he's outside. Your heart is in your throat, your stomach keeps flipping, and yet you use all the strength you have to get out of bed to meet him. Though you decide to take your time to get to your front door, you find that you're still there too soon, no time left to mentally prepare yourself for what is about to happen. With a final deep breath, you turn the lock, twist the doorknob, and open the door.

There Toji stands, hand suspended in the air with your spare key pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He steps back instinctively when you step aside from behind the door.

"I uh... I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with me using it, but you were taking a bit, so I thought maybe you'd want me to come in and we can talk inside or... I don't know."

He's rambling, there's a light stubble on his face, he's smiling at you like he always does—like you're his everything. Him being there doesn't actually process in your mind until he speaks up again.

"Hi, baby," he says, softly, observing you like you're some majestic painting hung up in a museum. Your eyes well up and it feels like there's a red-hot metal sphere lodged in your throat. "You're a saint for letting me come here and see you, you know that?"

Out of habit, you nod and mumble out a small, "yeah."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, reaching for your hands to hold them. He barely manages to grab them, get a feel for your soft skin after so long, before you're pulling them away from him. "No, come on," he pleads, grasping your hands again. "Please? Please, look at me."

"You can't talk to me like that, Toji," you utter, voice unsteady because you're not used to having to stand up for yourself against the one who loves you like it's his life source.

"I know. I know that, baby, and I'm so fucking sorry," he says, nearly tripping over his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of the shit I said. I was having a bad day, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I don't know what the hell got into me, but please..." he mumbles, bringing your hands up to his lips, pressing weightless kisses on your fingers and knuckles. "Please, I love you, you have to believe me."

"You said..." you inhale sharply, doing all you can to get through this without choking on your emotions. "...you said you didn't have time to listen to me talk about nonsense, and that you wanted peace and quiet for once. Isn't... Isn't that all you get from me?"

"No tears," he says, warm palms moving up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the crystals that glide down them. "No tears," he repeats, softer this time. "This is gonna get worked out, my sweet girl. I swear."

"I don't know how you want me to be," you admit, your voice wavering. "And I don't have the ability to read minds. You acted like everything was fine when you texted me, and then when you got here..." You let out a shaky breath, your hold on your emotions slipping. "I don't want to be upset with you, anymore, but i-i'm trying... It's not right."

It's as if someone is jabbing at his chest over and over again, relentlessly, even when his skin starts to bruise and little pinpricks of blood begin to appear. He hates seeing you this way, especially when he knows he's the reason for why you're hurt this bad. He wants it to stop and for this enormous raincloud above both of you to just dissipate.

"Come here," he says, low, almost inaudible. His hands lower, arms making contact with your sides. It's been too long since he's held you, yet, pulling you in feels as natural as breathing.

Your hands come up to rest on his abdomen, keeping him at a distance. It feels unnatural, because you're so used to letting him handle you like you're a stuffed animal, pulling you around when you're adventuring together and picking you up just because he feels like it. Your mind immediately clouds with guilt at your denial of his embrace, you can't even meet his eyes, opting to look down at where your hands are.

"Please don't," he says, his voice so soft that it makes your chest feel tight again. He grabs ahold of your wrists, just to have some sort of contact with you. His grip is almost entirely loose and you're in control, he won't move until you pull your hands away. "I'm not gonna hurt you like that again."

You love him and you know he needs this—holding you in his arms, your confirmation that it's all going to be okay. You've said it before and the words have become one of his greatest comforts. What could be so bad when you tell him that it'll all turn out just fine?

"We've been apart for too long. A week shouldn't have gone by like this... and, fuck, I know it's my fault. I don't blame you for not wanting to see me, but... please, baby." His thumbs brush the insides of your wrists, eyes never leaving the sadness of your face, regardless of whether you look at him or not. He'll take this over not getting to see you at all, any day.

"Sweetheart."

You sniff, unmoving for a few more seconds. Your heartbeat is thrumming wildly in your ears, almost suffocating you with its relentlessness. It's all you hear, words lost in a spiral of ongoing silence. You still don't look at him when you finally pull your hands away, but you can feel his heavy, unwavering attention on you.

You're glad he doesn't wait for you to give him the green light to pull you in, because you have nothing to say at the moment, and it would be another test of patience. Instead, the second your hands are balled up at your sides, he moves at the speed of a lightning strike, your body colliding with his in an almost aggressive manner—there's an audible thump. His body heat mingles with the cologne on his shirt, the smell coiling around you and rushing through your nose with every breath you take. The feeling is familiar—love, safety, comfort—a second home, all wrapped up in your favorite person.

His hands scrunch up the back of your shirt like he's afraid you'll push him away again. "Baby," he mumbles, his voice almost inaudible. "Don't disappear like that again." A soft breath is expelled from his chest, riddled with the genuine fear he felt that he would never get to see you again.

"I know it's unfair of me to say this. I was an asshole and you were hurt, but, doll... I thought you were leaving me." There's a pause. Toji stares at the ground behind you, his hands deepening the creases he made on your shirt due to his unfaltering grip. "I don't want that."

"I'm not," you respond, heart shaking. "That day... it felt like you didn't even want to see me and you only came over because I asked not because you wanted to." The familiar ache in your chest stirs slightly, but you give it your all to get everything out in a steady and clear manner. "You can tell me you're tired, Toji. That you want to rest in the comfort of your own home, and I'll understand. I don't want to be another cause of stress for you."

It pains him to hear that because you're the one who keeps him sane, the one he thinks about when he settles into bed but can't get to sleep, the first person to know that he's still alive in morning, the one who has made him feel so safe, that he feels no shame when he occasionally calls to confirm that he's still loved by you.

"You're not," he simply murmurs. "It's not true."

"You don't have to worry about protecting my feelings."

His arms loosen around you, the back of your shirt wrinkled but freed from his clutches. Your heart is beating too fast, attempting to leave your chest. Now you're standing up straight, doing your best to not avert your gaze from the man before you.

"You're not a burden to me. Okay?" He says, and you want to believe him because of the way he's looking at you, like he's searching your eyes for even the smallest bit of confidence from you about the fact. "Say it."

The words are stuck, it's visible. Your lips twitch, but your voice doesn't progress. You just look at him, feeling the sadness seep into every part of you.

"You're not a burden to me. I need you to get that through your pretty head, right now," he says, only to feel his own heart skip a beat at your reaction.

"Sorry," you mumble, unable to instantly straighten out the curl of your lips.

In this moment, Toji knows that everything is going to be okay. He hasn't heard you laugh in a week, and though it was only a small, congested giggle, he savors it along with your inability to regain your bearing, like it's his last sip of water while he's stranded in the desert.

"Gets you every time, huh?" He says, his own faint smile emerging.

'Right now', a habitual phrase of his that is meant to comfort you. You've told him before that not everything can be fixed or healed in an instant—things don't work that way—but he never backs down. You've translated it into something akin to a bandage—the words are meant to cover you while you take the time to fully and properly heal. The joy you find in hearing them is a small beginning.

"It's funny," you respond, taking in his amused little grin. God, you missed his handsome face and the way he looks at you like everything about you makes perfect sense to him.

"My impatience is funny to you?" He teases, loving the way you press your lips together before proceeding to nod. He can't even be playfully offended, too entranced by the way you're actually smiling at him. He sighs through his nose and just watches you—admires you for a couple seconds, and when you start nervously shifting on your feet, he pulls you closer to him, his hands on your lower back as your body presses against his once more.

"Can you just say it, please? For me?" He murmurs, recognizing every one of the stars in your eyes. Though he thinks it's a tragedy to have gone a week without this view, he'll make up for lost time by creating new constellations.

"I don't know," you say, softly—filler words, your brain short circuits whenever he looks at you like that.

"For me, baby," he pleads once more. "Just wanna hear you say it."

You hum, unsure of whether you can say something you don't entirely believe. You want to make him happy, you want things to be better, you want to believe what he said—what he wants you to repeat to him, but it's hard. Damage is easy to inflict and hard to heal. It won't go away immediately, no matter how much you love the person who is trying to fix their mistake.

"I don't know-"

"Please?" he blurts.

"Toji, I don't-"

"Pretty please?" he cuts again, seeing the way your seriousness falters like before. Your laugh finds his ears once more, a sound he just wants to keep hearing. The sound embraces him. "With a cherry on top?" he adds, a sly little grin on his lips.

It's getting harder and harder to turn him down. He's precious, he's trying, and you cherish his effort. It's not going to kill you to just say it.

You sigh, "I'm not a burden."

"To who?" He questions, seeking elaboration from you.

"To you."

"Damn right," he says, proud. "We'll get you there. I'm not gonna leave you like this, alright?"

"Okay," you confirm, nodding slightly.

"Can I get a kiss?"

Again, you nod, expecting a quick peck—maybe a few quick pecks, but no, he goes on to kiss you like its been months since he last saw you, not a week. He's desperately chasing after your lips, seeking more and more of what he's been deprived of for too long. In his mind, he says 'never again, never again, never again', because he can't imagine going so long without your sweetness again. Without the softness of your lips against his, without those pretty smiles and laughs being thrown at him. It sounds like hell 2.0. when he thinks about losing it all over again.

"Fuck, I missed this," he murmurs, still just a breath away from your lips.

"Yeah," you respond, eyeing the short little pins of hair that sprinkle over his jaw and upper lip area. It makes you smile, you don't always get to see his face when it's not clean shaven.

"I was in a rush," he explains, unnecessarily, following the way your eyes trace his face.

"Mm," you hum, smiling. "Can I shave your face?"

"You wanna clean me up?" he asks, almost as if he's surprised.

"Only if you want me to. It was just an idea," you say, smiling sheepishly.

To that, he chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach flip and your cheeks feel warmer.

"Oh, I want you to," he says, leaning forward to peck your lips, luring quiet giggles from you when he doesn't want to pull away.

-

Now, you sit on the counter of your bathroom sink, with Toji standing between your legs. There's a slight tremble in your hand, spurred on by his hands resting on your hips and the way he watches you with so much focus, trusting you enough to let you do this without a word from him. You drag the razor carefully along his cheek, making sure not to move too fast or use too much pressure.

Toji waits until you're cleaning off the blade to make his move of leaning in to press kisses to your face. Small peaks of foam are left behind on your skin, wiped away by gentle strokes of his thumb.

"I'm about to start again," you say through a laugh, leaning away to avoid ridding his face of all the protective spume on it. The razor remains beside you until he finally behaves himself. He huffs like you've been rejecting his affection the whole time, but nonetheless stands up straight and as still as a statue.

After some time, longer than it would have taken him alone—longer than it would have taken you if he didn't smother you every time you paused to clean the razor—you got it done. You brought back the smoothness of his skin.

"Am I pretty again?" he jests, drying his face with one of your towels.

"Stunning," you quip in response, shifting on the counter to signal that you're going to hop off.

"You're stunning," he says, low, unmoving from where he stands between your legs. "My gorgeous, gorgeous girl," he adds, seeking more of that feeling the flustered smile on your face gives him. "Missed you lots, you know that?" You just laugh and shake your head, like you're silently calling him crazy. "What? I'm serious," he says in response, a soft grin on his face. "Did you miss me? Even a little bit?"

A single second passes by. You can't lie to him and say you didn't. You missed him every single day, through the hurt. Your chest ached and your heart dropped every time you remembered the incident, but your love for him never wavered. You couldn't stop thinking about him, and with how often he tried to reach you, it was nearly impossible not to have him on your mind.

"Of course I did. I took the time I needed, but that doesn't mean I wanted it."

"I know, baby. And I would never hold it against you. I'm just... glad I can see you again, is all."

You smile. The gleam and sincerity in his eyes is a wonder to witness and well worth the butterflies that overly crowd your stomach.

"I really did miss you," you mumble.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "'Lots.'"

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, then he leans in close for nth time, peppering kisses across your cheek until he reaches your lips. He can feel you smiling into the kisses, a sensation he yearned for with every fiber of his being for the past week. One of his hands rests on your thigh, caressing the inner part of it, while the other slides up your shirt and settles on your waist. The lip-lock steals your breath away, but even then, you challenge your lungs for your lover's sake, only pulling away when you're a panting mess and Toji's breathing is more audible.

The tension is palpable, the silence loud as you look at one another like you're still taking in the fact that you can be loving towards each other again, in a manner that doesn't derive from guilt for the time that you didn't get to demonstrate how much you truly love each other. Enough to not be able to leave a fresh wound alone, enough to forgive while outwardly expressing that you have not healed but are patient enough to work towards regaining that strength.

"I don't wanna go home," he murmurs, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips before focusing on solely your eyes.

"You don't have to," you respond. "Stay as long as you'd like."

"And if I said I wanted to spend a week here with you? Would you hate it?"

You shake your head. "No, but I think you'd get tired of seeing me all the time."

"You're wrong, pretty girl. Is this your subtle way of saying you're tired of looking at my mug, already?" He asks, lips curling with amusement at your giggle.

"No, I want you to stay," you say, honest.

"Promise?"

You nod, followed by an affirmative hum.

"Say it again," he requests, heart thudding just a little faster when you smile.

"I want you to stay, Toji," you repeat, his name on your tongue causing your cheeks to warm up.

"Again." His hands mold around your hips—squeezing, loving.

"Stay," you say, softer.

He sighs, heavy, an enamored look in his eyes that you have never been able to comprehend. Those dark, viridescent eyes, have a brilliance to them as he looks at you like you're the last good thing he'll ever be able to call his. You're good for him, you're good to him, and there is nothing in the world that he wouldn't do for you because you gave him your heart.

"Yeah... you're stuck with me here for a week and you're come with me to pick some stuff up from my place, tomorrow. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, with a laugh.

"Now, we get you off this counter," he says, lifting you like you're a teddy bear that he carries around for protection. He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the suddenness. "Hold me tight, baby," he says, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist before moving anywhere. A kiss is planted on your shoulder as he turns around to exit the bathroom.

"And now you let me show you some love," he says, low, carrying you to your bedroom.

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

every body please stay safe!

ik i just run a tumblr smut page BUT!!!

FUCK ICE, free palestine, free congo, FUCK trump, FUCK musk, no one is illegal on stolen land, and if u disagree, FUCK YOU TOO!!!

i’ve said this before but if u support that fuckass orange in office, idc if ur a silent follower or ur like is ur only form of interacting with me, just know, i don’t want it!!! and u are a terrible person!!! 😛

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

you’ve been quiet all evening.

not your usual soft, thoughtful kind of quiet, either. this is heavy, sulking silence. a quiet born from hurt. you won’t look at him when he walks in, and you don’t meet him at the door like you usually do.

you’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, your face barely illuminated by the glow of the tv you’re not even watching.

kento sees it immediately. the damage he’s done.

he exhales. his tie is loose, his shirt half-unbuttoned from a long day, and he doesn’t even take his shoes off before walking over to you. he drops to one knee in front of the couch, large hands finding your thighs, and you flinch.

just a little. but enough.

he closes his eyes and swears under his breath.

“sweetheart.” his voice is rough, regretful. “look at me.”

you don’t.

“i shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

still, you won’t lift your gaze. he cups your jaw gently, guiding your face toward him.

“i came home and took it out on you. you did nothing wrong.”

you blink, lashes fluttering like you’re holding back something. maybe anger? maybe tears? either way, it twists in his chest like a dagger.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs. “you can punish me however you want. just don’t shut me out like this. i can’t take it.”

and then he leans in. softly. tentatively. kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s trying not to scare you away.

you don’t push him off.

but you don’t lean in either.

but when his lips brush against yours again, slower this time, his fingers stroking your thigh, he feels you sigh. quiet. resigned. wanting.

he deepens the kiss slowly. like he’s savoring every second. one hand finds your waist, pulling you closer, and the other slides up under your oversized shirt his shirt until his palm is resting just under your breast.

you gasp into his mouth, and he pulls back to look at you.

“let me make it up to you,” he says, voice low and rough. “let me show you how sorry I am.”

and when you whisper, “okay…” it comes out breathy, hesitant. he kisses you again, harder this time. less patient. more desperate.

he carries you to the bedroom, kissing your neck the whole way there, muttering apologies between each press of his lips.

once you’re on the bed, he strips you slow. reverent. like he’s trying to re-memorize your body, like he thinks he’s lost the right to touch it. he undresses himself only after you’re bare before him. flushed and shy but still watching him now, finally.

when he pushes your thighs open and settles between them, he just looks at you.

“you’re the softest thing I’ve ever known,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “i don’t deserve to be this close to you.”

his mouth trails down your tummy, tongue dipping into your navel, teeth grazing the inside of your thigh. you squirm when he kisses lower, and his large hands wrap around your thighs, holding you in place.

he eats you out like it’s penance.

slow, slow drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. then again. then again. he flicks it, circles it, sucks gently until your hips buck, and he doesn’t stop. he flattens his tongue and moans low against you when you whimper his name.

“you taste so fucking sweet,” he breathes, voice strained, like he’s losing his mind. “i could stay here all night.”

two fingers slide into you, thick and slow, curling just right until your back arches off the bed. he doesn’t stop when you come, if anything, he gets hungrier. stays there until your thighs tremble, until you're panting, oversensitive and breathless.

“turn around,” he says softly. then, catching your hesitation, adds: “please.”

you do. on your hands and knees now, cheek pressed to the pillow, thighs still shaky from how hard you came. He kneels behind you, one hand smoothing down your back, then gripping your hip as he lines himself up.

“gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, running his leaking tip through your slick folds.

you nod quickly. “yes. please…”

he pushes in slowly. inches at a time.

you both groan when he bottoms out. you’re so tight, warm, wet. he has to close his eyes and grip your hips to keep from losing it immediately.

“fuck,” he grits out. “you always feel like this after i’ve been an asshole to you?”

you whine, half flustered, half desperate. and he leans over you, pressing kisses between your shoulder blades.

“say I’m forgiven,” he rasps. “say it, and i’ll take care of you.”

“i forgive you,” you whisper.

he thrusts once. deep. controlled.

you choke on a moan.

“again.”

“i forgive you– ken– please–”

he sets a rhythm, deep and slow, dragging his dick against every sensitive part of you. one hand slides under your stomach, pressing down right where the bulge forms when he fucks you deep.

“you feel that?” he growls in your ear. “feel me right here?”

you nod helplessly, mouth open, drool slipping down your chin.

he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you upright, back to his chest, fucking up into you from beneath now. one hand snakes between your thighs to rub your clit while the other grabs your throat, tilting your head back so he can kiss your jaw.

“mine,” he breathes. “my sweet girl. i’m so fucking sorry.”

you clench tight around him, moaning his name again and again until your body tensed, shaking, and you come hard, thighs trembling, hips twitching.

he groans, burying himself deep one last time, spilling inside you with a low, broken curse.

afterward, he doesn't pull out. just keeps holding you close, lips brushing your shoulder, your temple, your hair.

“you’re everything to me,” he whispers. “even when I’m too stupid to act like it.”

you murmur something back, barely audible, and he shifts to kiss your cheek.

“what was that?”

“i said…” You glance at him, eyes soft. “you’re forgiven. but you’re making me sore.”

he chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your temple. “then i guess i’ll just have to rub your thighs and draw you a bath.”

you hum sleepily against his chest.

“…and maybe eat you out again before you fall asleep.”

you chuckled. and he smiles for real this time.

because nothing feels better than being let back in.

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

you always knew you had a thing for older men.

It wasn’t just the salt-and-pepper stubble or the slow, practiced way they carried themselves. it was the stillness. the grounded energy. the calm. like nothing could touch them. like they’d been through hell and came back clean, sharper for it.

nanami kento was the embodiment of that.

you weren’t supposed to end up in his bed. it started with drinks after a shared mission, a conversation that lingered longer than expected. you were tipsy. he wasn’t. and yet he watched you like you were a puzzle worth solving. carefully, patiently, without a single wasted glance.

you’d had sex before. enough to know what you liked. enough to know that most guys your age didn’t really care about what that was. they rushed. they fumbled. Some were sweet, but rarely satisfying. even the slightly older ones, 25, 26, still had the attention span of a squirrel and the emotional intelligence of a wet sock.

but nanami?

nanami touched you like he’d studied you. like he had time. like he didn’t need to prove anything because he already knew he could ruin you. and would. he took off your clothes like unwrapping a gift he’d waited patiently to open. every touch was intentional. every kiss a quiet promise.

you thought you were prepared.

you weren’t.

his mouth on your neck, your chest, between your legs. devastating. the kind of slow burn that made you forget your name, arching into him with a gasp so raw you almost felt embarrassed. until you looked up and saw the way he was watching you. focused. like he needed to see what he did to you..

you expected him to be good. he was older, refined, deliberate in everything he did. from the way he sipped his whiskey to the way he looked at you, like he could read every need you hadn’t voiced. But this?

this was beyond anything your imagination had dared to stretch toward.

you're on your back, legs spread and trembling over Nanami’s shoulders, body pinned to the mattress like you were meant to be there. like he built this exact moment out of patience and control and years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

his cock stretches you open with a slow, thick thrust that makes your spine arch off the bed. he’s not fast. not frantic. he moves like a man who knows he doesn’t have to rush, because you’re already falling apart under him.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, as if he’s rewarding you for every helpless sound you make. “you can take it. i’ve got you.”

and you do. you take him. inch by devastating inch. because you can’t not. he fills you in a way no one else ever has. deep. heavy. the kind of depth that forces a raw, gasping whine from your throat with every stroke.

your nails claw weakly at his forearms, the only parts of him you can reach in this position. he’s got you folded open, helpless, a mess of sweat and slick and trembling limbs beneath him. his hips grind slow, controlled, like he’s studying how each angle wrecks you.

“too much?” he asks, and it’s maddening how composed he sounds while you’re unraveling like silk in his hands.

you try to answer, but nothing comes out but a high-pitched, wrecked little moan. your head tilts back. eyes flutter shut. brain static.

he leans in closer, the weight of him pressing into you deliciously, lips grazing your jaw. “words, sweetheart.”

you manage a shaky, whined: “don’t stop. please. don’t stop.”

his lips curve into the faintest smirk against your cheek, and suddenly his thrusts get deeper. not harder. not faster. just…more intentional. perfectly timed to make you feel every ridge, every drag of him against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs shake.

your vision goes blurry. your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. And then it happens: Your brain short-circuits.

everything goes white-hot, your body locking around him with a desperate cry you barely hear. your climax rips through you with a sharp, clenching heat that leaves you breathless and boneless, twitching beneath him as he fucks you through it with devastating care.

“beautiful,” he breathes, watching you crumble.

you’re too far gone to even feel embarrassed at how wrecked you sound. you’re crying a little overstimulated, completely taken, the term “fucked dumb” no longer a meme, but a diagnosis.

he slows down. pulls out just enough to let you breathe, but not leave. his hands slide down your thighs, soothing, grounding.

and then, without warning, he’s back inside you. slower this time. softer. but it still hurts, in the way pleasure hurts when you’ve already come once and your nerves are still singing. you whimper, and he kisses your shoulder.

“i know, i know,” he whispers. “just one more. you can do one more.”

you don't know if you're nodding or crying, but it doesn’t matter. he keeps praising you, guiding you back to that high again with practiced care and relentless control. and when you finally collapse beneath him, thighs shaking, tears wet on your cheeks, he kisses you like you’re something fragile he’s honored to break.

he doesn’t leave right after.

he wraps you in a warm, damp towel and carries you to the bath. cleans you gently. makes you tea. sits beside you as your body catches up with your soul.

and when he says, “you’re safe,” you believe him.

and you realized then: you’d never be able to go back.

how could you? to twenty-something-year-old men who needed validation, who didn’t know what to do with a woman who needed to be held, not just touched? who didn’t understand the ache that came from deeper wounds. wounds that wanted comfort, not conquest?

nanami wasn’t just good in bed.

he understood. he moved with restraint, with precision. the kind of man who didn’t need to be loud to leave a mark.

you looked up at him. his calm, unreadable expression softened only by the way his thumb brushed over your hip. and it hit you:

you weren’t just ruined for boys.

you were recalibrated.

no one else would ever compare.

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

۫ ꣑ৎ . satoru gojo is the type to bite during sex to coax extra noise out of you.

rough. auralism. power play. dirty talk. biting / marking.

“satoru—ngh—why’re you biting me so much?” you gasp voice half-moan, as his teeth sink into the soft spot under your jaw, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you squirm.

your pussy clenches around his cock slick and hot, and you feel him grin against your skin, his thrusts slowing for a second like he’s savoring your reaction.

your hands are in his hair, tugging, trying to pull him off, but its no use he’s already moving to your shoulder, nipping again, the sting sending a shiver through you.

“cause you sound so damn good when i do,” he murmurs, voice low, a little breathless, his lips brushing the fresh mark he’s left.

he thrusts deeper the wet slap of his hips against yours filling the room, and you moan, loud and unfiltered, exactly what he wants.

“see? that noise—fuck, i could listen to that all day.” he’s teasing, but its real, his eyes locked on yours, like he’s memorizing every sound you make.

you roll your eyes trying to keep up the fight even as your body’s betraying you, hips rocking to meet his thrusts.

his teeth graze your collarbone now, a quick nip that makes you gasp, your nails digging into his back. “can’t you just—kiss me like a normal person?”

“normal?” he pulls back, smirking his cock still moving inside you, slow and deliberate now, like he’s dragging it out to torture you.

“babe, you’d get bored if i was normal.” he leans down, biting the curve of your neck, harder, and you yelp, the sound morphing into a moan as he thrusts hard, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

“admit it—you love this,” he says voice all smug but soft, like he’s daring you to deny it. “love it? ngh—im gonna—fuck—have marks for days,” you shoot back voice wobbly, trying to sound mad, but its hard when your pussy’s fluttering around him, so close to the edge.

you tug his hair, pulling his face closer, and he groans, low and rough, clearly into it. “you’re gonna owe me concealer, satoru,” you add, and he chuckles, his breath hot against your skin as he moves to bite the inside of your thigh, his hands spreading your legs wider.

“concealer? nah, you wear my marks like a badge,” he says, voice muffled against your skin, his teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm, your moan louder now, exactly what he’s chasing.

he starts to thrusts faster, his cock stretching you, the rhythm picking up as he gets needier, his words coming between breaths.

“fuck, you’re so loud—ngh—keep making those noises, yeah?”

“you’re—fuck—gonna get us a noise complaint,” you tease breathless, and he laughs again, his thrusts stuttering like your words hit him.

“good. let ‘em hear how good im doing you,” he says, serious, and he leans up, kissing the bite mark on your neck like an apology, his cock still moving, pushing you both closer.

“you close? c'mon, babe, i wanna hear you.” he murmurs, his tone all coaxing, and you nod, too gone to talk, your moans spilling out as he bites your earlobe, the final push that sends you over.

“fuck—satoru!” you cry, your orgasm hitting hard, a shuddering wave that has your pussy clamping around his cock, thighs shaking, nails scratching down his back.

he groans, loud and raw, following you, spilling deep inside with a broken, “shit—babe—” his thrusts slowing as he rides it out, his lips still grazing your skin.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[deeoccasionallyspeaks]

when you first started seeing nanami, you didn’t expect it to be like this.

in a good way, of course.

you knew he was a little older, and you loved teasing him about it whenever the opportunity presented itself. sending him memes he pretends not to understand (but always ends up laughing at anyway). he rolls his eyes. you blow him a kiss. the usual.

but what you didn’t expect… was how needy he could be.

not in a loud or obvious way. just quiet, persistent, and surprisingly tender.

some nights, he comes home from work and doesn’t say a word. just wraps his arms around you like he’s trying to remember what peace feels like. he always pulls you in tight, like he’s grounding himself. like if he holds you long enough, everything else might quiet down.

or you’ll be halfway through a movie when he lays his head in your lap without warning. he doesn’t ask, just guides your hand to his hair, a silent little nudge that says: please. you run your fingers through the strands, slow and gentle, and he melts into it. lets out a barely-there sigh. if you stop, even for a second, he’ll make a soft, frustrated huff against your thigh. not quite a complaint, more like a sleepy protest.

you learn quickly that his love language is acts of service.

he holds your purse without hesitation. never self-conscious about it. if your heels start to hurt mid-walk, he slips off his shoes and trades without a word, walking the rest of the way barefoot like it’s nothing. he pulls out chairs. holds doors. always remembers to carry an umbrella when the sky looks even slightly grey.

and he does the chores you hate without needing to be asked. takes out the trash. loads the dishwasher. vacuums while you’re out because he knows you hate the noise.

he never makes a show of it. he’s not doing it to impress you. that’s just how he loves. quietly, consistently, and all the way through.

and over time, you realize something simple and devastatingly sweet:

he doesn’t just want to take care of you.

he needs to.

⋯