#... spicy

[velvetghoul]

Number 13

✦ oneshot

Reader x Dae-Ho Kang | 18+ MDNI

cw: gun violence, blood, explicit smut, dominant woman, submissive male, cockwarming, riding, overstimulation, whimpering, muzzle flash, mask kink, control kink, mutual intimacy, aftercare, slight voyeurism, camera destruction, Squid Game AU

I've had this in mind since the last season came out, not my usual thing but please enjoy ★

⸻

The room was still ringing with the aftermath of the gunshot.

The body lay twitching on the floor. Blood already spreading.

You lowered your pistol.

Your mask—black, sleek, without a single number—tilted toward the tall figure still frozen in place.

Guard 13.

The red cloth of his mask was splattered with someone else’s blood. His hands still clutched his rifle, but he hadn’t fired. Hadn’t moved fast enough. He stood like a soldier—but he looked like he was about to crack.

You stepped toward him.

The other guards were already dragging the corpse away. Resetting the arena. Pretending this wasn’t anything unusual.

But he didn’t look away.

“Guard 13,” you said. Calm. Sharp. “You come with me.”

He obeyed without a word.

You didn’t speak as you walked the metal corridors, black boots silent compared to his heavier steps. You were tall—most people had to look up to meet your eye—but not him. He was broader, taller. Still looked like he could break someone in half.

Yet he followed you like a lamb.

Inside your private office, the door slid shut behind you with a soft hiss. Locking automatically.

He stood just inside. Hands behind his back. Breathing calm—but a little too slow. Like he was holding it in.

You turned to face him.

“You froze.”

His voice was quiet behind the mask. “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

“…You, ma’am.”

A beat of silence passed. Your head tilted slowly.

He added, “I saw you step in. I didn’t expect you to be real.”

You exhaled through your nose. “That’s a stupid answer.”

“I didn’t say it was smart,” he murmured.

Your boots stepped closer. “Take off your mask.”

He hesitated, just long enough for the tension to tighten. But he obeyed.

When the mask came off, his dark hair was tousled, sweat at the edges. His mouth was soft—too soft for someone who handled rifles—and his eyes, god. Warm brown, gentle even now.

You stepped forward and reached up to your own helmet.

When you pulled it off, his breath caught.

Your hair fell out with a light shake. Eyes sharp. Lips set in a calm line. You didn’t speak. You just watched him.

He blinked once. Slowly. Then smiled just slightly.

“…You’re really pretty, ma’am.”

“You’re really fucking lucky I don’t like shooting pretty things.”

“Are you sure you don’t?” he asked, calm and a little smug. “You looked like you liked shooting that guy.”

You stepped into him. His back hit the door.

“You’re brave when the mask is off.”

His mouth twitched. “Maybe I’m just feeling safe.”

“Don’t push it,” you said, but your voice was low. Curious. Your hand came up and toyed with the zipper of his red uniform. “Tell me. When I shot him… what were you feeling?”

He licked his lips, quiet for a moment.

“Relieved,” he said honestly. “And a little turned on.”

You grinned. “Brat.”

“I’m tall. I can get away with it.”

“No,” you murmured, leaning in closer, your mouth nearly brushing his. “You get away with it because I let you.”

Then your hand dropped—quick, sharp—and palmed the front of his open uniform.

He gasped.

You cupped him through the black fabric of his underlayers, feeling how half-hard he already was from the tension, from you. You didn’t move your hand. You just held him there, smirking as his lips parted with a soft sound.

“Still feeling safe, 13?”

He looked down at you from beneath those long lashes, his breath a little shaky.

“Not really,” he said. “But I still want to kiss you.”

You raised a brow.

He leaned down slowly—giving you the chance to stop him. But you didn’t.

You let his mouth hover above yours, his breath warm, his lips nearly brushing as you pressed your hand harder against his cock. He choked back a soft noise.

“Beg for it,” you whispered.

He swallowed.

“…Please.”

You kissed him. Not rough. Not sweet. Hungry.

He moaned into it, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure where to put them. You kept one hand on his chest—just to feel the rhythm of his heart hammering—and the other still cupping him firmly, thumb dragging slow pressure up his length through the fabric.

When you pulled back, he was flushed and blinking.

You grinned.

“You’ll report to me from now on.��

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mask on when I say. Clothes off when I want.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

“And next time?” you said, your voice lower now, smug. “You don’t wait for permission to get hard thinking about me.”

He smiled, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You had him backed against your desk again.

His uniform was halfway unzipped, body flushed under the red fabric. You hadn’t even taken your gloves off yet—but your hand was already stuffed down the front of his pants, knuckles brushing against warm, twitching skin.

“I told you to stand still,” you said sharply.

“I am standing still,” Dae-ho replied, that soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re squirming.”

“You’re the one with your hand down my pants. Kind of hard not to.”

That bratty tone again. Sweet, calm, but poking at you like he wanted to see how far he could push.

So you pushed back. Your grip tightened around his cock.

He choked on a moan, head thunking lightly back against the wall. “Okay—okay, fuck, I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not.”

He laughed breathlessly. “No. I’m really not.”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the side of his jaw. “You think just because I let you kiss me yesterday, you get to act cute now?”

He tilted his head toward you, face soft, gaze defiant. “I think you like it when I act cute.”

Your mouth ghosted over his ear. “I like it when you shut up and listen.”

He shivered.

Your hand stroked slowly now, mean and steady, dragging small whimpers from his throat. His hips tried to rock forward—you shoved him back with a firm palm on his chest.

“Don’t move,” you warned again. “Or you won’t come at all.”

“Ma’am—”

But then— BZZZZT.

The emergency alert on your desk screen blinked red. You yanked your hand out of his pants, stepping back as a voice crackled through the speaker:

“Black Guard. Report—Frontman is approaching your corridor.”

Your blood iced. You and Dae-ho stared at each other, faces inches apart.

“…Shit.”

You grabbed your black mask, snapping it down fast over your face. Dae-ho fumbled with his own, the hood slipping awkwardly back into place as he zipped up his uniform just in time.

You both stood there. He looked so stiff you thought he might actually pass out.

The office door slid open.

“Black Guard.”

The Frontman’s voice was low. Metallic. As unreadable as always.

You bowed your head.

He stepped in slowly, towering, the mask emotionless as always. His gaze swept across the room. Then—

“…What is Guard 13 doing here?”

Silence.

You spoke. Calm. Sharp. “Reporting for reassignment.”

A pause.

The Frontman’s gaze lingered on Dae-ho. “He’s not your usual type.“

Your stomach tensed. But you didn’t flinch.

“I take what I’m given,” you replied.

“Do you?”

Dae-ho didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You could feel how hard he was still trying to stay still—how his half-stiff cock was probably pressing uncomfortably in the wrong direction beneath the uniform.

“…Hmm,” the Frontman murmured. “If he underperforms, I’ll reassign him permanently. Don’t get attached.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed behind him. Gone.

You didn’t move for five seconds. Ten.

Then— You turned slowly toward Dae-ho.

He exhaled, mask still on, voice muffled and breathless. “That was—fuck—that was so close.”

You stepped into him again. Your hand slid back down—no warmth this time. Just pressure. Just command.

“I should punish you,” you said flatly.

He swallowed. “You gonna?”

“Oh, I will. Later.”

He let out a soft, bratty laugh through the mask. “Can I ask something?”

“What?”

“Did he know?”

You pressed your palm harder against him. “He knows everything.“

“…Oh.”

You leaned in until your mouth hovered right over his covered face.

“Next time, if you squirm while I’m jerking you off during an emergency call—”

Your grip tightened.

“—you’re coming with the mask on, and I’m not helping you clean up.”

He whimpered.

The control room buzzed quietly, cold light flickering over polished metal and heavy screens. A sea of red figures moved across the monitors—guards, players, blood, order, chaos.

The Frontman stood tall beside you. Still. Silent.

So were you.

But your eyes weren’t on the game.

Not really.

You were watching him. Guard 13.

Even masked, even anonymous in a sea of red, you could spot him immediately. The way he moved. The way he stood straighter than the others. The way he looked at people like he was still someone.

He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t reckless. He just… drew your eye.

You didn’t mean to stare. But you also didn’t stop.

The Frontman’s voice broke the silence.

“You’ve been watching 13 a lot.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned a little closer to the screen where Dae-ho’s tall frame moved through the crowd, carefully pulling two players apart before their fists could land.

The Frontman turned his head toward you.

“Is he yours now?”

You shrugged. “He’s efficient.”

A pause.

“Mm. Right.”

There was amusement in his voice. A touch of challenge. But he didn’t press.

Another monitor blinked red.

One of the players had shoved another to the ground, boot on their throat, screaming something incoherent. The other guards were slow to act. One flinched back. Another raised a rifle—but the tension was spiraling.

The Frontman tilted his head toward you.

“Go down. Remind them how fast death comes.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t nod.

You just turned.

Your boots echoed once down the service stairwell.

You didn’t take the elevator.

You didn’t need backup.

The pistol sat comfortably on your hip, low-slung and polished. There was a machine gun in your office—still racked, untouched. You didn’t need it.

You were faster with one shot.

The heavy game floor door opened with a hiss.

The air inside was thick with shouting. Panic. The scuffle had only grown—players circling, two bleeding, a guard trying to pull one back by the collar.

But the second you stepped in, silence rippled through the room.

You didn’t say a word.

Your mask gleamed black under the harsh lights. Your body calm. Tall. Still. A shadow by the door.

And your hand rested casually at your side—fingers just grazing the holstered pistol.

Guard 13 turned slightly. You saw it in the angle of his shoulders. He clocked you immediately. Still masked, still unreadable. But his posture shifted.

Like he stood a little taller.

The room quieted fast.

Even the aggressive player dropped his arms. No one wanted to test the Black Guard. You didn’t need threats. You didn’t even need to move.

You were a reminder.

That one pull of your trigger could end a name.

You leaned against the doorframe.

And watched. Only one pair of eyes mattered.

And his were already on you.

The sleeping hall was dim and cold, echoing with slow footsteps.

Players lined up in threes and fours, heading for the food tables. Dinner distribution always brought tension—but tonight, something was different.

You stood in the upper surveillance deck, shoulder to shoulder with the Frontman, watching the feed from behind the one-way glass. Guards lined the walls below. Everything looked the same.

But your eyes locked on them.

Not one. Not two. All of them. The players weren’t fighting. They weren’t panicking.

They were communicating.

A glance. A nod. A pause in line to let someone else catch up. No one looking directly at each other—but they moved like they were meant to gather. Like they’d rehearsed it in silence.

You leaned forward slightly, masked and still.

Your voice barely left your throat.

“…They’re planning something.”

The Frontman turned his head a fraction toward you. You didn’t see his eyes, but you felt his focus sharpen.

“They think no one will notice outside of the games,” you added, more to yourself. “They’re wrong.”

A heavy silence settled.

Then his voice, low and even: “We’ll watch.”

Your gaze didn’t waver from the glass. Players were getting closer to the food now. Moving too close. Too tight.

One shoved another—friendly on the surface. But your eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t chaos. This was coordination.

You didn’t speak again. You didn’t need to.

Your hand was already resting against your pistol holster. Not grabbing. Just… touching.

Ready.

The Frontman finally spoke again. Quieter.

“We’ll reinforce with guards.”

“I’ll go.”

He paused. Measured.

“Careful.”

You didn’t look at him.

“I don’t need careful.”

And just like that, you turned.

Boots sharp. Body controlled. Mask glinting black as you disappeared into the hallway.

Down below, in the shadows of the sleeping hall, Guard 13 stood along the wall—still, composed.

But he saw the shift in movement. He saw the Frontman glance up.

And when you appeared at the far door, pistol strapped low on your thigh, mask on, back straight— He knew.

You weren’t just watching anymore. You were waiting.

The sleeping hall was humming with low noise—fabric shifting, shoes scuffing, trays clinking.

It wasn’t loud. But it was wrong.

You stood behind the viewing panel, masked, still. The Frontman had retreated back through the secure door behind you, trusting your presence to speak loud enough.

It did.

Below, the players were lined up for food—but they weren’t acting hungry anymore. They were stalling. Waiting. Lurking behind one another. Watching the guards.

Two players shifted closer to the back wall. One had a spoon. Another—no, a fork. Gripped tight.

You saw it.

Another bumped into a guard. Not accidental. A hand grazed too close to a rifle.

The moment crystallized.

You stepped away from the glass. The doors below hissed open.

You entered. Boots slow. Mask on. Pistol still holstered.

For three seconds, no one noticed you’d walked in.

Then your presence hit the room like a wave of static.

Guard 13 was the first to turn. His shoulders tensed. He didn’t move, but he tracked you like gravity itself shifted.

The players hesitated.

Then—one moved. A fork raised.

A hand reaching for a rifle— CRACK.

One shot. Echoing. Shattering. Splintering calm.

The bullet didn’t hit anyone. It didn’t need to.

It tore through the steel ceiling with deadly precision.

Every player dropped to a crouch. Trays hit the floor. Some screamed. A few ran backward.

But you stood still—arm extended, gun raised, smoke curling from the barrel.

And when you spoke— You didn’t yell. You didn’t growl.

You said it like a teacher correcting posture.

“If any of you touch another weapon, I will shoot to kill. And I don’t miss.”

The words hung in the air like gunpowder. Dry. Cold. Heavy.

You didn’t look at anyone directly—but they all felt seen.

You holstered the pistol with the same elegance you’d draw a knife.

No dramatics. Just precision.

You stepped farther into the room. The crowd parted instinctively. Even the guards stayed frozen.

Except one.

Dae-ho stood rigid near the left wall, eyes locked on you behind his mask.

He’d seen you from the control room. Followed your movements. Felt your hand in his pants, your voice in his ear.

But now?

He realized what you were.

Not just the Black Guard. Not just the Frontman’s second.

You were death walking in a tailored uniform.

And still— he couldn’t stop watching you.

The room was nearly silent.

Only the hum of the monitors, the low buzz of electricity, and the soft clink of glass.

You sat in your chair—legs crossed, eyes lit faintly by the glow of the screens. Mask off. The room belonged to you. The hour belonged to you.

The bottle of whiskey on your desk was three fingers lower than when the games ended.

You lifted your glass, sipped once. Sharp. Warm. Clean.

Your eyes drifted to a familiar screen.

Guard 13.

Still awake. Still in full uniform, mask off, sitting at the edge of his narrow bed like sleep was something he didn’t deserve.

The hallway was dark.

But the camera saw everything.

He hadn’t moved for twenty minutes. Just sat there—staring at the floor. You watched him. You reached for the control panel. One hand on your glass.

Your fingers tapped the manual override.

Click.

Then again.

Click.

One last time.

Click.

A soft metallic signal. His door unlocked.

On the screen, his head lifted. Just barely.

He looked straight at the camera. He knew.

You didn’t send for him. You didn’t need to.

He stood. No panic. No hesitation.

He pulled his mask back on—out of habit or obedience, maybe both—and stepped into the hallway, letting the door shut behind him.

And now—

He was coming.

Your lips curved around the edge of your glass.

You let the taste settle on your tongue as the elevator whirred softly in the shaft.

Then— Ping. A sharp chime from your secondary monitor.

One movement alert. Just outside your elevator.

You frowned.

Your fingers danced over the panel again. Switching cameras. Scanning the outer corridor.

Nothing visible. Yet. But something was there.

Your glass lowered slowly. The warmth in your stomach began to cool.

You reached for your pistol again. Just in case.

And you waited. One knock at the door.

You turned your head. No fear. Just calculation.

It opened. Guard 13 stepped inside, mask on, calm. His presence filled the room like heat against steel.

He paused. Reading you. Reading the room.

You looked up at him. Something between a smirk and a warning in your eyes.

“…Lock it,” you said.

He did. And behind the sealed door, you sat back, pistol resting on the table.

Something was coming. But so was he.

You just watched him. Guard 13. Your silent indulgence. Your most dangerous curiosity. But tonight—

He was different. He turned the lock himself. Slow. Loud. Purposeful. And then he walked toward you—not hesitant, not shy, not small. Broad shoulders, blood-warm confidence. Still masked.

You stayed seated. Your pistol rested on the desk. One hand wrapped around your glass. The other draped loose on the armrest.

You tilted your head, a faint smile playing at your mouth.

“Close it,” you said.

“I already did,” he answered—low, calm.

And then— His hands lifted to his mask.

You watched the way his fingers curled under the edges, the way he paused—not for fear, but for effect.

He pulled it off. Your chest rose once. Slowly.

Those warm brown eyes found yours immediately. No flicker. No question.

“You always watch me like you’re above it,” he said, voice softer now. Dangerous in a new way. “But you called me here.”

“And?”

He took one step closer. “I’m not leaving until you look at me without that gun between us.”

Your fingers grazed the pistol without gripping it. You smirked. “I don’t need a gun to put you on your knees.”

He smiled—but it wasn’t boyish. It was slow. Predatory.

“Then tell me to get on them.”

You didn’t. You leaned back instead. Let your legs part just a little. Invitation disguised as command. He walked toward you—slow, heavy steps—and your pulse dared to speed up.

He was close now. Between your legs. Looking down at you. Your thumb traced the edge of your whiskey glass, but your eyes were locked on his. One of his hands came up, fingers trailing over the open collar of your jacket. His touch was light—but intentional.

“Can I kiss you this time,” he asked, “or are you going to pretend you don’t want it again?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes flicked to his mouth.

He leaned down, slow, slow, slow— PING.

The alert hit the air like a needle to a nerve.

Your head snapped to the side. Monitors lit up red.

Movement. Again. This time—closer. Right outside the hallway leading to your private level. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

But his hand dropped to your pistol, brushing your fingers, steadying them.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. You stood slowly. Close to his chest now. Breath to breath.

“No,” you murmured. “We’ll both handle it.”

You looked up at him—calm, sharp, loaded with something dangerous and new. He looked down at you, still breathless from your nearness, but steady. Solid. Ready.

For the first time, you didn’t just see his obedience. You saw the threat in him.

And you liked it.

The hallway was dark. Silent.

Red lights blinked low against the steel walls. The movement alert pulsed on your wrist screen like a countdown. You stalked forward in tandem—your pistol drawn, Dae-ho just half a step behind. Not hovering. Not protecting.

Moving with you. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Every part of you burned with focus—finger tight on the trigger guard, eyes scanning the ceiling corners, the floor shadows, every vent and camera blind spot.

Footsteps. Soft. Uneven. Far ahead.

You raised your hand. He halted immediately. Your other hand flicked toward the far left junction—signal for cover. He understood instantly, sliding toward the corner, his hand now gripping his weapon with all calm and force.

Whoever was moving out there—they weren’t rushing. They were creeping. Too confident. Too careful.

Trying to get close to you.

You moved in low and silent, like smoke, pistol angled upward. A faint clang of metal echoed ahead.

You saw the edge of movement— A shape. A player.

Crouched in a gap between structural beams, gripping something sharp. Improvised blade. The second your steps gave them away, they lunged— Too fast.

But not faster than him.

He yanked you back hard just as the figure jumped, shoulder first, blade raised.

You grunted from the force—his arm wrapping fully around your waist, dragging you flush against his chest as he shoved you behind him.

One gunshot cracked. Not yours. His.

The attacker dropped mid-air.

Your back hit the wall—his body still covering yours like a shield. You froze for a heartbeat, panting, your wrist tight in his grip. Then you looked up. His eyes—dark, wide, furious.

Not at you. At whoever thought they could touch you.

Your voice was calm, despite your racing pulse.

“…I had it.”

He didn’t step back. “I know,” he said, breath close to your face. “But I didn’t care.”

You blinked. Heat bloomed low in your stomach.

Slowly, your hand rose. You pressed your palm to his chest. Felt it pounding. He looked down at you. Mask gone. Entirely exposed.

And for once— you didn’t tell him to step away.

You stood like that for a long second. The corpse at your feet. Your breath tangled together.

“You just risked your life for mine,” you murmured.

He tilted his head. “Maybe I wanted to.”

You let him stay close. Maybe you wanted to, too.

The elevator hummed low as it ascended.

You stood side by side—blood splattered faintly on your sleeves, the attacker long dead behind you.

Your pistol was still warm. His hands were still shaking.

But not from fear. From adrenaline. From you.

The doors opened into the security wing. You strode down the hallway in silence, boots heavy, energy buzzing under your skin.

He followed close behind. You didn’t notice the secondary lens embedded in the hallway wall. You didn’t see it blink. But somewhere, buried in the dark, he did.

The Frontman. Watching. As always.

And this time—he tilted his head.

“…Interesting,” he murmured to himself.

Click. Your office door slid shut behind you.

Clack. Locks engaged.

You turned, stepping toward the console—but he was already moving. Fast. Heavy.

You didn‘t even had time to set the pistol down before Dae-ho grabbed you.

One arm slid tight around your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck. Not to hurt. To hold. To pull.

He kissed you hard—mouth open, breath hot, lips crashing into yours like he’d been starving. You gasped, staggered slightly back as his body pressed flush against yours.

He was bigger. Stronger. But never used it. Until now.

Your hand instinctively reached toward your hip.

“You’re bold,” you murmured, letting your lips brush his again. “Careful, young man… my pistol’s still loaded.”

He smirked—sharp and low. “I’m not scared of it,” he breathed, voice deep against your throat. “Not when I’ve got you.”

His hand stayed wrapped around the nape of your neck, possessive. He bent slightly, forcing you to tilt your chin up.

Another kiss—slower this time. Controlled. Filthy.

When he pulled back, your lipstick smeared against his mouth, his breathing ragged.

“You’re always in control,” he said. “But not tonight.”

You licked your bottom lip. Smiled darkly.

“You think so?”

He nodded. “I know so.”

Behind the door, behind the screen, deep in the feed—

the Frontman watched. Still. Silent.

Zoomed in.

The Black Guard. And 13. Entangled. Exposed.

He didn’t interrupt. He just sat back. And waited.

Because this?

This wasn’t the end.

This was the beginning.

His hand was on your throat again—but not squeezing. Just owning. His breath warm against your jaw, his body pressing you back against the edge of your desk, making you feel the difference in size.

You let him. For a moment. His mouth trailed from your lips to your neck, stubble scraping your skin. His hips pressed between your thighs, rougher now, testing. Seeing how far he could go.

You didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I like you like this,” he whispered, voice low and gravel-edged. “Off-guard. Letting me touch you.”

Your fingers slid slowly behind you. Reached for the holster on the edge of the desk.

He didn’t notice.

“You going to let me take control tonight?” he asked, forehead pressed to yours, hand moving down your thigh. “Let me have you, ma’am?”

You looked up at him. Your eyes didn’t blink. You didn’t smile.

You just held his gaze—sharp, deadly calm.

And then he heard it. Click.

The sound was so quiet it could’ve been a breath.

He froze. Your hand moved to the side of his hip, firm.

He looked down. The barrel of your pistol sat against the meat of his hipbone. Close. Heavy. Loaded.

You leaned in, lips ghosting his jaw.

“Told you,” you whispered, slow and smooth, “be careful, 13.”

He exhaled shakily. His cock twitched against you.

Your other hand slid up his chest, curling around the back of his neck. “You get one chance to try and top me,” you murmured, pressing the gun tighter, letting it drag slightly over the fabric. “After that, I own you again.”

He licked his lips, eyes locked on yours.

“…Can I kiss you first?” he asked, breathless.

You smirked. Pulled the gun back. Tossed it onto the desk with a controlled clatter. Then grabbed him by the jaw and kissed him like he belonged to you.

Because he did.

His back hit the desk hard. You pushed him, full force, hand fisted in the collar of his red uniform as you drove him back with a low grunt. He could’ve stopped you. He didn’t.

He didn’t want to. The desk rattled under his weight, and your body followed—climbing on top, straddling his hips with all the control he tried to steal a minute ago.

“Still think you’re in charge?” you asked, one brow raised.

His hands were already gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white, chest rising under the half-zipped suit. His dark eyes burned into yours.

“I think you want me to try.”

You smirked. “Cute.”

Your hands slid down his chest, slow, unzipping the rest of his uniform. The fabric peeled away to reveal warm skin, muscle tight beneath soft tension. His cock was already straining against the black underlayers, leaking through the fabric.

You sat heavier on him. Grinding slowly. Watching him try not to buck up into you.

“You’re already hard,” you murmured. “Pathetic.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath. “Can’t help it.“

“I didn’t say stop.”

You rocked again—slow, filthy pressure. Your clothed heat grinding against the soaked fabric of his bulge. Over and over. Just enough to ache. Not enough to give him anything real.

He groaned, head tilting back. Your hands grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.

“You don’t touch unless I tell you,” you breathed into his neck. “Got it?”

“…Yes.”

“Ma’am.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

Your fingers trailed down your own body now, unfastening your belt, tugging your pants down just enough. You weren’t even fully undressed—just open enough to ruin him.

You lifted your hips. He looked up—wide-eyed, panting.

“Don’t you dare come the second I sit on you,” you warned.

He nodded, mouth parted. You sank down slowly.

Fuck— His cock filled you in one long stretch, thick and hot, your body swallowing him inch by inch until your hips sat flush.

He whined. You didn’t move.

You just stared down at him, still fully clothed above the waist, still holding his wrists. Just sitting. Just owning.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say who owns you.”

“…You do.”

“Say it right.”

“You own me, ma’am.”

Your body rolled once—tight, wet grind. He choked. You leaned down, kissed him hard, messy, teeth clashing.

And then you fucked him.

Not fast. Not sweet. Just hard, deep strokes—grinding, pulling back, slamming down again. Your hands stayed on his chest, his wrists pinned under your knees. You moved how you wanted—using him like the weapon he was.

And he loved it.

“Touch me,” you finally allowed, voice cracking.

He did immediately. Hands flying to your hips, grabbing, guiding, begging with his grip. You leaned forward and whispered filth into his mouth.

He came first—loud, shuddering, gasping into your skin.

You didn’t stop. You rode him through it, hips relentless, grinding, owning, until he was whimpering, overstimulated and pulsing, twitching under you.

You came with a hiss, pressed tight to his chest, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound.

Then silence. Only breathing.

His eyes dazed. Yours sharp. Both of you wrecked.

Your fingers curled around his jaw, dragging his eyes back up to yours.

“You ever try to top me again,” you whispered, “I’ll leave you like this. Leaking and begging.”

He nodded, breathless. “…Still worth it.”

You smirked.

God help you—you might let him try again.

A moment of silence. Then—

The alert screamed red across your monitor.

SECURITY BREACH: LEVEL 2.

Inside. Already inside. You didn’t grab your mask.

You didn’t zip your jacket. You grabbed your pistol and ran.

Behind you, 13 was already moving—half-dressed, face still flushed, pupils still blown from the orgasm you’d just ridden out of him. But the second you moved, he was on your heels.

“Where?” he asked breathlessly.

“Frontman,” you snapped, already slamming the security override on the elevator panel. “We get the call from him first.”

You both slammed into the elevator, side by side—sweat drying, clothes rumpled, hearts racing for an entirely different reason now.

The doors opened. And there he was.

In the command suite. Leaning back in his chair. Legs crossed. Mask nowhere to be seen.

Smiling.

“Nice show,” he said lazily, lifting a drink as if to toast you both.

Your jaw tightened. Your hair was still a mess. Your shirt stuck to your back. Dae-ho stood just behind you, chest still rising, lips red and bitten raw.

You stared the Frontman down.

“Fuck off,” you said.

He chuckled. “You finally cracked. I knew it would be him.”

You didn’t respond. You stepped further into the room, scanning the alert panels. Dae-ho followed like a shadow, now dead serious.

“Level 2 breach,” you muttered, eyes snapping across the wall of screens. “Multiple signals.”

The smile slid off the Frontman’s face. He stood.

The amusement vanished. “We’ve got motion in the lower armory,” he said. “Unscheduled. Cameras are offline in two halls. Sabotage.”

Your hand tightened around your pistol.

“I’ll take east wing,” you said.

Dae-ho stepped up beside you. “I’ll take the south corridors.”

The Frontman looked at you—still flushed, unmasked, more real than he’d ever seen you.

He didn’t grin this time. He just nodded.

“Put them down. No survivors. No hesitation.”

You didn’t flinch. “Good,” you muttered, spinning toward the exit. “I’m still loaded.”

Dae-ho didn’t say a word—but you could feel the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

And this time? You were hunting.

The emergency lights flashed red as you sprinted down the corridor.

Back to your office. Back to your gear.

You threw the door open. Dae-ho slammed it shut behind you.

Your jacket was already halfway off—shirt sticking to your skin, holster strap tossed across the chair from earlier. You grabbed it without pause.

Your mask was still on the console. You picked it up with one hand while the other flipped open your locked weapons drawer. Inside: your pistol, freshly cleaned. A handful of mags. Two knives.

You reached for the pistol first. Clicked the slide. Checked the mag. Loaded. You shoved it into the holster and wrapped it tight around your hips, clicking the buckle into place in one fluid motion.

Then you pulled the belt snug. Dead silent. Dead calm.

Dae-ho, behind you, had already unzipped his full uniform and pulled on a tactical harness. The machine gun strapped across his chest like it belonged there. His fingers flew across the weapon—checking ammo, adjusting the sling.

And then he turned.

Saw you— Shoulders squared, pistol holstered, mask in one hand, and your fingers curling around the hilt of a blade.

Not flashy. Not decorative. Functional.

You tucked it into a sheath at your thigh like it was a second limb.

He gave a low, impressed whistle.

You turned your head just slightly, catching him over your shoulder.

That same grin from earlier— Wicked. Cold. Confident.

“I’m silent.”

He stared at you. Then licked his lips, grin returning.

“Yeah,” he said. “But not earlier.”

You grabbed your mask, pulled it down over your face.

Voice muffled. Sharp. “Keep up, 13.”

He didn’t need telling twice.

The facility lights flashed blood-red above your heads.

You moved like ghosts. Black and red uniforms blurring through corridor after corridor. The air buzzed with the smell of steel, sweat, electricity.

You said nothing. You didn’t need to.

Dae-ho stayed just to your right—his machine gun slung across his chest, his eyes sharp under the mask, every movement practiced and silent. You held your pistol low and tight. Smooth. One hand steady on your thigh knife.

You reached the junction. “Split,” you said, curt and precise.

He nodded. “I’ll clear the western wing.”

You disappeared down the left path—boots soundless. Gun raised. Every corner cleared in one swift glance.

But two halls down— A noise. Not yours. Not his.

Too close.

You turned immediately, boots reversing direction, pistol already raised— Just as the muffled grunt echoed down the corridor.

You turned the corner fast. 13 was mid-struggle.

A rogue figure had lunged from behind the vent panel—caught him with a knife at his neck, arm locked tight around his chest. His machine gun had clattered to the floor, out of reach.

He was holding the attacker’s wrist back with one hand, teeth gritted under the mask. His eyes flicked to you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t say a word.

You stepped up. Calm. Silent.

And fired one shot. Right into the skull.

The body dropped behind him like dead weight, blood splashing across the wall. Dae-ho stood panting, blade inches from where it could’ve pierced his throat.

Silence. The heat between you and the smoking barrel was the only thing that moved.

Then his voice came, low and muffled through the mask.

“…Thanks.”

You holstered your pistol without looking at him. Your head tilted slightly.

“You owe me dinner.” And then you walked past him, just as calm as you arrived.

He stared after you for half a beat—then jogged to catch up, heart pounding harder from you than the attack.

The last body hit the floor with a dull thud.

The alarms flickered once—then died. The red lights stopped pulsing. Emergency lockdown triggered behind you with a final, shuddering clang.

It was done.

You lowered your pistol. Dae-ho slung his weapon across his back with one slow, shaking breath. You both stood in the stillness, the scent of smoke and gunpowder still clinging to your skin.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Your muscles twitched under the weight of adrenaline. Your wrists were sore from how tight you’d gripped the pistol. His knuckles were scraped raw.

And still—neither of you looked at each other.

Not yet.

Your office door slid open with its usual mechanical hiss, quieter now.

The room was dim, only the glow of a few surveillance monitors flickering like embers.

You stepped in first. He followed.

The door locked behind you with a gentle clack. Neither of you spoke. You unholstered your weapon, set it down.

Unstrapped the knife. Pulled off the gloves.

Sat.

He stood across from you, machine gun still hanging against his chest, his shoulders stiff, still too alert.

You glanced up at him.

He hadn’t taken his mask off. Neither had you.

The quiet pressed between you like a loaded trigger.

And then—he moved.

Across the room. Slow. Controlled. Not to a chair. To you.

He stopped in front of you.

You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him.

Your body still hummed with tension.

He lifted his hands. And slowly—carefully—reached for your mask.

You didn’t stop him.

His fingers brushed the edges, pausing just long enough to give you the chance to say no.

You didn’t. He pulled it off.

Revealing your face—slicked with sweat, dusted with dried blood at the hairline, eyes still sharp, lips pressed together.

But your jaw relaxed. You let him see you.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse from the smoke.

“…You good?”

He nodded, eyes scanning your face like he was afraid it’d vanish.

“You?”

You nodded back.

He knelt in front of you. One hand bracing on your thigh—not for control, not for anything rough. Just there.

“You saved me,” he murmured. “Twice.”

“I do that,” you said.

His lips twitched. “You gonna keep doing that?”

Your fingers brushed back the strands of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Only if you keep letting me.”

He smiled.

And for the first time since the alarms started, you exhaled.

The light in the bathroom was soft—too soft for what you’d just done. Steam fogged the mirror already. The water hissed quietly in the background, splashing against porcelain. You didn’t speak.

Your holster and jacket were already on the counter. Your gloves long discarded.

Dae-ho stood at the sink, mask off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, red soaking through the thin fabric. Not his blood. Not yours. Just the kind that clung to both of you now.

You stepped beside him and turned to the mirror.

He watched your reflection.

You didn’t flinch as you peeled the black undershirt over your head, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath—bruises forming on your shoulder. A shallow scratch across your side. The kind of pain you wouldn’t feel until morning.

You turned on the faucet. Cupped water in your hands. Rubbed it slowly over your face.

He watched. Didn’t speak.

He stepped behind you. Not close. Just there.

His voice came quiet, roughened by smoke and restraint.

“Can I help?”

You paused. Met his gaze in the mirror. Then nodded.

He moved closer. His hands—strong, warm—reached for the soaked towel on the sink. He ran it gently down your back. Shoulder to hip. Not pressing. Not touching skin like it was soft.

Touching it like it mattered.

You braced one hand on the sink. Let him move.

He cleaned the scratch on your ribs with careful fingers, breath catching slightly when you flinched.

“Sorry.”

You just shook your head.

“You scare the shit out of me,” he said suddenly, voice low. “The way you moved. The way you didn’t even blink when you shot that guy off me.”

You looked at him in the mirror again. “That scare you?”

“No,” he said immediately. “That you might stop.”

Your breath caught. You turned.

Face to face. Steam curling between your bare arms. His shirt clinging to his chest. Your skin still glistening under the water.

He reached up, slowly. Fingers brushed your temple. Then your jaw.

Then, tenderly—he touched your face with both hands and leaned in.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

Neither of you spoke. No one needed to.

You were supposed to be sleeping.

Both of you.

The mission was over. Blood cleaned. Weapons holstered. You’d collapsed into the armchair, still damp from the shower, hair tied back, pistol resting on the nightstand.

Dae-ho sat on the edge of your bed, head tilted, still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And when you looked up at him— That was it.

The kiss was hot. Desperate.

Your mouth dragged across his, open and needy, teeth clashing, breath shallow. He groaned against your lips as you straddled him again, hands sliding up under his shirt, tugging at the fabric with impatience.

His hands were already gripping your thighs—tight, reverent, hungry. He pulled your shirt halfway over your head before you stopped him.

“Wait.” Your voice was breathless. Firm.

He froze. You stood up.

Your bare feet padded silently across the floor toward the console shelf near your bed.

Dae-ho sat up, confused. “Did I—”

You didn’t answer. You picked up your gun.

He flinched slightly—reflex. That survival instinct he couldn’t shake around you.

But then you looked straight up. Toward the ceiling corner.

You could feel it. The eye.

Buried in the wall, tucked like a parasite. Subtle. Silent. Watching.

You raised the pistol casually, one arm loose at your side.

Your eyes found the camera.

You winked. “Sorry,” you said, voice soft and sharp, “not today.”

CRACK. One perfect shot.

The lens shattered in a spray of sparks and broken glass.

In the Frontman’s control suite, the feed cut to black with a final flicker.

He stared at the screen.

Dead.

Silent.

And then— He laughed.

Back in your room, you turned slowly.

Dae-ho stared up at you, lips parted, eyes wide, visibly harder than he’d been a moment ago.

“Holy fuck.”

You smirked. Weapon still warm in your hand, you sauntered back to him—cool, predatory, free.

You let the pistol drop onto the sheets beside you.

“Now,” you murmured, straddling him again, voice low against his ear, “where were we?”

Your gun clattered to the bed. Dae-ho looked up at you like you just pulled the moon out of the sky.

Your legs slid over his hips as you straddled him again—bare skin meeting the thin fabric of his boxers, your thighs flexing with slow precision as you pressed your weight down on his lap.

“Oh shit,” he whispered again, his voice already breathless.

“You still thinking about that shot,” you asked, grinding slowly into him, “or you finally ready to shut up and moan for me?”

He whimpered softly, fingers twitching against the sheets.

“I—fuck—ma’am—”

“Use my name,” you said, leaning in, your breath brushing his ear.

He swallowed, chest heaving. “Please…”

Your hand slid down between your bodies, fingers curling into the waistband of his boxers. You peeled them down just enough to free his cock—already flushed and leaking, twitching with every small movement of your hips.

“God,” you murmured, dragging your fingers slowly along the length of him, just enough to make him gasp. “So fucking hard .”

“Always,” he whispered.

You kissed him once—hard, deep, wet—and then sat back, shifting your hips to line yourself up.

He looked down, eyes wide as you slid the tip against your folds.

And then you sank down. Slowly.

He cried out. Hands flying to your thighs like he needed to hold onto something or fall apart.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You bottomed out with a slow grind, your head tilted back, riding the stretch with a sharp exhale.

His whole body trembled.

You looked down at him. “Don’t move.”

He whined. Whined. “I can’t—please—”

You clenched around him on purpose. His hips jerked. You slapped his thigh, not hard—but sharp.

“I said don’t move.”

He nodded frantically, hands gripping the sheets now instead of your body. Sweat slicked his chest, his neck, his lips parted and panting.

You started to move. Slow. Deep. Torturous.

Your pace was exact. Measured. Down to the second.

You gripped his jaw, made him look at you.

“Look at me while I fuck you.”

He did. God, he did.

You bounced, rolled, clenched, dragged your wet heat up and down his cock like you were made for it—and every time he moaned, you smiled.

“You’re so loud, 13,” you whispered, licking into his mouth. “So desperate. Cute.”

He nodded, eyes glassy. “Please—I need to come—please—I can’t—”

You rocked faster.

He sobbed. “Fuck, I’m gonna—please—”

You stopped. Fully.

Sat still on his cock and watched him break.

He whined. Desperate. Hips twitching up into you. Voice wrecked.

You grabbed his face. Made him hold eye contact.

“You come when I say. Understand?”

“Y-Yes, yes ma’am—just don’t stop—”

You fucked him again. Harder this time. Meaner. Messier. His hands flew to your hips, nails digging in, body trembling like he couldn’t take it.

“Good boy.”

He came with a cry—whole body shuddering, back arching off the bed, your name falling off his lips like a prayer.

You didn’t stop.

You kept riding him—slow and wet and deep—until you came, teeth sunk into his neck, whispering “mine, mine, mine” against his skin.

When it was over, you stayed there.

Still full of him. Still breathing hard.

You pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, damp, smiling softly under hooded eyes.

“…Ma’am?”

“Hmm?”

“Next time you shoot out a camera,” he whispered, voice hoarse and fucked out, “warn me.”

You grinned, breath still short.

“No fun in that.”

The air was thick with the heat of you both.

Your sweat. His breath. The sting of exertion still curled deep in your muscles.

You sat back slowly, hips lifting—pulling off of him with a quiet wet sound that made him groan, low and broken. His hands slid down your thighs instinctively, like he hated the distance already.

But you didn’t go far.

You grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it over both of you, crawling back onto the mattress beside him, bare legs tangling with his. He rolled into you almost instantly, head pressing into your shoulder, one arm sliding across your waist, the other curling beneath your neck.

Your hand rested in his damp hair. You combed through it slowly.

He was warm. Heavy. Still catching his breath.

His lips brushed your collarbone once. Then again.

You tilted your head just enough to kiss his hair, your fingers drifting down his spine.

No words. Just him, wrapped around you like gravity.

The room was dark except for the soft flicker of the monitor light in the far corner. A small blue glow. Nothing else.

No cameras. No masks. No rules.

You felt him shift, nuzzling in closer. His leg hooked over yours, strong thigh pinning you slightly, like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

He exhaled. “…Mmh.”

You hummed in response. Content. Eyes closing.

His hand flattened over your stomach. Warm. Still. Steady.

You stayed like that.

Tangled. Bare.

Both of you finally—

Quiet.

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

also open for requests 🫰🏻

[theorpheusfrfr]

Having a puppy roommate who constantly teased you wearing revealing clothes and giggling whenever they see you staring. Overtly touching you and whining whenever you walk away because they just want your attention so badly. Until you finally snap, you grab them like an animal, ripping of clothes or cutting them off, growling into their ear about how pathetic they are.

How that if they're gonna act like a puppy then you'll treat them like one, you grab an arrant collar from they're room and putting it on them while they're naked, with a tinge or fear and arousal in their eyes.

As you brutally use them, keeping them pinned and face down, groping then roughly and breeding them like they've been wanting so much.

[fangedforyou]

🍒 Angel (Zaphaniel)

dubcon, corruption, edging, overstimulation

Everything is set. The incense, the scented oil, the sheet of the spellwork you spent so long poring over. This is supposed to be the project that impresses Professor Orion and gets you extra points on the test, and yet... Something is very clearly wrong. You scratch your head and stare at the sheet of paper, and then at the construct on the floor.

"You're not an incubus."

Unless incubi now somehow have feathered wings and celestial light, what you have lying breathless and splayed out in your construct is an angel. His eyes open. They are a pure shade of gold. His tawny skin complements his white wings and robes, making him an almost painfully beautiful sight to look at.

"Hello?" He sits up and blinks at you.

"This can't be right," you mutter, continuing to look from your paper to the angelic being. "This is supposed to summon an incubus. A sex demon!" You throw up your hands.

The angel tucks his wings around himself. "I don't know why I'm here."

"Me either. Uh, what the hell do I do?" You chew on your nail and pace.

It takes you a moment to realize the lines of the construct are turning golden and shimmery with magic. The angel is activating them. You spin around to look at him and he quickly averts his eyes, but you've caught him.

"Oh!" You look down at yourself.

You have a bathrobe on, but it's open and you're naked underneath, because you were anticipating a fuck session. Your lips curl into a grin. "You know, this might still work. I've never tried using celestial magic before."

The angel coughs. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No? How about I show you? Look at me."

He's not supposed to, but his eyes flick back to you, curiosity and the beginnings of desire in his wide eyes.

You cup your breasts. "Have you ever felt a pair of these before?"

"N-no."

"They're soft." You step closer and crouch beside him, careful not to smudge the lines of your construct.

You take his wrists, marvelling at the unblemished milk-chocolate color of his skin. He's smooth and hairless except for the curly brown hair that falls down his shoulders. He lets you guide his hands to your tits. He cautiously squeezes them, his thumbs running over your nipples as they harden into little buds.

"They are soft," he agrees. "Lovely to touch."

"Aren't they?" You grin and nudge his thigh, boldly pushing up the robe as you go. His leg twitches but he doesn't move, his pupils dilating as you touch him in places he's never been touched before. Against the odds, this is working. His celestial power washes into the construct, powering it with magic.

"What's your name?"

"Zaphaniel."

"Do you want me to make you feel good, Zaphaniel?"

He nods. "I feel rather ill," he confesses.

"How so? Does your skin feel too hot? Tight on your body?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

You smirk. He really knows nothing. That kind of innocence is intoxicating to you. Of all the people to be summoned by, you might be one of the worst.

"Do you feel swollen?" You drift your hand higher and discover two things.

One, he's wearing nothing under those imperious white robes. Two, he's rock hard. He sucks in a sharp breath when you touch him.

"What are you doing?" He asks quickly.

You give him a comforting look. "I'm helping you feel better. Doesn't this feel good?"

He shudders. "I don't know," he says.

"Here," you bunch the hem of his robes. "Hold this up for me, okay?"

He does as you ask him to, gasping when he looks down and sees his cock throbbing and leaking in your hand.

"Why does it look like that?" He grimaces, looking rather horrified.

You laugh. "It will go back to normal, I promise. I just need to get you to climax."

"I don't understand." He pants.

"You will." You lean down and spit on the head of his cock, using your hand to slick his shaft until the mixture of your saliva and his precum makes an obscene sound. There's an attractive flush of heat in his cheeks. It doesn't take long to bring him to the edge. After all, this is new to him and he can't hold back from how good it feels. A low whine vibrates through him and you yank your hand away.

He almost wails. "Why did you stop?!"

"It'll make my construct stronger," you say with a shrug.

"That's cruel of you," he moans desperately, his cock aching for attention.

Dazedly he almost tries to do it himself, but you told him to hold the hem of his robes, so he has to obey. He looks at you with large, teary eyes.

"Please, can you touch me again? This feels terrible. Please."

"It's okay," you soothe, reaching for his cock again and resuming an unforgiving pace that makes his whole body tense.

The second time he gets close and you repeat it he actually begins to cry, golden tears tracking down his cheeks as he squirms and stares at you in betrayal.

"I'm sorry," you coo. "I promise that was the last time."

You curl your slippery fingers around his shaft and begin to pump your hand again. He whines at the friction against his too-sensitive cock, his stomach tightening as he tries to muffle his moans, fearing that you'll pull your hand away again.

"Ngh!" He stiffens and startles when cum jets out of his cock, a moan tearing out of him as it lands on your hands and his thighs.

You continue to stroke him until he softens. Only then do you release his cock, smiling in satisfaction as you look at the magic contained in the construct, so strong that it glows white-hot. Yeah, you're definitely passing this test.

This became a little long. Still, I hope you enjoyed the read! As always, reblogs are appreciated! ♡

@fangedforyou

[reginaeamoris]

Aislin had been down between Octavia’s slender and toned legs, then told up when a laugh came from the woman’s lips. The princess stood up, fixing her gowns before kissing Octavia with a passion at the request. “Relta will be fine. My sister is very calm,” she assured Octavia after the kiss, a dazed look on the young woman’s face. “And yes, I’m enjoying myself as well. And for you? Any meeting I can be late for,” she assured her paramour, not exactly having told her French fiancé that she was exclusively sexually attracted to women.

open to : everyone muse : octavia thatcher (25, lady-in-waiting, pansexual) plot : a forbidden relationship that is taking place within the palace. octavia is the daughter of a lesser noble so your musse could be a knight, the son of a noble or an actual noble, the prince (sibling of the person she waits upon), squire, etc. they could be in love or just having a physical fling but this takes place during one of their rendezvous. historical verse, nsfw welcome most taboo not, please read my rules.

octavia let out a long contented sigh as she arrived at the intended destination of pleasure. she had somewhere to be in fifteen minutes, an event where she would wait upon her lady but she was too caught up in the moment to care. she grinned, a laugh tumbling from her lips as she came down from her high. she caught the other's lips with hers for a moment, "now that is exactly what i needed today," she whispered, keeping her voice low so they did not get caught. her breath was still heavy, "i don't suppose we have time for one more round, do we?"

[ash-rigby]

TIME TO RANDOMIZE YOUR GENITALS

Based on this post. Reblog and tag what you got on the wheel! In the event this breaches containment; I'm a monsterfucker so be warned that a good chunk of these reflect that.

[luna-azzurra]

Spicy Dialogue Starters Pack

Slow Burn That’s About to Explode

"If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something we’ll both regret."

"Say that again. Slower."

"You really like testing my patience, don’t you?"

"Back up. Closer. I want to see if you’ll actually do it."

"Do you realize how loud you were moaning my name last night?"

"You should probably stop touching me like that... unless you plan on finishing what you started."

"We’re not doing this here." – "Why not? Scared you’ll like it?"

"I dare you. No, seriously—I dare you."

"One bed. One night. You sure you can behave?"

"You think I won’t?" – "I know you will. That’s the problem."

Enemies to Lovers, but We’re Both Hot and Unhinged

"If I kiss you, it’s not because I like you. It’s because you won’t shut up."

"Do it. Touch me like you hate me."

"You’re infuriating." – "And you’re turned on."

"Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous."

"Admit it. You like it when we fight."

"You want me. You just don’t want to want me."

"If you’re going to stare, you might as well do something about it."

"Say it. Say you want me." – "Why? You’ll just use it against me."

"Keep talking like that and I’ll kiss you right here."

"Don’t tempt me." – "What if I want to?"

Post-Tension Intimacy (A.K.A. We Finally Snapped)

"You're shaking." – "So are you."

"This doesn’t mean anything." – "Then why are you holding me like that?"

"I’ve wanted this since the moment I met you."

"You're not getting any sleep tonight, just so you know."

"You're mine now. Say it."

"God, you feel so good." – "Yeah? Then shut up and keep going."

"You can hate me in the morning. Just… let me have this tonight."

"Is this what you wanted?" – "No. I wanted more."

"Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop."

"I’m going to ruin you. And you’re going to thank me for it."

Teasing Touch, Dangerous Proximity

"You’re blushing." – "Shut up."

"That shirt’s doing you no favors. Take it off."

"If you wanted me to kiss you, you could’ve just said so."

"I like the way you say my name. Say it again."

"You’re standing really close." – "Yeah? You gonna move?"

"I can feel your heartbeat. Is that for me?"

"Your hands are shaking... here, let me help you."

"Careful. Someone might think you actually want me."

"You know exactly what you’re doing to me, don’t you?"

"We’re not supposed to do this." – "Since when has that ever stopped us?"

Voice Low, Words Barely Whispers

"Keep your voice down. Or don’t. Let them hear."

"Every time you talk, all I can think about is your mouth on mine."

"Say the word, and I’ll have you against that wall in five seconds."

"What do you think happens if I kiss you right now?"

"You smell like trouble." – "You taste like it."

"Look me in the eyes when you lie like that."

"One more step and I won’t be able to hold back."

"If you keep teasing me like that, I’m going to ruin you."

"Tell me to stop." – silence – "Didn’t think so."

"We’re alone now. You still pretending this is just tension?"

Hot-Headed, Argument-Laced, About to Snap

"Why do you always have to push my buttons?" – "Because I love watching you lose control."

"You think you’re in control here? That’s cute."

"You're not walking away from me. Not this time."

"God, you're impossible." – "You didn’t seem to mind last night."

"Say it louder. Maybe if you scream my name again, I’ll believe you."

"Keep pretending you don’t want me. I’ll keep proving you wrong."

"You're dangerous." – "Only if you ask nicely."

"Is this still an argument or are we just flirting with knives now?"

"Admit it. You love it when I get like this."

"Don’t act like you don’t want this too."

[bastart13]

Isi and Ro (@bevsi's Heartstrings lesbians) are still great

[hauntedreptile]

My mans for real life

happy to report that the hyperfixation on the silly is still in full swing everybody

[velvetghoul]

Third Time’s the Charm

✦ Part 5

Reader x Atsuya Kusakabe | 18+ MDNI

cw: smut, pregnancy themes, miscarriage, established relationship, creampie, comfort, emotional vulnerability, soft dom!Kusakabe, teasing/bratty reader, marriage, mild language, emotional aftercare, hopeful ending

⸻

Part 4

Two days later.

You’ve got a hex key in one hand, a bowl of grapes in the other, and a team of three disasters attempting to build a baby crib in your living room.

Kusakabe is on the floor, muttering about shitty Swedish engineering.

Hiromi’s crouched nearby holding an open instruction booklet upside-down.

Shoko is sitting on the windowsill, sipping tea and providing emotional terrorism.

“IKEA,” she says, eyeing the scattered screws, “is how couples divorce.”

“We’re married,” Kusakabe grunts. “Too late.”

“Not too late for me to declare you emotionally unavailable and take the baby,” Shoko deadpans.

Hiromi hums as he holds up a board. “This doesn’t even look like wood. I think it’s made of compacted lies and tears.”

“You’re not even helping,” Atsuya snaps.

“I’m moral support,” Hiromi smirks. “And eye candy.”

“Shut up before I use this wrench on your eyebrows.”

Shoko: “Do it.”

You giggle from the couch, propped up with pillows. “How’s it going, team?”

Hiromi turns to you, flashing that gleaming lawyer grin. “Beautifully. I think we built a very sleek, very stylish… bookshelf.”

“That’s the crib base, you dumbass,” Atsuya groans.

“Then why does it have three identical screws left over, huh?”

Shoko stands up, walks over, and silently turns the instructions right side up in Hiromi’s hands.

He just blinks. “That explains… everything.”

“You’re hopeless,” she mutters, but her smirk is betraying her.

He watches her eyes. Her mouth. His voice drops. “You like when I’m hopeless?”

She snorts. “No, but it makes me feel smarter.”

“You are smarter.”

“Oh, shut up.”

They’re suddenly real close over the instruction sheet, voices lowered, sarcasm folding into flirtation.

Atsuya glances up, eyebrow twitching. “Hey. HEY. You two wanna go make out in the hallway or actually finish this before my daughter graduates college?”

Hiromi waves him off. “You’re just mad because I’m hot and she likes me more than you.”

Shoko side-eyes him. “I tolerate you more than him. That’s different.”

You just giggle again as your little girl kicks, clearly entertained by the chaos she’s being born into.

The sky’s dimming to lavender as you step out onto the balcony with Shoko. You exhale slowly. She hands you a glass of fresh juice. The air is cooler out here, peaceful, light breeze brushing over your skin.

Inside the apartment?

Absolute warfare.

Atsuya is cursing at a box of screws like it personally insulted his mother.

Hiromi is not helping.

You lean on the balcony railing, bump prominent under your hoodie, and sigh. “I needed this.”

Shoko sips her tea. “You mean a break from your unhinged husband and the man who thinks he can build a crib with vibes alone?”

“I swear to god,” you mutter, “Hiromi thinks ‘I’m a lawyer’ is a job requirement for everything.”

As if on cue—

From inside:

“I AM A LAWYER, ATSUYAAAAA!”

Shoko blinks. “Is he arguing with a screwdriver?”

“No,” you smirk. “With my husband.”

Atsuya’s voice follows, sharp and pissed:

“YOU’RE A USELESS LAWYER!”

Then:

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK! I PASSED MY BAR WITH HONORS!”

“DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN HANDLE A HEX KEY, YOU GLOSSY-HAIRED SHITSTAIN.”

You choke on your juice. Shoko doesn’t even blink. “He’s really reaching deep into the insult bag today.”

Then you both hear something crash. Like wood and pride.

Hiromi: “Oh. Oh no. Okay so… hypothetically… if that part wasn’t supposed to snap—”

Atsuya: “I’M GOING TO STAPLE YOUR HAND TO THE WALL.”

Hiromi: “Kinky. Should I take off my watch?”

Shoko snorts into her tea. “Jesus.”

You’re holding onto the railing now, cry-laughing. “He lives for this. You know he’s provoking Atsuya on purpose, right?”

“Oh yeah. You can see the grin in his voice.”

Then Shoko tilts her head slightly, smirking. “He only gets that stupid when I’m around.”

You raise a brow. “So you are finally admitting you like it.”

She shrugs. “He’s not boring.”

“And you like the flirting.”

Another sip of tea. She smirks again. “It’s fun… watching him try to impress me while pretending he’s not trying.”

Just then— Hiromi again, loudly:

“OKAY BUT SERIOUSLY, I THINK THE SCREW IS STUCK IN MY SHIRT. DON’T PULL. DON’T—NOPE THAT’S NIPPLE—”

Atsuya: “OH MY GOD—”

Shoko calmly sets her cup down. “Okay I’m going in. I can’t risk them turning the crib into a war memorial.”

You laugh so hard your bump jumps. She opens the balcony door, glances back over her shoulder.

“You coming?”

You shake your head. “Nah. I’m gonna stand here and mourn the sanity I used to have.”

She vanishes inside, and from the door you hear her voice—calm, flat, absolutely done: “Touch his nipple again and I swear I’m calling Gojo.”

You walk back inside slowly, like you’re approaching a crime scene.

Atsuya’s in the middle of the room, arms crossed, face pinched in absolute silence. Hiromi is leaning dramatically against the wall, shirt wrinkled, still nursing a scratch from god knows what. Shoko’s standing three inches from him, unimpressed as always.

You catch the tail end of their argument:

“—look, you yanked the board and my shirt was stuck.”

“You leaned in like you were on a runway.”

“I was stabilizing it.”

“You were posing.”

“You looked at me.”

“So?”

“So I had to deliver. It’s called being conscientious.”

Atsuya rubs his temples. “I’m going to kill both of you.”

Hiromi smirks sideways, still half-backed against the wall, looking at Shoko like he’s building a legal defense and a fantasy.

“You keep looking at my mouth,” he says suddenly.

She doesn’t even blink. “No, I’m watching the bullshit leak out of it.”

He leans in closer. Smirking. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not,” she says flatly.

“You are.”

“I’m plotting.”

Their faces are way too close. The air’s thick. You can feel the magnetic pull.

Atsuya stares at them like a single father at parent-teacher night.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, “if you two start hooking up in this baby’s room—”

Hiromi raises a brow. “Would that bother you?”

Atsuya deadpans: “I’ll put both of your asses in a Pack ’n Play and leave you on the curb.”

Shoko turns to you, the barest twitch of a grin at her lips.

“Your man’s losing his mind.”

You waddle in, arms raised in surrender. “I told you both to keep it PG.”

Hiromi raises a hand like he’s in court. “In my defense, her face was close and I’m weak.”

Shoko crosses her arms. “I’ll break you in court and in bed, Higuruma.”

Hiromi absolutely malfunctions. “Wh—Ma’am.”

Atsuya, straight-up walking out now: “Nope. No. I’m out. You’re both banned from my child’s furniture.”

Hiromi calls after him: “What if I apologize with premium baby socks?”

Atsuya, not looking back: “I’ll shove them in your mouth.”

You’re just standing there. Cry-laughing. Hands on your bump. “She’s definitely going to be dramatic. I blame all of you.”

The door clicks shut behind Atsuya, and for a moment… silence.

You, Shoko, and Hiromi just stand there.

You slowly turn to them. Then?

You absolutely lose it. Cackling. Hands flying to your bump, tears prickling in your eyes from how stupid it all was.

“You two are the worst team I’ve ever seen,” you wheeze. “Like the two most beautiful disasters ever manufactured.”

Hiromi dusts off his pants dramatically. “We contain multitudes.”

Shoko plucks a rogue screw off the floor, still composed. “I was sabotaging him. For fun.”

He gasps. “I knew it! That third shelf wasn’t loose when I last touched it!”

“Oh? Were you touching it, Hiromi? Were you touching it properly?”

You snort. “Please stop talking like that in my fetus’s room.”

Hiromi raises a hand. “To be fair, your husband brought the tension in here. I was just being sexy and useful.”

Shoko: “One of those is a lie.”

“Okay but—we did something,” he announces, spreading his arms. “Sure, most of it’s crooked, and the crib might collapse under the weight of a particularly aggressive baby sneeze, but it’s real. It’s standing. I’m practically the godfather of interior design.”

You lean against the doorframe, still giggling. “You know… he’s not wrong. You did build like… one fourth of the furniture.”

“Thank you,” he says, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I’ll accept your gratitude in the form of naming rights. I’ve prepared a list of powerful lawyer names—”

Shoko: “If you say Deborah, I’m shoving that crib rail down your throat.”

You just dissolve again. Wiping tears from your cheeks.

“God, you guys really are flirting,” you grin, shaking your head.

Shoko tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “If this is what you think flirting is—”

“It is,” Hiromi interrupts, grinning. “It’s violence with a side of sexual tension. My favorite genre.”

You just point at him. “This is why I let you near my baby. For entertainment.”

He bows, full lawyer charm. “And chaos. Always chaos.”

The apartment is finally quiet. You’re asleep in the bedroom, curled up under three blankets like a dumpling.

The nursery is dimly lit now, soft golden evening light falling across the freshly built (and slightly uneven) furniture. The air smells like baby soap and exhaustion.

Hiromi’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, leaning back on his hands. His shirt’s rumpled. One screw is still stuck in his sock.

Shoko’s standing by the crib, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room.

“…not bad,” she murmurs finally.

Hiromi smirks. “For someone who tried to break my soul through sabotage, I’m flattered.”

“You have no soul,” she says, not turning around.

“Yet you keep showing up to flirt with the husk of me.”

Shoko turns then. Slowly. Calm. Her expression unreadable, but her gaze sharp.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

He sits up straighter, grin turning more lopsided. “Only when I’m impressed.”

“And you’re impressed now?”

“…A little.” His eyes flick over her, low and obvious. “You in mom-mode is kinda hot.”

She walks closer. Pauses in front of him. Just enough distance to be safe. Or not.

“You know this doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I know,” he says quietly. Still smiling. “You like arguing with me.”

She exhales through her nose. Faintest twitch of her lip.

“And you like getting argued with.”

“Guilty,” he murmurs. “Especially when it’s you.”

The room goes quiet.

Shoko drops her arms. Tilts her head slightly, watching him the way a cat watches a glass on a counter it plans to knock over.

Hiromi looks up at her from the floor, smirk fading just a little. Something else behind his eyes now. Something a little softer.

“You’re gonna kiss me or kill me,” he says.

She crouches slowly, one hand on his knee for balance. Close enough to breathe in the scent of his cologne. To watch his smirk falter.

“Maybe both,” she says.

And just when she’s inches from his face—

Click. The bedroom door opens.

Atsuya appears. Half-asleep. Face blank.

He sees them. Sees how close their faces are. Sees Shoko’s hand still on Hiromi’s knee.

He squints. Then mutters in the flattest, driest voice imaginable:

“Go home, horny whores.” And shuts the door again.

Silence.

Hiromi’s still sitting on the floor, one leg stretched out, his tie undone and his grin spreading. He raises an eyebrow like he’s already won a case he hasn’t even argued yet.

“Wanna come to my place,” he says lowly, “or are you scared, Ieiri?”

Shoko doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicker over his face like she’s scanning a threat level.

Then her grip on his knee tightens—fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.

He winces. “Ow. Ow—okay, yeah, I deserve that—”

“I hate you,” she mutters flatly.

But she stands up. Smooth. Steady.

“Let’s go.”

Hiromi blinks up at her. “Wait. What?”

“I said let’s go,” she repeats. “Before I change my mind and sedate you with a ceiling tile.”

He hops up so fast he almost trips over a damn baby wipe packet. Grabs his coat. Grabs hers. Fumbles.

Shoko watches him struggle with his shoes, amused, but doesn’t help. When they reach the front door, she pauses and turns back just slightly.

“Don’t make me regret this, Higuruma.”

He steps up beside her, the cocky grin sliding back into place like it never left.

“You already regret everything, Ieiri,” he murmurs. “I’m just here to make it fun.”

She smacks the back of his head as they leave.

He laughs. Loud and stupid and real.

His apartment is exactly what you’d expect.

Clean, elegant, full of soft lamps and expensive furniture that he probably researched for two weeks before purchasing. The coffee table has coasters. The wine rack is alphabetized.

And now?

There’s a volcano of tension erupting in the entryway.

Shoko shrugs off her coat, tosses it onto a chair like she owns the place, and immediately grabs one of his throw pillows just to mess it up. He watches her with narrowed eyes, trying not to smile.

“You’re very disruptive,” he says.

“You’re very smug,” she replies, wandering deeper into his space like a cat casing a crime scene.

He walks past her to the kitchen. “Drink?”

“You offering because you want to seduce me?”

“I’m offering because I need one,” he mutters, already pouring two glasses of red.

She leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m… realistic.” He brings her the glass. “You’re terrifying. You might kiss me, or stab me.”

She takes the wine, sips without blinking. “Both is still on the table.”

“…God, you’re hot.”

They stand there. Just a few feet apart. The lights are low. Music hums quietly from some playlist he forgot to turn off. The air is buzzing.

Hiromi sets his glass down. Walks toward her. Slow. Measured.

“You came with me,” he says.

“I make bad decisions sometimes,” she replies.

He steps closer. “You stayed.”

“I got lazy.”

Closer.

“You haven’t looked away once.”

“I’m studying the enemy.”

Now they’re chest to chest. He searches her face like he’s waiting for her to push him. Slap him. Something.

But she doesn’t.

Her voice drops. Low. Dangerous.

“Are you gonna kiss me,” she murmurs, “or just give a speech about it?”

He grabs her waist and pulls her into him, mouth crashing into hers with a low, helpless sound like he’s been waiting years for this.

It’s all heat. Teeth. Hands in hair. She shoves him against the wall with one hand flat on his chest and kisses him harder. He moans into it. She smirks into it.

He breaks for breath, eyes glazed, voice wrecked.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.

“Good,” she breathes. “You deserve it.”

And pulls him right back under.

Next Morning:

You’re curled into Atsuya’s lap on the couch, the sun pouring in through the window. His hand’s resting on your bump. Your breakfast is cooling on the table because you cannot stop laughing.

“…So you’re telling me,” you say between snorts, “they left together. In the dark. After Shoko crushed his kneecap.”

“Left like horny teenagers sneaking out the gym window,” Atsuya mutters, sipping his tea like a tired father. “I didn’t even wanna look them in the eye.”

“They were probably at each other’s throats all night.”

“Oh they were. That’s how they like it.”

You wheeze. “Shoko’s gonna walk in today and pretend nothing happened.”

“She’s gonna sit down, sip her tea, and say ‘Hiromi’s a bad influence’ while wearing his goddamn hoodie.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, grinning. “Our daughter is going to grow up thinking that kind of sexual tension is normal.”

He groans. “God help her.”

You press a kiss to his jaw. “She’s gonna be just like her mama.”

He smirks, looks down at you, and murmurs, “Then I’m fucked.”

You: “You always are, husband.”

It’s 9:47 AM.

You’re already behind the front desk at the clinic, comfy in a chair with your feet up on a box of latex gloves, sipping your Shoko-approved anti-nausea tea and scrolling through appointment logs.

All is calm.

Until the door opens. Slowly. Shoko Ieiri walks in.

You glance up. And freeze.

She’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Her lab coat is wrinkled. Her bun is half-done. And she’s in a hoodie that is definitely not hers.

You narrow your eyes. She walks past without speaking.

You spin in your chair. Silent.

She sets her bag down. Adjusts her collar.

Still says nothing.

You stare. And she knows. She knows the second your eyes hit her neck.

She freezes.

Then casually lifts her stethoscope… over her neck.

Covering something.

Your jaw drops. She looks up slowly.

Guilty. So fucking guilty.

You gasp like you just witnessed a miracle. One hand flies to your chest, the other to your belly.

“OH MY GOD.”

Shoko flinches. “No.”

“OH MY GODDDD—”

“Don’t start.”

“You two finally fucked?!”

She slams a chart onto the desk. “You’re not cleared for that kind of emotional distress.”

“Shoko. You’re in his hoodie. You walked in late. You didn’t even fake a coffee stop. You’re COVERING YOUR NECK—”

She deadpans. “I got mauled by a ghost.”

You lean forward across the desk, whisper-yelling. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

She pauses. Eyes narrow. Then?

“Let’s just say,” she murmurs, sliding her sunglasses off, “he’s a much better lawyer than he is a furniture builder.”

You SHRIEK.

“SHOKO!”

She just grabs her clipboard and walks away like nothing happened.

“Not discussing it further.”

You throw a pen at her.

“I KNEW IT! I SAID YOU’D SNAP AND YOU SNAPPED—”

Shoko, over her shoulder: “You’re one scream away from bedrest, woman.”

The sun is low outside, casting golden streaks across the tiled floor. You’re perched sideways in a chair at the front desk, feet up on another one, belly rising under a loose T-shirt, sipping your third citrus tea of the day. You’re in full comfort-goddess mode.

Shoko comes back from checking on a patient, and without a word, flops into the chair beside you.

You glance at her.

She stares ahead.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being too quiet.”

“I always am,” she replies flatly.

“Yeah. But today you’re quiet and… relaxed. That’s suspicious.”

She shrugs. “Maybe I’m just happy.”

You whip your head toward her. “Oh my god it was good.”

She exhales, pulls a pen from behind her ear, fiddles with it. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re not scowling. That counts as a full love confession coming from you.”

She snorts. “Please. It was one night.”

“Oh really?” You grin. “Then why are you still wearing his hoodie?”

She glances down. Stares at the sleeve. Curses under her breath and doesn’t take it off.

You raise your eyebrows. “So?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then finally says:

“…He was soft.”

You blink. “Hiromi?”

“I know.” She rubs her temples. “Fucking terrifying. He asked me if I was okay like ten times. During.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stunned. “He’s a service top.”

“Don’t say that to me while I’m drinking tea.”

You’re wheezing. “Did he like, light candles and put on jazz or something?”

“He tried to put on lofi. I threatened to leave.”

You’re cackling into your mug now. “So what now? Are you gonna ignore him like a real queen or sneak into his office like a feral cat?”

She sighs. “Neither.”

You glance at her. “Wait… wait. You want to do it again.”

Shoko says nothing.

Then slowly takes a long sip of tea.

You gasp. “You like him.”

“I tolerate him. Better than most people.”

You cover your mouth dramatically. “You’re in love.”

“Don’t.”

“You are.”

“I’ll induce labor today, don’t test me.”

You lean over, bump and all, resting your head on her shoulder. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve to be ruined by a hot, dramatic man who worships you.”

She hums. “If he gets clingy I’m faking my death.”

“Romantic.”

“…Shut up.”

You smile into her sleeve. And she lets you stay there.

It’s well past 9PM.

The apartment is warm, quiet, dimly lit. Your feet are up on the couch, your half-eaten snack beside you — something weirdly specific and crunchy — and a blanket draped over your bump. A baby name book lies open on your lap, mostly ignored.

You hear the door open. Then shut.

Heavy footsteps.

A bag dropped. A jacket thrown harder than necessary.

And then…

Sigh.

Atsuya walks into the living room like the human version of a thundercloud. Hair tousled. Shoulders tight. Face stuck in that deeply annoyed, tight-lipped scowl he wears after paperwork or people piss him off.

You glance over your book. “Hey, husband.”

He pauses.

Looks at you.

You in his hoodie, eyes soft, feet swaying a little under the blanket.

The scowl melts. Slowly. Inevitably.

“…Hey,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sorry. Shitty day.”

You nod. “Wanna talk about it or sit in silence and look hot?”

He walks over, drops onto the couch beside you with a groan. Leans back, head hitting the cushions.

“I’ll go with hot silence. My brain’s fried.”

You shift your blanket and slide his hand gently onto your belly.

“She missed you.”

He glances down, frowns. “She say that?”

“She kicked the second you stepped in the door.”

He stares at your belly like it’s the only thing in the universe that makes sense.

Then he leans forward, pressing his lips softly to your bump, right where she kicked last. His voice is quieter now.

“Hey, little monster. Sorry I was late. Papa hates paperwork.”

You grin. “She knows. She’s been training in the womb for combat.”

He snorts, but doesn’t move. He’s still leaned into your belly, one arm curled around your thighs like he doesn’t want to let go.

“…You ate?” he mumbles against your skin.

You nod. “Weird toast combo. She was into it.”

A beat.

Then softly: “We need to name her soon.”

You lift the baby name book. “Wanna go back to fighting about it?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “but I’m still vetoing ‘Katsudon’.”

You laugh. “That was a joke.”

“She kicked me after you said it. She hated it.”

You lean your head against his shoulder and whisper, “She’s gonna love you so much.”

His jaw clenches — not with anger. With emotion.

“She already does,” he says. “I feel it. Every time I touch her.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

But his hand? Tightens just slightly on your belly.

It’s your day off, and Atsuya—grumpy as ever—has finally been wrangled into going baby shopping with you.

You step into the store, hand in his, eyes lighting up at the rows of pastel blankets, tiny shoes, and ridiculous bottle warmers with Bluetooth compatibility.

He stops in the entrance. Blinks.

“This is… a lot,” he mutters.

You grin. “That’s what happens when you grow a person. We need a lot.”

He glances sideways at you, eyes dropping to your bump under your coat. You swear he softens instantly.

“…Okay. Where do we start?”

You tug him toward the clothes first, of course.

“Oh my god, Atsuya, look at this one,” you say, holding up a onesie that says “My Dad is Grumpy but Hot” in soft pink letters.

He stares. Dead silent.

Then mutters, “…I’ll buy twenty.”

You cackle.

Next aisle: tiny socks.

“Babe,” you whisper dramatically. “These are the size of my thumb.”

He holds one up between two fingers, squinting. “…That’s not real. That’s decoration.”

You roll your eyes, but he just stares at the sock again.

And you catch it—that look. That heartbreaking flicker of disbelief. Like he still can’t fully process that this is happening. That in a few months, someone’s gonna wear that sock and call him papa.

You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers into his. “You okay?”

He nods slowly. Then squeezes your hand and says, so soft you barely catch it:

“…I just never thought I’d be this lucky.”

You don’t cry. (You almost do.)

But you kiss his knuckles and whisper, “She’s lucky too.”

You keep going.

Atsuya starts getting weirdly competitive about stroller safety ratings. He’s holding two boxes, comparing suspension systems like it’s a fucking motorcycle.

“This one has impact resistance up to 55 km/h,” he mutters.

You raise a brow. “What car are you planning to race with her?”

“I’m not racing,” he deadpans. “But other people might crash into us. And I’ll kill them.”

You pat his chest. “Calm down, papa bear.”

Later, in the toy aisle, you hold up a pink plush octopus.

“She’s gonna throw this in your face at some point.”

He shrugs. “She can throw whatever she wants. I’ll still be proud.”

“Even if it hits you in the dick?”

“…Especially then.”

You finish the trip with two giant bags and a stroller box that barely fits in the car. He loads it all while grumbling, but when you catch him watching your belly in the rearview mirror on the drive home—smiling—you don’t say anything.

You just reach over. Rest your hand on his thigh.

And he covers it with his, rough and warm, the whole way home.

You’re lounging on the couch after your baby shopping spree, belly full from dinner, feet up, head in Atsuya’s lap while he mindlessly rubs your calves. The bags are piled up by the wall, a pink octopus plush peeking out like a little spy.

Then your phone buzzes.

Hiromi:

on our way. tell grumpzilla to act civil

You blink.

“Wait—what?”

You barely have time to process it before the doorbell rings.

Shoko enters first, calm as ever with a bottle of tea and the aura of someone who has opinions. Hiromi strolls in behind her, hair perfect, smile smug.

Atsuya stares at them from the kitchen.

“You’re not invited.”

Hiromi raises a brow. “We’re family. Family doesn’t need an invite. Especially when you’re about to name your child something unforgivable.”

You sigh, gesturing to the living room. “Sit down and behave. We’re discussing names tonight.”

Atsuya groans. “No, we’re not. We were fine with the short list—”

Shoko drops onto the armchair. “What’s the top contender?”

You grab the paper from your bag and read off sweetly:

“Emi, Hana, Aika, or—Katsudon.”

Atsuya side-eyes you. “You’re not serious about Katsudon.”

Hiromi gasps. “You would name your child after a dish?!”

You wink. “It’s cultural.”

Shoko sips her tea. “She’ll be delicious either way.”

Hiromi: “Can I name her?”

Atsuya: “No.”

Hiromi, ignoring him: “What about something classy. Timeless. Judge-worthy. Like… Naomi.”

Shoko smirks. “You just want her to sound like a prosecutor.”

You hum. “I don’t hate Naomi.”

Atsuya deadpans: “I do. It sounds like a woman who will fight with you about taxes.”

Hiromi: “Sounds like a woman who wins that fight.”

Atsuya mutters something about emotional damage and walks off to refill his tea.

Meanwhile, you’re curled up on the couch giggling, watching your makeshift family throw name ideas like grenades.

Shoko, arms crossed: “What if we make it a game? Every time she kicks, the name gets a point.”

Hiromi perks up. “Brilliant.”

Atsuya walks back in, sits beside you, wraps an arm around your waist protectively. “No. We’re not naming her by violence.”

Hiromi: “It’s not violence. It’s democracy.”

You turn and smile sweetly at Atsuya, patting his hand on your belly. “Okay, papa. What’s your top pick again?”

He stares down at your belly, eyes softening. “Still Aika.”

And like on cue, your daughter kicks.

Everyone freezes.

Shoko raises a brow. “Guess we have a front-runner.”

Hiromi glares at your belly. “Traitor.”

The house is quiet now.

Shoko and Hiromi are gone. The dishes are washed. The lights are low, just the kitchen glow casting soft amber along the walls.

You’re curled on the couch, tucked into Atsuya’s side, your legs draped over his lap, his arm wrapped securely around you.

He’s quiet. Calm. The grump has finally settled.

And when you look up at him—his messy hair, his tired eyes, the faint scruff on his jaw—you lean in.

Just a little.

And press your lips to his.

It’s slow. Warm. One of those kisses that doesn’t ask for more but feels like home. His hand cradles the side of your face. He kisses you back like he’s breathing again for the first time all day.

Your hands slide to his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. You kiss him again. Deeper. Softer.

When you pull back, your lips are still barely brushing his, your breath warm against his mouth.

“I want to name her,” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, eyes already half-fallen shut again.

“Hmm?”

You smile, eyes locked to his.

“Aika,” you murmur. “Her name’s Aika Kusakabe.”

He stills.

For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear.

But then his chest rises slowly under your palms. His eyes go wide—not with shock. With something more.

Something deeper.

“…You really want that?”

You nod, voice low. “I’ve never wanted something more. It’s soft. It’s beautiful. Just like her. Just like us.”

He exhales shakily. His eyes glass over just a little.

And then he pulls you in again, burying his face against your neck and holding you like the world might end if he lets go.

“Aika,” he repeats, voice hoarse.

You rest your hand over his, guiding it gently to your belly. She kicks once, like she knows.

He lets out a quiet, stunned laugh against your skin.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay. That’s her.”

You nuzzle into his shoulder, heart full.

“Hi, Aika Kusakabe,” you murmur to your bump. “You’ve got the best papa in the world.”

Atsuya kisses your temple. “And she’s got the strongest, most annoying, most beautiful mama I’ve ever seen.”

You elbow him in the side, and he grins.

But he doesn’t let go.

He never will.

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

@starlitnotes @bangingtails @shibataimu

[monzterzack]

some pollen shenanigans because IT IS FUNNY TO ME

edit:

PART 2!!

[fangedforyou]

🍒 Rakshasa (Professor Orion)

Mentions of venom, dubcon if you squint, blowjob

The lecture is over and the room is quiet. You're the last one in the room. Your Rakshasa Professor slams your essay on his desk.

"This is rubbish." He growls. "You haven't been paying attention in class, have you?"

You wilt under his intense stare.

"Have you been taking something? Anything from Ambrosia?" His nose flares as he sniffs the air.

You purse your lips together. "I don't have to answer that."

"I think you do. I deserve to know why you'd rather play with yourself than listen to the lectures I spend hours preparing."

He folds his arms across his broad chest and you gulp.

"Sir, I..."

He eyes you, and you realize you're standing there pressing your thighs together like a whore. A rush of embarrassment goes through you.

"I'm sorry! It's just that my roommates decided to prank me and put venom in my tea. It's harmless, but it takes days to wear off."

The admission makes you breathless. You did not just admit to your professor that you've been perpetually horny.

He looks unimpressed. "And why haven't you fixed this issue? I'm sure you know how to ease the effects."

"Um..." You shift on your feet. "I didn't know who to ask. It's embarrassing."

"And yet you're fine with fucking your fingers while you listen to me teach?" He raises an eyebrow and you wince.

"I'm sorry," you mumble again, because you have no way to defend yourself. After all, you did do that.

Professor Orion sighs. "I consider myself responsible for the success of my students in this class, you know."

"I'll pay attention, I swear."

"When does the venom wear off?"

"A few more days, I think..."

He runs a hand through his mane and kicks his rolling chair back. "Come around my desk," he orders.

You round the desk and stand fidgeting in front of him. Being this close isn't helping with the dirty images running through your head. You're distracted to the point that you don't immediately register what he's saying.

"Get under the desk," he says very casually, "and suck my cock."

"Pardon?" You stare at him.

"You heard me. It'll help. There's a test coming up tomorrow and you need a clear head to study." He gestures to the space underneath his desk.

You sink to the floor and crawl obediently under the desk. He unzips his pants and takes his cock out, thumbing a bead of precum from his slit. He scoots the chair back, bringing his cock right up to your mouth. You open your mouth and kiss the pointed tip, tasting his precum as you flick your tongue against the underside. His shaft is obscenely thick, so you can't stop yourself from drooling as you suck on his cock. He lightly scratches his claws against your scalp, which feels amazing.

"Good girl," he purrs, the sound low and rough in his chest. "As long as you're this focused in class you'll pass."

You show him just how good you can be, and even when someone comes in to ask him some questions you carry on, doing your best not to make any noises and give yourself away. Your panties are going to be ruined with how wet you are, but you don't care.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs are appreciated ♡

@fangedforyou

[busyw0man]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ💋ɞ˚‧｡⋆ 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐦𝐞. 𝐧𝐨𝐰. (VERY USFT!!!!) 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 - send ‘reverse’ for the sender and receiver to swap. adjust wording as needed!

[ grind ] sender straddles receiver’s lap and starts grinding against them, slow and intentional

[ whisper ] sender leans in and whispers exactly what they want to do to receiver in excruciating detail

[ wristgrab ] in the middle of a heated moment, sender pins receiver’s wrists above their head

[ needy ] sender pulls receiver into their lap, desperate and breathless, kissing them like it’s not enough

[ tease ] sender drags their lips and tongue down the length of receiver’s stomach, but stops just before going lower

[ undone ] sender undresses receiver one piece of clothing at a time, dragging it out with loaded glances

[ taste ] sender drops to their knees and starts kissing up the inside of receiver’s thighs

[ lapfull ] sender drags receiver onto their lap in the middle of a conversation, their hands already wandering

[ control ] sender takes full control, guiding receiver’s hands, body, and every motion

[ tug ] sender grips receiver’s hair and yanks their head back to kiss them roughly

[ choke ] sender wraps a hand lightly around receiver’s throat while their lips are barely apart

[ lipbite ] sender bites down on receiver’s bottom lip while grinding against them

[ praise ] in the middle of it all, sender whispers praise between every movement "just like that," "you're doing so good," "don’t stop"

[ beg ] sender makes receiver beg for it

[ mouthy ] sender licks into receiver’s mouth mid-kiss, messy and aggressive

[ suck ] sender sucks a mark into receiver’s neck, possessive and without shame

[ edge ] sender brings receiver right to the brink, over and over, refusing to let them finish

[ wrecked ] sender has one goal: to leave receiver trembling and ruined beneath them

[ needy grind ] clothes still on, sender grinds against receiver until they’re both panting, desperate for more

[ between ] sender slips a hand between receiver’s thighs while whispering, “you’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?”

[ ride ] sender pushes receiver down and climbs on top, holding eye contact the entire time

[ spit ] sender leans over and lets spit drip into receiver’s mouth before kissing them hard

[ mess ] clothes scattered, sheets ruined, bodies tangled—sender and receiver didn’t hold back

[ slow ] sender draws everything out. every stroke, every breath, every motion unbearably slow

[ possessive ] sender fucks receiver like they’re trying to make sure no one else ever will

[ overstim ] sender keeps going even after receiver's already shaking from release

[ grip ] sender grabs receiver by the hips, holding them in place while taking full control

[ hot & heavy ] sender and receiver go at it somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t

[ control freak ] sender lets receiver think they're in charge… until they flip the roles mid-way

[ lips everywhere ] sender kisses every part of receiver’s body.

[ breathless ] sender doesn’t let up until receiver is clawing at their back, gasping for air

[ all night ] sender makes sure receiver doesn’t sleep... again, and again, and again

[ tongue ] sender slides their tongue along receiver’s skin, taking their time tasting every inch

[ dark corner ] they don’t make it home! sender drags receiver into a shadowed corner and gets to work

[ eye contact ] sender holds eye contact the entire time they’re going down on receiver

[ mirror ] sender takes receiver in front of the mirror so they can both watch

𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

❝ i want to hear every sound you make. don’t hold back. ❞

❝ get on your knees—now. ❞

❝ you’re not leaving this bed until i say so. ❞

❝ look at you. all mine and dripping for it. ❞

❝ you said 'just one more time' last time, remember? ❞

❝ keep quiet, or they’ll hear. ❞

❝ is this what you wanted? me, like this, ruining you? ❞

❝ you’re shaking—already? we’ve barely started. ❞

❝ i haven’t even touched you yet, and you're already begging. ❞

❝ be good for me and spread your legs. ❞

❝ don’t you dare finish until i tell you to. ❞

❝ you’re going to be the death of me, but i’ll die happy. ❞

❝ say it. say you need me. say it louder. ❞

❝ i could do this all night. want to test me? ❞

❝ if you want more, use your words. ❞

❝ you look so pretty when you beg. ❞

❝ you’re not shy now, are you? ❞

❝ take it. like that. good. ❞

❝ tell me where you want my mouth. ❞

❝ don’t bite your lip—moan. i want to hear it. ❞

[sleepyseaslug]

bunny girlfriends :)

[injureddreams]

Based on some conversations with @siriniel ♥ We just like Logan biting and also falling asleep with Wade on top u vu

[cammy-mcspammy]

Uhm.. exes.. amirighte?

(They both act nonchalant about dating but they're secretly still salty about the breakup)