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cumironi · 12 days ago

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THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GOJO’S D$CK. g.s

feat. gojo satoru

sum. what’s the best sex position ever? loud and clear you said missionary. the result? got called slut by shoko and dared by geto to fuck the stupidest man in the group, gojo satoru. and you, also the stupidest take the bait just to prove a point only to get the best missionary you’ve ever had. which, also got called slut by your friend.

wn. college au, all characters are adults (early 20s), depictions of alcohol and weed consumption, explicit sexual content including graphic foreplay and intercourse, strong language, sexual humor, slut-shaming jokes between friends, emotionally charged intimacy, consensual rough play (e.g. scratching, hickeys), praise-kink, bit dirty talk,

gojo’s basement was a whole ecosystem of indulgence, an architectural fuck-you to minimalism. the moment you stepped off the last step, it was like descending into a pleasure den disguised as a frat boy’s fever dream and a luxury showroom had a threesome with a tokyo nightlife bar and decided to never leave.

soft, dark lighting glowed along the edges of the ceiling, hiding in strips of LED that shifted color every few minutes—right now it was a moody wine red that made everyone look flushed and half-possessed. a speaker system was embedded into the walls, not blasting but thumping low enough to feel in your molars, something beat-heavy and spacey, rhythmic enough to keep your hips rocking even if you were only sitting. the walls were textured concrete, but with art—huge framed prints, some classical, some hentai, because gojo was a pretentious bitch and also a walking disaster.

it was sectioned in loose, chaotic zones. one end had a full bar, real wood counters, glass shelves, and an overhead mirror with LED backlight that made the various alcohol bottles sparkle like gemstones. there were no mixers—just hard liquor and gojo’s “personal stash” of imported shit that tasted like burnt syrup and regret. behind the bar, nanami stood like a reluctant bartender, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, stirring something too elegant for this crowd. he’d lost rock-paper-scissors and now he was stuck mixing drinks with military precision, ignoring everyone yelling that they just wanted a whiskey coke with extra whiskey and no coke.

a few steps away, there was a billiards table, dark green felt, cue sticks leaned against the wall, and haibara trying to make a shot with his head resting on the cue, eyes squinting like a sniper but swaying like a drunk tree. geto and shoko were stretched on the oversized couch that curved around a low table cluttered with empty shot glasses, an open pizza box with one lonely crust, and the remnants of three joints passed back and forth. gojo had dragged over a bean bag chair and was currently lounging in it like royalty, shirt half unbuttoned, pale collarbones peeking out, sunglasses still on indoors, of course, because he said the lighting was “too aggressive.”

you were on the rug, thighs warm from the alcohol, back against the couch, in the exact perfect spot to feel everyone’s presence all at once—geto’s knee brushing yours every time he shifted, shoko’s lazy hand resting in your hair because she liked to play with it when she was high, gojo’s long leg stretched out so his bare foot kept nudging your ankle. the rug smelled like old perfume and weed and a little bit like someone spilled gin and didn’t clean it up, and honestly? it was perfect.

“i think,” gojo announced, gesturing with his drink, something neon blue in a martini glass, “we should all officially drop out.”

“again?” geto asked, one eyebrow raised as he exhaled smoke and passed you the blunt. “you say that every thursday,” you added, grinning as you took it, the burn sweet and sharp on your tongue.

“yeah but this time i mean it,” gojo said, rolling over onto his stomach like a bored cat, chin resting on his arms. “what’s even the point of college? knowledge? community? shared trauma?”

“you only show up to class to cheat off nanami,” shoko pointed out. “he has such neat handwriting,” gojo said with a dreamy sigh. nanami rolled his eyes. “because i don’t get high the night before a midterm and forget how pens work.”

“that was one time,” you mumbled through a cough, handing the joint off to utahime who looked scandalized but still took it.

“you cried,” geto added helpfully.

“it was a stressful exam,” you defended, but the laughter already drowned you out. even nanami cracked a tired smirk. “okay but like—” haibara missed his shot and collapsed dramatically over the pool table, face pressed into the felt “—real talk. if we all dropped out, what would we do? jobs don’t exist. go.”

“porn,” you said immediately.

gojo made a high-pitched noise like a choking dolphin. “you can’t just say that, baby.”

“i said it,” you grinned, shrugging. “onlyfans. but we make it elite. like art-house, black-and-white stuff.”

“you want to direct?” shoko asked, voice slow, eyes heavy-lidded. “or star?”

“both,” you said. “duh.”

“visionary,” geto murmured, passing you a new joint, already lit. you took it without question. “okay okay okay,” haibara said, still face-down, voice muffled into the table. “but if you had to teach one sex position. like, for beginners. what’s lesson one?”

“doggy,” nanami answered without blinking.

“perv,” gojo coughed.

“efficient,” nanami corrected.

“missionary,” geto said, tapping his ash into a tray. “eye contact, full penetration, kiss access. versatile. emotionally devastating.”

“you’re so romantic,” you teased.

he smirked. “always.”

“cowgirl,” shoko added, licking salt off her hand. “control. visuals. core workout.”

“you’re all cowards,” gojo said, sitting up now, eyes glinting. “nobody said reverse cowgirl.”

“that’s because you’re the only one who wants to get kneed in the stomach,” utahime muttered, taking another sip. “worth it,” gojo sighed, pressing his hand over his chest like he’d been touched by god. and then—he turned, sharp and sudden, and pointed directly at you, mouth curling in a smirk that was all teeth and trouble.

“what about you, pretty girl?”

your throat went dry. his voice was soft now, low, sliding under your skin like warm syrup. everyone else fell quiet. not waiting in judgment—just watching. geto leaned back. shoko raised one eyebrow. even nanami tilted his head like your answer might end a war.

“hmm,” you hummed, tilting your head, pretending to think even as your lips curled. “honestly? missionary. but only if you’re trying to ruin my life,” you add, casually, sipping whatever tragic cocktail you’d ended up with—mostly rum, mostly sugar, entirely chaos—and immediately regretted it, because the second the words left your mouth, the basement erupted. broke in a howl of laughter. shoko nearly dropped her drink. geto choked on his exhale. haibara clapped the table.

“LAME!” haibara shrieked like you’d just confessed to listening to elevator music during sex. “liar,” geto said flatly, but the smile tugging at his mouth made it impossible to take seriously.

“no fucking way,” shoko barked, already leaning over the armrest like she needed to look you directly in the soul. “no. you? miss i make eye contact while ordering food like it’s a come-on?”

you groaned, trying to disappear into your shirt. “shut uuuuup.”

“there is no way your favorite position is missionary,” she said, flicking your forehead with sharp precision. “get the fuck out of here. you’re not fooling anyone.”

“maybe i’m romantic,” you offered weakly, already bracing as the room devolved into shrieks again. gojo wheezed, flopping onto his back and kicking a throw pillow off the couch. “romantic she says. oh my god. oh my fucking god.”

“missionary my ass,” utahime added, kicking your shin lightly with her socked foot. “that’s like saying your favorite food is plain rice.”

“with butter!” you shouted defensively.

“shut the fuck up!” everyone howled in unison.

“full nelson,” shoko said immediately, stabbing her finger at you. “you’re into some demon shit. like tied up, folded in half, legs behind your ears—"

“—that’s not even anatomically possible for most people—” nanami muttered in the background, but no one was listening. “you give power bottom with a penchant for suffering,” geto added smoothly, crossing his legs and resting his chin in his hand like he was about to psychoanalyze your soul.

“stop profiling me,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “what if i just want soft sex? with love? with candles and eye contact and maybe a backhand to the cheek, but mostly like… romance.”

utahime gagged so hard it sounded real. “you’re disgusting.”

“i am romantic,” you insisted, chin raised, eyes defiant. “i want to be held. i want love.” shoko tossed a grape at your head. “you want to be held in a chokehold with your face pressed to the mattress.” you caught it in your mouth and chewed, flipping her off with flair. “maybe. but gently.”

gojo rolled back upright like a cartoon character, elbows resting on his knees, eyes gleaming under the dim lights. “i can do gently,” he said, voice low and syrup-sweet.

“no,” utahime said flatly.

“you don’t get to volunteer,” nanami said, not even looking up from whatever he was mixing now. gojo grinned and tilted his head toward you, his hand slowly sliding into the pocket of your hoodie, the one you were wearing. “but i wanna,” he said, and his voice dipped just enough to warm the pit of your stomach.

you elbowed him. “we’re still talking about metaphors.”

he smiled wider. “are we?”

shoko groaned. “i’m gonna throw something at both of you.”

geto passed her a half-empty beer can like a gentleman. “use this.”

“missionary,” shoko repeated again, like she couldn’t let it go, couldn’t accept it, couldn’t believe it even existed in your vocabulary as anything more than a punchline. she said it like a curse, her voice thick with smoke and judgment. “missionary. you absolute fucking liar.”

“i’m not lying!” you whined, but it came out with a stupid grin stretching your mouth because you knew—you knew—they were right to doubt you. “nah, you’re lying,” geto said, not even looking up from his delicate task of ash-flicking with the grace of a noble concubine. “you’re lying and you know it and we all know it. missionary. yeah right.”

gojo, who had been half-lying across your lap like a loyal, slutty dog, perked up at the confirmation. “she is lying,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “i’m hurt. betrayed. flabbergasted.”

utahime barked a laugh from the bean bag she’d stolen from nanami when he went to refill his drink. “missionary only if he’s choking you out and whispering dirty things about your future kids.”

“WHICH IS STILL VERY ROMANTIC,” you argued, throwing your hands up in pathetic defense. “not when it includes the words ‘breed you dumb,’” nanami said calmly from the bar. “YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE,” you screamed across the basement, as if that would help.

haibara was bent over wheezing, red in the face and tears in his eyes. “you—missionary—you’re the same bitch who moaned watching that fight scene in that one show—”

“he had his veins out and a chain around his neck, i was provoked!”

shoko pointed directly at you like she was driving a stake into your coffin. “you want missionary the same way a raccoon wants tap water. not cause it’s good, cause it’s easy access before you crawl into the sewer.”

“i am not a raccoon!”

“you are the racooniest,” geto said. “fucked-up little hands and all.”

gojo, smug and now fully reclined into your lap with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs kicking up a little in rhythm with the music, looked up at you upside down with that shit-eating grin. “no shame in liking missionary,” he said sweetly. “as long as it’s not the only thing you like.”

“oh no no no,” geto said, sitting up straighter now, attention focused, looking deadly and delighted. “you don’t get to backpedal now. no retreat. you committed.”

“i did not commit—”

“you’re committed. one hundred percent. missionary ride or die. all in.”

“you’re making it sound like a cult.”

“IT IS,” shoko yelled, throwing a handful of popcorn at your head that she’d stolen from god knows where. “missionary only when the moon is waxing, the candles are teal, and your playlist is all sad acoustic covers of 2000s bangers.”

“that sounds fucking dreamy actually,” you said, offended but also taking mental notes.

geto leaned over, narrowing his eyes, voice dipping low and daring, that teasing menace blooming in the corners of his mouth like sin: “then do it. with satoru. go full missionary. full eye contact. no jokes. no choking. no freaky shit. vanilla as fuck. and afterward—then tell us if it’s still your favorite.”

the room fell silent.

gojo sat up.

utahime choked on her drink.

shoko slapped her knee and screamed, “YES. YESSSS. YOU WON’T. DO IT. I DARE YOU. PUT YOUR LOVE WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS.”

“THAT IS NOT THE PHRASE,” you cried.

“IT IS NOW,” haibara shouted, fist in the air.

gojo was looking at you like you just became his favorite episode of a fucked-up reality show. slowly, slowly, he leaned in, blinking those pale lashes in mock innocence, like a predator trying to play sweet. “do you want me to hold your hand, princess?” he cooed, voice dragging over each syllable like it was rolling in honey and filth. “whisper how pretty you look while you say missionary is your favorite?”

you flailed, completely red, pressing your palm to his face and pushing him back with a groan. “shut uuuuuup, i hate you—”

“you love me,” he sang.

“you’ll love him more with his dick in you like an afterschool special,” shoko muttered, and you almost died.

“this is not how peer support groups work,” you whined.

“this is how our support group works,” geto corrected, cool as ice, brushing ash off his sleeve. “we support you… into making the worst decisions imaginable.”

“i hate this friend group.”

“you started it!” utahime yelled. “you could’ve said cowgirl and we would’ve moved on!”

“i wanted to be authentic!”

“authentic my ass,” nanami mumbled. “your idea of authentic includes handcuffs and a soundtrack.”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.”

gojo grinned wider, tongue tucked behind his teeth, eyes narrow with mischief. “baby, you say one time, but your eyes are saying again.” you groaned, staring up at the string lights twinkling on the ceiling like they were your last remaining allies. “i hope you all choke on your weed.”

“romantic choking,” geto said.

“god is dead,” you muttered.

“he died in missionary,” shoko declared.

and the room screamed again.

the yelling hadn’t died down. it had evolved—evolved into a full-blown, unholy ritual, like you’d summoned something cursed just by saying “missionary” in this den of godless chaos. the music still thumped in the background—some bass-heavy beat vibrating low enough to shake the pool cues on the wall—but it was drowned beneath the choir of filthy voices rallying around your damnation.

“come onnnn,” haibara practically whined, dragging himself across the floor like a tragic little beast of pressure and peer influence. “just do it once. like, clinical trial shit. for science.”

“for data,” geto added solemnly, passing the joint back to you with all the pomp of a ceremonial dagger. “you know he’s down,” utahime said, gesturing lazily with her drink toward gojo. “he’s always down. satoru would do it with a smile on his face and his dick already out.”

“i’d do it with flowers,” gojo offered sweetly, chin in hand, smiling like the most deranged boy in a dating sim. “i’d put a little post-it on her hip that says you’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“you are a menace,” you groaned, tossing the joint in the ashtray, flopping your head against the back of the couch. “okay, but for real,” shoko cut in, snapping her fingers like a sitcom villain. “we have to settle this. you can’t keep saying that’s your favorite and then not test it with the absolute worst candidate.”

gojo lit up. “i’m honored.”

“he’s dumb as shit,” nanami added, calmly wiping the bar down with a cocktail napkin like he wasn’t verbally assassinating his friend. “there’s no way he can make it romantic. not even ironically.”

“he’d come while trying to say something nice and end up crying,” shoko muttered, lighting a cigarette like the world’s most beautiful disappointment. “he doesn’t even know how to look romantic,” geto chimed in, now entirely leaned back and smoking like he was watching live theater. “that man sends memes after sexting.”

“he once tried to dirty talk me by saying i looked like i had good knees,” utahime added. the room died.

“they were good knees,” gojo whined.

“SEE?” shoko shrieked, pointing wildly. “this is what we’re dealing with! that’s who she wants missionary with! that’s what she calls romance!”

you covered your face, weakly laughing into your hands. “you’re all insane.”

“and yet,” nanami said smoothly, pouring himself another drink, “you’ve fucked most of us.”

your head snapped up. “WHAT—”

“you have,” shoko agreed, nodding casually like she was reading a wine label. “it’s canon now.”

“absolutely,” geto said, exhaling smoke like a sexy devil. “you’ve whored your way through 70% of this friend group. missionary with gojo would be the least slutty thing you’ve done.”

“don’t slut-shame me while calling me a slut,” you groaned, laughing despite yourself. “slut is not derogatory here,” shoko said, patting your thigh. “it’s like saying you’re talented. you’re our slut. community slut. the people’s princess.”

“i’m gonna cry.”

“oh, so now you wanna act innocent?” nanami’s voice was ice in a cocktail glass. “not when you were drunk texting me ‘wanna ruin my future?’ at 2am last weekend.”

“i was having a moment!”

“you were also wearing gojo’s hoodie with no pants and humping a pillow,” geto said, eyes glittering like he kept this memory polished for personal use. you slapped your palms over your face again. “can’t a girl be romantic in peace?”

“not in this house,” utahime deadpanned. “but like,” gojo piped up, head now resting on your thigh again, completely unbothered, probably hard, absolutely thrilled, “they’ve got a point.”

you looked down at him, exhausted. “i swear to god, satoru—”

“no no, hear me out,” he said, holding up both hands like he was offering a legal defense. “i’ve seen you horny for nanami just cause he tied his tie right. i’ve seen you get wet over geto saying the word ‘problematic.’ you let shoko suck a bruise into your thigh because she was bored.”

“and that was her fault,” you pointed to shoko. “i was drunk and passive.”

“uh huh,” she hummed, mouth twitching.

“all i’m saying is,” gojo said, sitting up now, hands on your knees, looking up at you like a dog who just learned to beg, “if you’re gonna be a slut, be an honest slut. missionary with me. prove them wrong. show them you’re a woman of taste and tragedy.”

you stared at him, mouth parted, blinking.

“this is sexual peer pressure,” you mumbled.

“this is justice,” geto corrected.

“this is foreplay,” gojo whispered with a wink.

“i hate you all,” you grumbled, cheeks hot, lips twitching despite yourself.

“but you’ll do it?” haibara asked, eyes wide and dumb and so hopeful.

“maybe.”

“HA!” gojo shouted, launching a throw pillow at shoko. “that’s a yes!”

“that’s not a yes—”

“you heard her!” geto called, standing up to stretch like a smug, half-naked giraffe. “she agreed! and now we shall bear witness to the least romantic, most catastrophic missionary session ever.”

“you’re gonna be pinned to the mattress like a frog in biology class,” shoko said, wheezing. “gojo’s gonna forget to take off his socks,” utahime muttered, disgusted. “you know i have those toe socks,” he said proudly.

you groaned again, but deep down your stomach fluttered with heat and laughter, and your thighs pressed together, and despite the chaos—despite all of it—you were already thinking about how it’d feel to have him above you, stupid, naked, sweet, mean, sloppy, and whispering something that almost sounded like love.

and stupidly, in the end, you look behind you as you walk toward the hallway with gojo—your hand clutched in his like a fucking idiot—with the bedroom door at the end blinking at you like it knew exactly how many sins were about to unfold inside it. he’s practically bouncing beside you, grinning with his arm slung around your waist like he won a prize at a fair and it was you, half-drunk, giggling, humiliated, and undeniably curious about how the stupidest fucking person in your friends group was about to missionary the everloving shit out of you.

you glance back once, just once, and of course—of course—the entire couch crew is watching, each one of them grinning like hyenas on bath salts.

shoko, drink in one hand, tongue out like she’s in a punk band photo shoot, flips you off and mouths, “TAKE THE D.”

nanami lifts his glass, deadpan as ever, and mouths, “condoms are in the drawer.”

haibara is full-on doubled over, clapping like you’re being sent off to war.

geto gives you the filthiest two-thumbs-up you’ve ever seen, followed by a pantomimed gesture that can only be described as “jackhammer pelvic annihilation.”

utahime just shrugs like “you brought this on yourself.”

you don’t know if you want to laugh or scream or combust.

you’re all stupid fucks.

and you’re the stupidest one of all.

gojo drags you through the door with a dramatic flourish, like you’re being ushered into a honeymoon suite, except it’s the spare bedroom in his overdesigned basement—dark walls, plush mattress, fairy lights clinging to the corners, a single massive bed that has held too many sleepovers, too many hangovers, too many half-naked bodies tangled under that navy comforter.

he slams the door shut behind him with an unnecessary thud and then locks it.

locks it with intent.

you look at him, raising an eyebrow.

he grins, all bright eyes and too much teeth, and says, “we don’t want anyone walking in on your emotional awakening.” you shove him in the chest, laughing despite the heat pooling low in your belly, but his arms snake around your waist and he pulls you flush against him, the giddiness gone softer now, warmer.

“you really want this?” he asks, murmuring it against the corner of your mouth, lips ghosting, fingers rubbing slow lazy circles against your spine. “you wanna prove ‘em all wrong?”

you tilt your head back, a little buzzed, a little high, heart thumping in your ears from the absurdity and anticipation and just… him—this dumb beautiful man who you’ve known since freshman year, who once drank a bottle of cooking wine on a dare, who calls you names that make your skin warm, who sends you memes at 2am and confesses his feelings with a smirk like it’s not real.

and now he’s asking like it’s the first time he’s ever taken anything seriously. you hum, smirk lazy, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “go on, missionary me, satoru.”

he laughs—not loud, not sharp, just this sweet, stupid, delighted sound that vibrates into your chest before he grabs your jaw, kisses you once, hard and messy and full of promise, and then gently backs you toward the bed like he’s actually going to try to make this romantic.

“i’m gonna missionary you so hard you’ll cry,” he says, completely deadpan.

“you’re such a fucking idiot,” you murmur.

“yours,” he whispers, pushing you down onto the mattress like prayer, like penance, like romance—but only if romance came with a hickey and a headboard slam.

gojo doesn’t even rush you, which is fucking weird. normally he rushes everything—his speeches, his shots, his half-baked plans that end with haibara covered in glitter and someone’s laptop in the bathtub. but now, now that you’ve willingly walked into this basement bedroom with him like some horny lamb in a thrifted hoodie, he moves slow. suspiciously slow. like he’s savoring it. like the thought of doing missionary—actual missionary, not his usual chaotic acrobatic nonsense—has turned into something sacred.

his hands are on your hips first, thumbs dipping just beneath the waistband of your shorts as he leans over you, not yet pushing you down but crowding you close enough that you feel the press of his grin against your skin.

“you sure you don’t want something more… you?” he murmurs, voice like a low vibration against your neck, smug and teasing, but softer than usual.

you blink up at him, lying back slightly on your elbows atop the bed, the fairy lights in the corners of the ceiling casting soft gold against his white hair, making him look like the dumbest, prettiest boy the devil ever handcrafted in a rush. his shirt is wrinkled, half unbuttoned from earlier when he got dramatic during your defense trial in the living room, and you can see the curve of his collarbones, the start of his chest. he’s flushed, high, and still smiling like he’s on a game show and he’s about to spin the wheel of “ruin your life.”

you smirk back. “you saying i’m not a romantic?”

he kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed and slow. “i’m saying you’re a slut with a dream.”

you groan. “fuck off.”

“i will,” he murmurs, mouthing just below your collarbone, “right after i make you fall in love with me like a virgin on prom night.”

you burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and you don’t push him far. his hands slide up your sides, dragging your shirt with them, slow and deliberate, knuckles brushing bare skin. you can feel him watching your face, that infuriating way he always does, like he’s daring you to show how much you want him, how much you feel him even in these dumb, tender moments.

you let your head fall back on the mattress with a sigh, staring at the ceiling, arms up to let him pull your shirt the rest of the way off. the lights glow amber above you. the room smells like weed and gojo and leftover cologne and heat. you’re suddenly aware of how warm you are, how warm he is—kneeling one knee between your thighs now, eyes slow and greedy as they rake over your torso.

he runs his fingers up your stomach, watching the way your skin jumps under the touch. “see?” he says, voice soft but smug. “missionary’s good already. look how romantic this is. i haven’t even said the dumb shit yet.”

“say it,” you challenge, breath catching when he leans down again, kisses trailing over the swell of your breast, hands still warm and splayed along your ribs.

his mouth brushes your sternum. “you feel so pretty under my hands.”

your thighs twitch. “that’s not even a sentence.”

“shh,” he says, nuzzling the underside of your breast. “i’m practicing.”

his tongue flicks out, barely tasting your skin, not even on your nipple, just everywhere else—stupid, teasing little licks and kisses that feel more intimate than any fast-grab hookup ever did. one hand slides down to your hip, the other dragging along your arm, fingers lacing with yours, like he’s doing this half slow to spite everyone outside the door. look at us, he seems to say with every breath. look how fucking tender missionary can be.

“i swear to god if you light a candle—”

“i’m going to whisper how much i admire your work ethic.”

“satoru.”

he kisses the inside of your elbow.

“i’m gonna say i love your playlists.”

“oh my god.”

he climbs up, mouth ghosting over your jaw now, weight sinking into the mattress as he settles between your legs fully, both your hands pinned above your head with his, gaze locking onto yours with that glint—equal parts mockery and reverence. his breath is warm, lips millimeters from yours, teasing.

“i’m gonna make you come while telling you how smart you are.”

you stare, blinking, lips parting like you’re gonna come up with a good retort—and then moan when he shifts his hips, not even grinding, just pressing, enough friction to spark heat through the fabric.

he smirks.

“told you,” he whispers. “romantic’s just foreplay with better lighting.”

you blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck like it’s trying to reach your brain and set fire to what little reason you have left. he’s too close. he’s too warm, too gojo, too smug, and the worst part is—he’s not even being his usual chaotic self. this is worse. this is soft. this is slow, deliberate, dragged-out torture disguised as affection, and it’s working way too fucking well.

your arms are stretched above you, wrists pinned by one of his big, veiny hands—so unnecessarily hot—while his other trails down your side again, fingers curling like he’s mapping you out by touch, like every new inch of bare skin is a piece of his personal love letter.

“you’re so warm,” he says, voice quiet now. a little surprised. “you always run hot?”

you groan, cheeks hot as hell. “satoru.”

“i like it,” he adds, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist. “feels like you’re already worked up for me.”

you glare. “this is supposed to be romantic.”

“it is,” he grins, leaning down just enough to drag his nose along your jaw. “i’m romancing you right now. you’re being romanced. fully seduced. by my incredible personality and outstanding emotional depth.”

you burst out laughing, face turning toward the pillow to muffle the sound, and he takes the opportunity to mouth along your neck, pressing an open kiss just below your ear. not biting, not sucking, just soft and slow, his lips dragging along your pulse point like he’s trying to memorize your heartbeat.

his hand leaves your wrist, and you instinctively move to touch him, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, over your collarbone, across your shoulder, moving down with maddening patience. he pulls at your waistband gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours like he’s asking without words, and you nod, breath catching in your throat.

he slides your shorts down, dragging the fabric slowly past your thighs, kissing his way along your hipbone as he goes. nothing rushed. no bravado. just him and the stupid heat of his mouth on your skin, the gentle press of his hands as he settles between your thighs.

he exhales against your inner thigh like a sigh, like he’s been waiting his whole dumb life for this exact moment, and you shiver. “still think this isn’t romantic?” he asks, glancing up with a crooked smile, his breath ghosting over where you’re already embarrassingly wet.

you tug at his hair lightly. “you’re an idiot.”

“a romantic idiot,” he corrects, pressing a kiss just above your knee. “the best kind.” he kisses higher now, slow and trailing, hands rubbing soft patterns into your thighs as he settles deeper between them, anchoring you there like he’s making himself a new home.

“i’m gonna take my time with you,” he whispers, dragging his lips up toward the place you’re aching for. “gonna make you feel so fucking good… and the whole time, i’ll be looking at you like we’re married and i just made you breakfast.”

you snort. “is that your fantasy? missionary and eggs benedict?”

he hums against your skin, lips curving. “yeah, but you’re the eggs. i’m gonna ruin you.” you squeak, shoving at his head, but your legs don’t move. they can’t, not when he’s got them opened like this, not when his mouth is that close, not when your whole body’s vibrating from anticipation.

he chuckles again, smug and soft, and presses one more kiss just shy of where you want him, before leaning back up and dragging his body over yours, forearm bracing beside your head.

his mouth finds yours again, slow and coaxing, like he’s drinking from you, like every sound you make is holy. he kisses you like he’s got forever. like tonight’s the only night that matters. and even though it’s still teasing, still laced with filth and humor and all the usual gojo mess—you feel the care in it. the attention. the goddamn sweetness.

his nose brushes yours as he pulls back just enough to speak.

“missionary’s lookin’ pretty good right now, huh?”

you can’t speak. you just nod.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he murmurs, and kisses you again, deeper now, hungrier.

and somehow—stupidly, undeniably—it is romantic.

his kiss deepens and it changes something—slips out of that playful, teasing rhythm and sinks into a weightier kind of heat, slow and intentional. like he’s not just kissing you because he wants to, but because he needs to, like there’s something about your mouth he’s been thinking about every night he lay awake jerking off with his phone on silent and your face stuck in his memory.

gojo presses closer, one arm sliding beneath your back to lift you into him, like even now, he can’t stand a sliver of distance. your thighs fall open around his hips without resistance, your body pliant, high and fuzzy and ready, even as your brain’s still catching up, trying to convince you this is actually happening.

and still—still he doesn’t go for your panties yet. he’s grinding against them through his jeans, slow, careful, more like he’s testing pressure than chasing friction. he doesn’t need to rush, not with you already sighing into his mouth, your nails dragging light patterns over the back of his neck, legs wrapping around him like a question you don’t know how to ask.

he hums against your lips, low and pleased. his voice sounds deeper now, like it’s sitting low in his chest, like lust’s finally dragging it down out of his usual chirpy register and into something that sounds like intent.

“fuck,” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek, “you feel so fuckin’ good already and i’m not even inside you.” his nose nuzzles yours as his hand ghosts down your side again, over your waist, over the soft of your hip, sliding slow between your thighs—warm and steady, pressing the heel of his palm against your center, not touching anything properly yet, just there, enough to make you buck a little without thinking.

he pulls back to watch you, eyes blown out, grin lazy and eyes focused in a way that’s almost too much—like he’s trying to memorize the way your face changes with each drag of his hand. “don’t hide your face,” he whispers, brushing hair from your forehead. “i wanna see everything. this is the romantic part, remember?”

you glare at him weakly, lip caught between your teeth. “you’re such a dick.”

he beams. “a romantic dick.”

his fingers hook into your waistband slowly, dragging your panties down your thighs, and even then he doesn’t move too fast. he stops just to kiss the crease of your thigh, to mouth the soft skin above your knee like he’s got nowhere else to be. he keeps talking under his breath, too—his filthy little monologue of worship and teasing:

“so pretty. so soft. you always smell this good? i shoulda done this years ago. god, the way you’re lookin’ at me right now—fuck. fuck. this is better than porn.”

you groan, hiding your face again. he just laughs and pulls your hands away, pinning them gently beside your head. “you’re not allowed to be shy now, babe,” he murmurs. “not after all that talk.” then, he grinds again—slow, hips rolling forward against your now-bare heat, his cock thick and hot through his jeans before he slowly push it off his legs, dragging perfectly along your slick folds, not in, not yet, just enough to make you whimper, thighs tightening around his hips.

you say his name and it breaks on your tongue, half a moan, half a warning. his mouth finds yours again, and it’s gentler this time, breathier, softer, like the kind of kiss you give someone after an argument, or a goodbye, or a promise. “this,” he whispers, between slow rolls of his hips, “is what they don’t get about missionary. it’s not boring.”

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. your throat.

“it’s close.”

he cups your breast with one hand, thumb brushing over your nipple until your back arches. “it’s eye contact.” he pushes the tip of his cock just barely against your entrance, just a tease, not even enough to press in, just the heat and pressure and promise, and it’s maddening. “it’s feelin’ every twitch you make.” his other hand cradles your face now, thumb brushing over your cheek, his eyes locked on yours.

“and when i finally fuck you—”

you tremble beneath him, fingers gripping his shoulders like you’re drowning.

“—you’re not gonna be able to look away.”

your breath catches. your lips part. your thighs shake.

and he’s still smiling, so slow, so patient, hips rocking against yours in a way that’s somehow sweeter than anything you’ve done with him before. “see?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “romance. just with more lube.”

his cockhead slides slick and hot along your folds—slow, teasing passes up and down the length of your pussy like he’s learning you by feel, like he’s savoring every tremble you can’t suppress. he doesn’t push in yet, just drags the tip lazily, catching your clit on the upstroke, smearing your slick over the flushed head with every patient, maddening grind. it’s warm and messy and obscene, his hips rolling slow, the weight of him heavy between your thighs, arms braced on either side of your head, body coiled but unhurried.

you’re breathing through your mouth now, lips parted, chest rising fast. his forehead’s still resting against yours, breath hot, both of you in this sticky, perfect moment suspended just before the fall. you lift one hand, threading your fingers into his hair—so soft, even now—and the other slips to the buttons of his shirt.

“i need—” you start, but don’t finish. he just nods.

you work the buttons open one by one, trembling fingers moving slow at first, then faster, frantic for skin. every button undone reveals more of him—long lines of lean muscle under smooth skin, flushed now, glowing in the golden halo of the fairy lights. his collarbones, his sternum, the subtle dip down the center of his chest, the way he moves above you with every breath—it’s fucking perfect. stupidly, unreasonably perfect.

your palms flatten against his chest, dragging down over the flex of his abs, feeling him shudder under your touch. he’s warm, a little sticky with sweat, skin like silk over steel. your nails graze his ribs and he gasps into your neck.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

“shut up and fuck me,” you breathe back, and it’s not even desperate—it’s reverent. his cock nudges against your entrance, hips rolling forward, and then he pushes. slow. impossibly slow. inch by inch, your pussy stretching around him, swallowing him, your breath caught in your throat as the fullness builds, thick and unbearable and perfect.

his forehead presses back to yours. his mouth drops open, eyes squeezed shut, groaning soft and hoarse like the pleasure hurts. you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him in deeper, your hands sliding up his back. your nails dig in—deep—carving red lines into the flex of his shoulder blades and down along his spine. he hisses against your lips, a sound that’s more pleasure than pain, hips stuttering.

“shit—baby—fuck—”

he bottoms out with a shaky grind of his hips, buried so deep inside you that you feel like you’ve been marked from the inside out. every twitch of him against your walls sends sparks up your spine. and he just stays there for a moment, not moving, breathing you in.

“you feel—” he tries, but then laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. “—i don’t have the words. you feel like heaven and punishment and fucking home.” your hands curl tighter into his back, your lips brushing his cheek as you whisper back, “i told you i was romantic.”

“you’re a fucking dream,” he whispers.

then his hips start to move.

his hips begin to move with the kind of slow, reverent rhythm that makes your throat tighten. like every inch he draws back is a silent apology, and every inch he pushes back in is a promise he’ll never leave. it’s not just sex—it's the ache of something bigger pressing down on both of you, thick in the air like incense, like heat, like the way his mouth brushes yours with every shallow thrust, not always kissing, just there, sharing breath, the smallest space between you charged and crackling.

you’re wrapped around him fully now—legs looped over his waist, hands tangled in the open cotton of his shirt that’s slipped halfway off his shoulders, your nails still painting invisible trails down his back. you can feel the burn where you scratched him raw, and he’s still groaning every time your nails dig a little deeper, like it feeds him, like he likes the proof of you on his body.

but it’s slow. fucking unbearably slow.

he’s not slamming into you like some desperate teenage fantasy. no—gojo is making love to you with the body of a sinner and the mouth of a man who knows every joke will hit harder with your cunt squeezing around his cock.

“you’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs against your lips, grinning through a groan, forehead still pressed to yours. “like—fuck, like you’re trying to keep me forever.” you whimper softly, one hand sliding into his hair, tugging at the roots just to feel him react. and he does, hips hitching slightly deeper, eyes fluttering shut as he pants against your cheek.

“that what this is?” he breathes. “romance as entrapment? mm—baby, if that’s what you’re after, you’ve got me.” he pulls out almost to the tip, dragging the ridge of his cockhead against your soaked entrance, then sinks back in slowly—too slowly—and you arch into him, breath catching with a soft, gasping moan.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice cracked. “listen to you.”

his hand slips between you now, palm flat against your stomach first, then lower, his fingers finding your clit like second nature, rubbing soft circles that match the slow grind of his hips. the pressure makes your thighs tighten around him, your hips canting upward, breath stuttering.

“so good,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “satoru—fuck—don’t stop.”

“never,” he promises, eyes locked on yours now, wide and bright and open, not cocky this time, not laughing—just full of that stupid, terrifying sincerity he hides under every joke. “fuck, you feel so good. so soft. warm. like your pussy’s in love with me even if your mouth won’t say it yet.”

you let out a broken laugh, hands clutching his shoulders, your body moving with his now, rolling into every thrust, every tender rub of his fingers over your clit. “i hate you,” you whisper, dazed, overwhelmed, completely gone.

he grins, mouth brushing yours again. “no, you don’t.”

“i really do—”

“then why’s your cunt fluttering every time i say something romantic?”

you choke on a laugh that dissolves into a moan, and he kisses it off your lips, his thrusts picking up just barely—still slow, still deep, but with a heat that builds under your skin, spreading outward like a wave you know you won’t survive. “missionary,” he breathes, like he’s blessing you with the word. “best position in the world.”

“fuck you—”

“you are,” he laughs, cock twitching inside you. “you’re so fucking mine right now.”

you grab his face, pull him down into another kiss—sloppy, wet, real, all tongue and teeth and heat. he’s moaning into your mouth now, every roll of his hips drawing a whine out of your throat, every filthy little circle of his fingers making your stomach twist tight. “you’re not allowed to be good at this,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “oh, baby,” he pants, forehead pressed back to yours, cock grinding deeper, his voice dropping low and filthy. “you haven’t even seen me try yet.”

his hips drag deep and slow like he’s sculpting the inside of you with his cock, and you’re shaking beneath him—sweat-damp skin sliding against his, toes curled, fingers sunk into his back so hard you know you’ll leave scratches he’s going to brag about for weeks. gojo’s face is buried against your throat, his breath coming out in broken little groans, every sound pitched high and wrecked like he’s unraveling with you, held together by nothing but the rhythm of his thrusts and the heat blooming in your core.

you’re soaked around him, clenching every time he rolls his hips into you with that slow, relentless grind that drags the thick head of his cock across your sweetest spot just right, again and again. the slick sound of him fucking you fills the room, obscene and wet, echoing off the walls like music behind the ragged whimpering of your breath and his deep, shuddering groans.

your thighs twitch around his waist, your head thrown back against the pillows, mouth open, voice cracking as you moan, “fuck—fuck—satoru—i’m gonna—i can’t—fuck—”

“yes, baby,” he pants, voice completely shot, wrecked and desperate, every word punctuated by a thrust that goes just a little harder, a little deeper. “come on, i feel you—shit, you’re squeezing me so—fuck, come for me, baby, come on me, i wanna feel you break—”

your back arches and you scream—loud, raw, real—hands flying to his hair, tugging hard as your orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, pussy fluttering around him, tight and hot and soaked. your entire body locks up, toes curling, thighs shaking violently as pleasure rips through you in sharp, electric pulses that have you gasping his name again and again—“satoru—satoru—fuckfuckfuck—oh my god—”

he’s losing it above you, losing his fucking mind, his cock twitching hard inside you as your walls milk him with every spasm. his forehead’s pressed to yours, mouth hanging open, breath coming in short, wrecked little moans—“f-fuck—oh fuck, baby, oh my god—your pussy’s choking me—gonna—gonna—i’m gonna—”

he slams into you one last time, hips jerking as he moans so loud right in your ear, deep and guttural and shaking with how hard he comes, cock throbbing as he spills inside you, filling you up, his whole body shuddering as he gasps, "oh fuck, yes—yesyesyes—oh my fucking god—yes."

you’re both panting, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms pulling him down, needing him close even as your bodies tremble against each other. his cock is still twitching inside you, your walls still fluttering with aftershocks, and he’s breathing your name like he’s worshipping it, forehead pressed to yours as he whispers, “that was—fuck—baby—i felt everything. you—you killed me.”

you laugh, hoarse and fucked-out, body buzzing like live wire. “missionary?” he pants, lips brushing yours. “best fucking position,” you gasp, still clenching around him, making him groan all over again.

he smiles. “god, i love being right.”

his body is still trembling against yours, muscles twitching under your hands as he slowly, reluctantly, starts to move again—like he’s not ready to let go of the feeling, like being buried in you with your legs locked around his waist is something he’d live inside if the world would just let him.

he’s panting into your neck, soft little exhales against your damp skin, and you can feel the shape of every breath, the way his chest stutters against yours like he’s still trying to come back to earth. and inside you, he’s still thick, still sensitive, every subtle squeeze of your cunt making him whimper.

you grin, dazed, half-dead, fully fucked out, dragging your nails up his back with gentle pressure now, tracing along the red welts you carved earlier like a painter admiring their masterpiece. “you’re leaking inside me,” you murmur, voice rough and slurred, hips shifting just enough to feel the warm, wet spill of him dripping down your thighs.

he groans, long and low, and lifts his head to look at you. his bangs are plastered to his forehead, eyes glassy and blown wide, lips swollen and parted as he breathes. there’s sweat at his temple, a flush high in his cheeks, and the expression on his face is somewhere between holy shit and i could marry you right now and cry doing it.

“you keep squeezing me like that, baby,” he says, voice shredded, “and i’ll give you another load without even moving.”

you laugh breathlessly, biting your lip, and he kisses you—messy, slow, full of tongue and heat and that unbearable sweetness that he only ever shows you in quiet moments like this. his hips roll forward just a little, and even though you’re both sensitive, you both moan, gasping against each other’s mouths.

“fuck,” you breathe, nails digging gently into his shoulder blades again. “you came so much, satoru.”

“‘course i did,” he pants, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies are still joined. he moves his hips in the slightest circle, still buried inside you, cock twitching, and watches your cunt flutter around him like it’s still begging for more.

“how could i not?” he continues, eyes wide, voice soft with shock. “you—you milked me. i didn’t even get to fuck you hard. you came and just took it from me. you robbed me. you’re a criminal.” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him back down into your chest. “you liked it.”

“i loved it,” he groans, pressing kisses to your collarbone, mouthing against your skin like he can’t stop. “missionary’s never gonna be the same. i’m gonna be useless. this pussy’s got emotional consequences.”

you snort, and he keeps talking like he’s possessed, rambling sweet and filthy things against your skin. “gonna write about this in my journal. not even a sex diary. just regular journal. ‘dear diary, the love of my life fucked me dumb in my own basement. i cried a little.’”

“you didn’t cry,” you say, even as you’re laughing again.

“not yet.”

you’re still full of him, and he’s still twitching inside you like he’s thinking about round two, and honestly—you are too. the room’s still glowing soft with the fairy lights. your bodies are stuck together with sweat and come and the kind of heat that doesn’t cool easy. your thighs are sticky around his hips. his fingers haven’t stopped stroking your side. you can hear your friends still laughing distantly from the living room, and none of it matters.

he presses his forehead to yours again, noses brushing. “you wanna go again?” he asks, voice soft now, full of a wicked little smile. “slow this time. slower than this.”

you blink at him.

“that was slow.”

he grins. “i can go slower.”

your breath catches, your body already aching in the best way.

“what, you gonna put on music and cry while you fuck me?”

“only if you want me to,” he whispers, and then kisses you again, tender and deep.

and god help you—you might.

after a few moments of so-called dramatic silence—it’s not, because gojo’s incapable of shutting up even post-orgasm—you finally sigh, drop your head back with a groan, and sit up on the edge of the bed, still dazed, still soaked, still trying to remember how to be a functioning human being. your thighs stick together when you shift. the air is thick with sex and sweat and that particular smugness that only gojo satoru can radiate like body heat.

meanwhile, he’s half-dressed and strutting around like a peacock that just won a dance battle. his jeans are back on—sloppily buttoned, zipper half-down, belt missing—and his shirt is absolutely not on because it’s somewhere across the room where he tossed it like a used napkin. he’s humming to himself as he pokes through the wreckage of the bed’s surroundings, eyes sparkling like he just found religion.

“where the hell did your bra go?” he mutters, pulling a sock off the lampshade and examining it like it might transform. “jesus, did i eat it?—oh, nope. got it. it was under my back.”

you groan again, arms folded across your chest, hair a tangled halo around your face, watching him with your chin tucked against your knees. “can you just—bring me my shirt before you go on another satoru soliloquy?”

“no can do, miss missionary evangelist,” he says, holding your crumpled shirt in one hand and dramatically placing your bra over his shoulder like a sash. “not until you publicly acknowledge that you were wrong and i, gojo satoru, bringer of orgasmic truth, proved—beyond reasonable doubt—that missionary is the best position known to mankind.”

you throw a pillow at him.

it hits his face, bounces off, and he keeps smiling.

“fine,” you mutter, reaching out as he steps in close. “yes. missionary with you, the stupidest man in our group, was good. amazing. disgustingly good.”

“romantic,” he corrects, kneeling in front of you now, the shirt falling from his hand onto your lap, the bra dangling from two fingers as he smirks up at you. “romantically stupid,” you clarify, grinning despite the embarrassment curling under your skin.

“they’re gonna die when they hear you let me make love to you like a Jane Austen adaptation,” he says, gently nudging your thighs apart so he can help you step into your underwear. “haibara’s gonna combust. shoko’s gonna stage an intervention.”

“shoko’s gonna accuse me of spiritual regression,” you say, lifting your hips so he can slide the fabric back over them. “and i’m gonna prove her wrong. i’m gonna look her in the eyes and tell her: ‘even doing missionary with the dumbest man i know, it was still the best.’ and you know what? i’m gonna mean it.”

gojo grins like the devil with a heart of gold.

“now that’s the kinda testimonial i wanna hear in a courtroom,” he says, fingers dragging slowly up your thighs, hooking your shorts next. “tell the jury, sweetheart. tell ‘em what it felt like.” you swat his shoulder, cheeks flushing again. “just help me put my bra on, casanova.”

he does—surprisingly gently, fingers cool against your back, hooking the clasp with practiced ease before pulling your shirt down over your head, smoothing the fabric over your hips like he’s dressing a doll he won in a fucked-up carnival game. and when he stands up again, you reach for his bicep, eyes catching on the faint red lines blooming just under the curve of his muscle.

your fingers trace one—long, angry, scabbed slightly already. the mark from your nails. from when you came so hard you clawed him like you were drowning in him. your breath catches a little.

“does that hurt?” you ask, voice low, thumb brushing it softer now.

he looks down at your hand. then at you.

and grins.

“hurt? no, baby. it’s proof.”

“proof of what? that i mauled you like a cat in heat?”

“proof that missionary ruins lives.” you choke on a laugh, and he throws his arms out dramatically, flexing the arm with the red lines like a trophy. “i’m gonna show everyone,” he says proudly. “i’m gonna walk out there and tell them: this? this was earned through slow, passionate, eye-contact-heavy fucking.”

you blink. “you’re gonna brag about being scratched during tender sex?”

“hell yes i am. this is a scarlet letter and i’m wearing it with pride.”

you bury your face in your hands.

“i’m gonna have to move cities.”

he leans down, kisses your hair, still giddy.

“no you’re not. you’re gonna go out there, sit on that couch, and smile smugly while they cry about how you got the good shit.”

“what, missionary?”

he winks. “romantic missionary.”

you shake your head, grabbing his hand to stand up with a sigh. your legs still tremble slightly, and he catches you with an arm around your waist. “we tell them,” he whispers in your ear, “but we don’t tell them everything.”

“deal.”

you walk out first, mostly because gojo insisted on dramatically opening the door for you like some fucked-up victorian husband escorting his blushing bride after the most sacred consummation of their union—which is rich, considering there was nothing sacred about what just happened unless you count the part where you saw god for a few seconds while pinned beneath the dumbest man in your life.

the moment the door creaks open, the silence is immediate and vicious. like the eye of a hurricane. the group sprawled across the living room snaps their heads toward the hallway in unison like a pack of wild animals smelling the aftermath of debauchery—and the look on their faces?

oh yeah. they know.

you’re glowing. not figuratively. literally. your skin’s flushed and gleaming with sweat, your shirt slightly off the shoulder, your lips swollen, your hair a disaster that no dry shampoo or dignity could save. a fresh constellation of hickeys blooms across your neck like you had a one-night stand with the concept of poor decision-making. you’ve got that post-sex daze in your eyes—the kind that says your soul left your body for twenty-seven minutes and came back softer.

and gojo?

gojo looks worse. or better, depending on how deranged your standards are.

shirtless. completely unbothered. jeans slung low like gravity’s trying to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and failing. his hair’s a wild mess, fluffed and chaotic, the way it always gets when you’ve pulled it hard—and oh, you did. his face is pink and flushed, lips bitten, pupils blown, and he’s got this grin, this absolutely illegal, felony-level smug grin, like he just won a championship no one else knew they were playing.

his back and arms are fucking wrecked. scratch marks everywhere. some long and shallow, others deep and angry, crisscrossing like tally marks on a prison wall. his biceps? ruined. shoulders? decorated. lower back? absolutely mauled. he’s walking like a man who survived the trenches and wants everyone to know it. he’s not even pretending to be humble.

you both step into the room and immediately—

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—” haibara lets out a guttural scream like he’s witnessing a murder. he drops the pool cue he wasn’t even holding right and clutches his face. “you look—he looks—i didn’t even know backs could bruise like that,” utahime says, pointing, voice somewhere between horrified and hysterical.

shoko slowly sits up straighter, blinking at your neck, her eyes narrowing as she catalogues the damage. “that’s… impressive. Disgusting, but impressive.” geto whistles low, lounging on the couch with his legs crossed like he’s the judge in a porno talent show. “is that a bite on your collarbone? did you actually leave teeth marks?”

gojo throws an arm around your shoulder like a victorious war hero returning home, full of glory and sin and not a shred of guilt. “ladies,” he says, voice hoarse and soaked in self-satisfaction, “gentlemen. sluts of all genders. i am here to confirm that romantic missionary is not dead.”

you smack his chest but don’t move away.

you’re already laughing, breathless, flushed, and shameless. “even with him,” you announce to the room, lifting your chin, “missionary is still the best position. maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

dead silence.

and then the couch erupts.

haibara throws a pillow at you so hard it ricochets and hits nanami in the face. utahime screams. shoko collapses backward, legs kicking, full-body laughing like a woman betrayed. geto claps slow and dramatic, head shaking. “you’ve broken her,” shoko howls, “she’s gone, she’s converted. next she’ll say handholding’s hot!”

“it is,” gojo says, absolutely delighted. “you’re a slut,” utahime says, pointing at you, but her voice is grinning. “every position is the best for you. you could get railed in a dentist chair and you’d moan about how it’s your new favorite.”

“i’m versatile,” you say proudly, flicking your hair like it isn’t a crime scene. “you’re deranged,” nanami mutters, finally lifting his head just to sip something dangerously amber. “no, no, wait,” haibara gasps, pointing at gojo. “he still doesn’t have a shirt on. why doesn’t he have a shirt on? is that blood? IS THAT BLOOD?”

“scratches, sweetheart,” gojo coos, turning around like a model showing off his back to the judges. “proof of passion. her nails did all this. i am but a humble canvas.”

“he moaned when i did it,” you add, deadpan.

shoko screams into a cushion.

“i need bleach for my eyes,” utahime mutters. geto nods solemnly. “i knew missionary would be the one to take you down. i didn’t think it would actually work.”

gojo slumps dramatically into the couch, dragging you with him, arms still around your waist like he can’t let go now that he’s ruined you emotionally and spiritually. he kisses your temple with obnoxious affection, legs spread wide like a man proud of the ruin he left behind.

“this,” he says, motioning to his face, “is the face of a man who made love and won.” you lean back against his chest, sighing like a satisfied villain. “and this is the face of a woman who has no regrets.”

utahime flings her slipper across the room.

“take your slutty love story and get the fuck out.” and all you can do is laugh, tangled with the man who made missionary feel like a religious experience, glowing like a filthy miracle, while your friends spiral in the wake of your post-sex enlightenment.

the scene that follows is nothing short of a cinematic meltdown, a group mental collapse broadcast in full color under the low glow of gojo’s cursed mood lighting. the basement already reeked of weed and spilled cheap whiskey, but now it’s thick with the stench of defeat. your victory. his absolute, unapologetic, shirtless triumph.

gojo leans back into the couch like he owns the fucking place—well, he does, technically, but now it’s like he owns the narrative, the mythos. his arms spread over the back of the cushions, one dangling casually behind your shoulders, the other resting across your thigh like a hand claiming territory. he’s not even pretending to put his shirt back on anymore. it lies somewhere in the corner, forgotten, like decency itself. his chest gleams with sweat and scratches. his hair looks like a bird tried nesting in it during the act. and he smiles.

that dumb, cocky, post-sex smile like he just unlocked a new religion and you’re the first disciple.

you’re still glowing. cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, shirt stretched from being pulled halfway over your head at one point and now just barely covering the constellation of hickeys painted from your neck to your collarbone. you look like you just committed a crime and are so proud of the mugshot.

“it wasn’t just good,” you declare, fingers lazily adjusting your hair with all the grace of a slutty war general. “it was enlightenment. i saw god and she winked at me.”

“was she into missionary too?” geto asks, eyes squinting as he exhales smoke through his nose.

“she invented it,” you say solemnly.

shoko’s lost in the corner of the couch, one sock off, one sock on, a throw blanket over her head as she moans, “i am going to exorcise this entire night from my memory. i am going to bleach my soul.” utahime looks at you, then gojo, then you again, pointing a trembling finger as she says, “the worst part is you’re not even ashamed. you’re not even pretending.”

“what is there to be ashamed of?” gojo grins, tilting his head and stretching his legs out like a lounge chair with a heartbeat. “i made her come with eye contact and emotional intimacy. you’re welcome.”

“you did not make me cry,” you say through your teeth, blushing all over again.

he just hums and presses a kiss to your temple.

“you wanted to cry.”

“you literally told me you’d fall in love with me if i kept clenching.”

“and did you?” he raises an eyebrow.

you flick his nipple. he gasps like a scandalized housewife.

“anyway,” you sigh dramatically, like you didn’t just have your soul rearranged missionary style by a man who can’t name five vegetables, “i stand by it. even with gojo. especially with gojo. missionary is the best position ever.”

haibara’s curled up in the fetal position on the beanbag, face buried in a throw pillow, groaning loud enough to qualify as a siren. “i hate this timeline. i hate this dimension.”

“you’re all just mad it wasn’t you,” gojo chirps.

“no one wants to do missionary with you!” utahime shouts.

“she did,” he says smugly, nudging you with his knee.

“she’s a slut!” shoko yells from beneath the blanket. “every position is the best for her! she’d say reverse piledriver is romantic if you called her ‘sweetheart’ while doing it!”

you shrug unapologetically. “what can i say? i value connection.”

“you value getting railed while someone holds your hand,” nanami deadpans, not even looking up from the book he inexplicably pulled out sometime during this hellish conversation.

“yes, and?”

“honestly?” geto exhales smoke, eyes thoughtful. “it’s kind of poetic.”

“oh don’t you start,” utahime groans.

gojo tucks his chin over your shoulder now, holding you close, his voice a warm hum in your ear. “i’m gonna write a manifesto. ‘missionary for the modern man: an erotic treatise.’ subtitle: with love, and balls-deep penetration.”

you start laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch.

“you’re insane,” you say, wheezing.

“i’m revolutionary,” he murmurs, planting a kiss just behind your ear. “i’m a pioneer. i’m the christopher columbus of tender fucking.”

“he committed genocide,” you say.

“okay,” gojo says, thoughtful, “then i’m the neil armstrong of romantic nut.”

“you didn’t discover the moon, satoru,” nanami says flatly.

“maybe she’s my moon,” gojo murmurs, dramatically clutching his chest, “and i left my footprints all over her surface.”

you grab a throw pillow and smack him in the face.

he catches it, kisses it, throws it back.

your friends are all either screaming, sobbing, or plotting your deaths.

but you?

you’re smiling.

and glowing.

and still a little sore in the best fucking way.

#jjk smut #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #satoru smut #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru x reader #anime smut #gojo fluff #jjk fic

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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

Text

(Part two of this: “house-trained” simon riley)

The second visit to Ghost’s cozy cottage started with the same mixture of disbelief and awe as the first. The team once again found themselves surrounded by pastel walls, cheerful flower boxes, and an overwhelming sense of warmth that clashed with every preconceived notion they’d had about their masked lieutenant, but at least this time it was a mere courtesy visit and without the worries of needing to stay hidden hanging over them.

The morning began with the usual spectacle: Simon quietly, happily obeying your every request without a care about his team’s amused stares.

“Si, love, could you grab the butter from the fridge?”

Simon stood immediately, massive frame moving through the delicate kitchen with surprising ease. He returned with the butter in hand and set it on the counter, earning a soft, “Thank you, darling.” And a gentle kiss to his temple.

Soap snorted from the couch, where he was wrapped in one of your soft, pastel-colored blankets. He loved them- had spent the entire time before having one on his shoulders, and this time it’d been the first thing he asked for. “Still can’t believe this is you, L.T.”

“Believe it.” Simon replied flatly, brushing his hand against the small of your back as he walked by.

But this time, you didn’t stop with Simon.

“Johnny?” You called sweetly, stepping into the living room with a tray in hand.

Soap looked up, a crumb of your delicious cookies already on his chin. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” You giggled, setting the tray on the coffee table. “Would you mind fluffing the pillows for me? They’re looking a bit flat.”

Soap blinked, still not sure he heard right. “You’re asking me to- ?”

“I would ask Simon, of course,” you said innocently, a little pout on your lips. “But he’s busy getting the sugar for tea. You’re not busy, are you?”

Caught in your warm, expectant gaze, Soap sighed, tossing the blanket aside (gently) with a dramatic groan. “Fine, fine, hen. I’ll fluff your bloody pillows.”

“Thank you, Johnny!” You beamed.

Gaz laughed as Soap began half-heartedly fluffing the floral cushions, grumbling under his breath the entire time- though they were all light grumbles.

“You’ll get used to it.” Simon said dryly, walking past with a jar of sugar in hand. “Good on her for not having you just sit on your arse.”

“Gaz,” you said brightly, then, turning your attention to him. “Do you mind helping me bring in the tea trays? I’ve got too much to carry, and I’d hate to make Simon do it all.”

Gaz stood at attention at your call of his name, caught off guard. “I- yes, Ma’am.”

You led him into the kitchen, where a tray laden with delicate china teacups and a teapot sat waiting. “Careful,” you said gently, placing another tray of sandwiches into his hands. “These teacups are my grandmother’s, and they’re quite old.”

You got them from a thrift shop, but who said you can’t have a little fun?

Gaz nodded earnestly, gripping the tray with the utmost care- as if it was a secret weapon, or a file with the most important information recorded on earth. He carried it like he was on a mission. When he re-entered the living room, Soap was still fluffing pillows, now with exaggerated vigor, muttering. “Is this fluffy enough for ya, lass?”

“Perfect, thank you.” You said as you placed a small vase of flowers on the coffee table. “Oh, Captain?”

Price looked up from where he’d been lounging by the window, his hands resting comfortably on his knees. He’d been amused at how you basically commanded his men, but now that your attention was on him…

“Would you mind slicing the lemon for the tea?” you asked softly and sweetly, holding out a small knife and a lemon. “Your hands look steady. I want good, even slices, please. You seem like the type to do it properly the first time.”

Caught between amusement and curiosity, Price rose from his seat and took the knife and lemon from you. He stood by the kitchen counter, slicing perfect, even rounds of lemon while Simon watched from his chair, clearly enjoying the sight of even his commanding officer being gently bossed around.

By the time the tea was ready, Soap had been roped into setting the table with floral plates and napkins (“Really? Floral?”

“Why not? The blankets you like so much also have floral designs!”)

Gaz was carrying plates of cheeses and olives with the care of a man defusing a bomb, and Price was pouring tea into delicate porcelain cups like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You floated through the room with a soft, effortless authority, gently directing each of them like it was second nature.

“Johnny, could you fetch the coasters from the drawer? I don’t want the table getting scratched.”

“Kyle, do you mind straightening that picture frame? It’s a little crooked.”

“Captain, would you light that candle? It’s my favorite scent, and I think you’d like it too.”

And somehow, none of them could say no to you. Not like they even considered it.

By the time everyone was seated, Simon pulled out your chair for you, his large hand resting briefly on your shoulder before he sat beside you. Soap stared at the table, now perfectly set and adorned with delicate tea accoutrements, and declared: “I think we just got outmaneuvered by a woman in a cardigan.”

“Outclassed, more like.” Gaz added, reaching for the olive oil and za’atar plate.

But when you turned that radiant smile on them, warmly thanking them for their help, none of them could bring themselves to mind. And with Simon watching as well, none of them even dared to mind.

#noona.writes #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 #cod imagines #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley imagines #simon riley imagines #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader

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dior-luxury · 2 months ago

Note

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

PT.1 [trey clover . jack howl . jade leech . jamil viper . epel felmier . silver] PT.2 [cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek]

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

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stellamarielu · 14 days ago

Text

thinking about andrew cody building a crib

Half past two in the morning and Andrew was working in the dim light of the nursery. A standing lamp in the corner of the room the only guide allowing him to assemble the crib that had just been delivered earlier that day.

Being with you had granted him more sleep than he’d ever gotten in his life, but Andrew still had trouble falling asleep some nights, especially after finding out you were pregnant.

He went through an array of emotions every single day revolving his journey into fatherhood, the rush of feelings often led him into late nights where he could let his mind wander along with his hands as he prepared things for the baby.

Tonight was no different, sneaking out of bed long after you’d fallen asleep so he could put together the newest addition to the room next door— the crib.

He tried his best to be quiet, hoping not to wake you while he worked.

Only, your insomnia had become just as bad as his. Being seven months pregnant, you spent most nights tossing and turning, never getting more than six hours of sleep strewn together in thirty minute intervals.

You turned over in a defeated huff once you realized you were awake again, only to find the space usually occupied by Andrew’s sturdy presence, empty. Running your hands along the material next to you— the cool, wrinkled sheets underneath your fingertips making his absence evident.

You sat up, rolling out of bed in a manner that took you twice as long as it would have months prior. Due to your protruding belly, the easiest daily activities had become less than convenient.

But once you were finally standing, you heard it— wood knocking against wood on the other side of the wall.

Your bare feet slowly carried you to the nursery, until your body was left lingering in the doorway.

There he was— Andrew. Kneeling on the floor tightening one of the last screws on the crib that had been completely packaged in a box the last time you saw it.

“You’ve still got two months, you know?”

His head whips toward the door as soon as your voice squeaks past your lips, still riddled with sleep.

“I know.”

His response is short, but his stare is extensive as he keeps his eyes on you long after the words leave his mouth.

He’s on the ground, peering up, studying your frame; clad in one of his t-shirts, pulling tight at your swollen belly. The evidence of both of your sleepless nights peeking out just above the waistband of your panties where a sliver of your stomach is exposed to him underneath your shirt— his shirt.

“So then, what’s the rush?”

The question is partially rhetorical as you all but hobble past him, finding a seat in the glider he put together last week. The recliner melts perfectly under your weight as you sit down, rocking back and forth gently as Andrew’s attention returns back to the nearly finished crib at his fingertips.

“I just want to make sure everything’s perfect.” Focus pulls his brows together as he speaks, sending a warmth stirring in your chest.

You watch as he tightens another screw, arms flexing and jaw twitching, and you can tell he has a million thoughts racing in his head— none of which he’d dare speak aloud.

The pregnancy hormones currently in control of your body have your heart fluttering. It’s sight you’d never imagined, the man you love, Andrew Cody, putting together a crib at nearly three in the morning— which is why watching him nearly moves you to tears.

“She’s going to love you so much.”

He stops; arms frozen and jaw relaxing as your words hit him, slowly melting into his ears, and sinking into the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

“You’re already such a good dad Andrew,” your voice is only a whisper as you continue to rock in the chair next to him.

“I hope you know that.”

He nods his head silently, staring at the crib ahead of him, his eyes blinking rapidly, a shaky breath pushing past his lips before his hands are back at work.

#girl dad! pope cody #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom #pope cody x reader #stellamarie chats! pope

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lonely-cowboy · 1 year ago

Note

HEY HEY CAN I REQUEST ANYTHING FLUFFY W CONNOR X FEM READER

YOU WORK IS SO GOODDD

MY DARLINGS FORGIVE ME

requests started coming in hot right as i started my midterms so pls forgive me for taking so long to get through my requests (which i'm loving btw i'm so excited to get to all of them)

with that being said i'll stop yapping and let you read in peace

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

framed

pairing: connor (rk800) x f!reader

summary: you're very confused when you find a photograph of yourself on connor's desk.

word count: 1k

warnings: none

author's note: i said i'm done yapping and i mean it i have nothing to say. (except i do wanna say this was inspired by the person that said my connor was very you are in love coded bc that made me happy and got me thinking)

masterlist ⟡ requests

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“What do androids do in their free time, anyway?”

“Plot against humanity? I dunno.”

Hank’s laugh came out in a quiet huff, one that indicated he didn’t think your answer was too far from the truth.

You had come into the precinct hoping to interview Hank and Connor on their latest investigation surrounding a human cult determined to wipe out every single android. As head journalist for the Detroit Free Press, you were desperate to get word before everyone else. And as Connor’s friend, you were sure you could sweet-talk it out of him.

But when you got to the precinct, Connor was, strangely, nowhere to be found. Usually, he trailed behind Hank like a lost puppy, but not even Hank knew of Connor’s whereabouts. His unusual absence only led to conversations about what the hell an android could be doing on his lonesome. Neither of you had any clue.

“Have a seat, kid,” Hank offered, nudging his chin over to Connor’s desk. “You know he’d feel bad if you were standin’ around waiting for him.”

Rounding the table, you took a seat in Connor’s chair. You sat stiffly with your hands atop your thighs, the exact same way Connor would. The realization made you chuckle softly to yourself. Even when he wasn’t here, his presence always made itself known in the subtlest of ways.

Your eyes wandered across Connor’s desk, noticing that it was relatively barren. Hank’s desk was littered with mementos– old donut boxes, Detroit Gears merchandise, anti-android propaganda that he’d crumpled up and intended to trash. But Connor’s desk was plain and organized. A single blue pen sat exactly parallel to his recent case file that had been neatly folded. On top of his case file was a quarter like the one he always fidgeted with. You wondered idly how many quarters he had lying around, having never seen him without one. But the only belonging of actual interest was a picture frame right beside his terminal.

Your brows furrowed as your gaze latched onto the photograph. You were staring directly at a picture of yourself.

Believing it to be a trick of the light, you reached for the picture frame and brought it closer. Sure enough, it was you.

You stared at a version of yourself who was mid-laugh. You could almost hear your own laughter ringing in your ears. It was that genuine kind of laughter, you knew. The kind that was an obnoxious cackle you always wanted to hide. Why on earth would Connor have a picture like that framed?

Come to think of it, where did Connor even get this picture? You didn’t recognize it at all. You couldn’t even place where it was taken. There were zero clues in the photograph as you were the only focus. Nothing else, just you.

You were about to ask Hank about it when a voice over your shoulder startled you, “I really like that picture.”

An inhuman yelp escaped your lips as you spun around in Connor’s chair. You found him looking down at you with a pleasant smile, not even remotely embarrassed to be caught having a photo of you.

“Why… what even… what?” you stammered.

Connor cocked his head curiously, waiting for you to get your words out. But you couldn’t. You were so utterly confused that your brain couldn’t remember a single word in existence. You just stared at Connor with a gaping mouth, holding the picture up for his viewing pleasure.

When you didn’t say anything, Connor’s eyebrows furrowed for only a moment before easing. An endearing habit of his that made your heart flutter. He definitely was not helping you find the right words.

“I’d like to clear your confusion as best I can, but… I’m afraid I don’t understand its cause,” Connor said gently.

From behind, you heard Hank’s quiet snort. He wasn’t helping either.

“Well… Connor,” you started slowly like you were gradually putting the puzzle pieces together. No matter how hard you tried, the pieces weren’t fitting. “Why do you have a picture of me?”

The corners of his lips raised into a small grin, his hands moving to clasp in front of him. You knew this stance to mean he was about to tell a story.

“I asked Lieutenant Anderson about the keepsakes on his desk. I was curious as to why these particular items were objects of significance and what classified them as such,” Connor explained cheerfully. “As I recall, he said ‘I don’t know, they’re just alright, I guess.’ Perhaps my interpretation was incorrect, but I took that to mean those items made him happy.”

Connor’s smile widened slightly. That meant he was finished. He didn’t clear any of your confusion.

“Okay…?” you prompted.

“I wanted to do something similar. I thought it could help me accommodate to deviancy, so I decided to surround myself with things that make me happy.”

Your mouth clamped shut as your confused look turned to one of shock. You were almost sure you hadn’t heard him right, but another laugh (hidden behind a cough) from Hank made you confident that you had.

“I… make you happy?” you clarified.

“Yes,” Connor answered curtly. There was another long pause as you waited for Connor to continue. He seemed to get the hint by now, elaborating further. “I always enjoy your company. I look forward to seeing you when we have scheduled plans. This wasn’t a scheduled visit, so I was pleased to see you were here. It made me smile. Seeing you makes me smile.”

With all his talk of smiling, you couldn’t help cracking one of your own. Seeing your smile made Connor brighten.

“Like that,” he said. “If I could photograph and frame you right now, I would.”

You were so giddy with affection that you couldn’t help but laugh. You had never known Connor to be so poetic with his words.

“You know, Connor,” you said with careless laughter. “I came here to sweet-talk you into an interview for the Press. But here you are sweet-talking me.”

Connor looked pleased with himself, standing a little straighter. “I hope that made you smile.”

“It certainly did.”

#detroit become human #connor x reader #dbh connor x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh connor #connor rk800

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norcigs · 21 days ago

Text

CAM BUNNY .ᐟ ᢉ𐭩

series masterlist

synop: lando discovers a special cam girl… part 1.

warnings: smut with plot, m and f masturbating, use of bunny and slut, exhibitionism, use of toy

📹: 1.8k words

really, it started very innocently. lando had been lonely with all the race weekends and certainly pent up with stress. his friends told him about some website that might help him ‘relax’. it was a wednesday night on an off week, cool enough outside for lando to have an excuse to stay in and order take out. the half eaten chinese food and some romcom playing in the background, set his scene. his mind wandered, wishing he had someone to share it with. someone to lay on him and watch movies with. someone who might straddle him right here after dinner and give him what he wanted.

his pj pants were getting tighter, and his frustration grew from his warming crotch. he didnt really care to watch porn. of course, he has and does, when the moment calls or on a particularly hot night. but it was never intimate enough for him anymore. he wasn't invested in the acting, he wanted, needed, something real.

it was this moment of desperation that led lando to typing in the website his friends had mentioned. he wasnt sure what he was expecting exactly, but it wasnt this. his eyes focused and made sense of everything he was seeing. the different squares each showing a different woman’s live stream, each of them doing something different, but they were all some level of erotic. he snapped his laptop shut and stood from the couch quickly. his heart raced like he had just seen something he was never supposed to.

eyes remembering the different women, exposed tits, arched backs, some with face, some just out of frame. he would never admit it, but he was excited. not really at the memory of how the girls looked or anything, more so at the scandal of it all. someone livestreaming that level of sexuality, and him seeing it. a welcomed peak into a woman’s bedroom, and how she might pleasure herself.

exhaling deeply, he sat back down and moved his laptop back to his lap, opening it. he scanned the images that flashed before him, taking in each girl before scrolling down for more squares to load in. he clicked over to the search tab, a white box popped up, covering the girls on the screen. he felt relieved, like he wasn’t spying anymore. he knew that isnt really what he was doing, and the thought of it made him more dizzy than he wanted to admit. the search tab blinked at him, the prompt saying…

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ?..

he blinked back at his screen, what was he looking for? he racked his brain for some idea of what he wanted to see. mini skirt, step-sister rp, findom, lingerie, glasses, honestly nothing really spoke to him. the cursor kept flashing, waiting for him to start typing. his fingers moved without his brain. slowly, he realized what he was typing, sweet girl.

honestly, he couldn't tell you what that meant or even what he wanted to see. but as he clicked the enter key, one result popped up. of all the people on here… just one that fit his search. his pupils dilated as he forced his eyes to drag away from your figure to read your title. “just a sweet girl needy after a bad day :(“

you had no hashtags, no viewers, no real set up. just your knees straddling a pillow with a light pink vibrator laid on top of it, held to your clit. your bed spread was floral, soft pastel colors mixing with the fairy lights that made you glow. the frame of the camera showed a lot of your room and all of you, except anything above your collar bones. you were completely clothed, plaid mini skirt and a tight white tanktop, even matching white knee high socks. from what he could tell, you even had panties on while trying to get yourself off.

what was a girl like you doing here… and if this was your thing, why go through the steps of not making your account easily findable? he dragged his mouse over the smaller square that held your picture. his heart beat so loudly in his chest, he could feel the vibrations of it hitting his dick. torn, he wanted to see more of you, wanted to join your stream, and watch as you pleased yourself. the other part of him felt like it was too wrong, a layer of sweat covering his palm, while his finger hovered over you. that's when it dawned on him, maybe, since you were here, deep down, you wanted to be watched.

he clicked into your live and was met with complete silence. you clearly didn't have a mic, or didn't want to turn it on. the chat box on the right side of his screen was tempting, but instead he moved his laptop to a stable position in front of him while he leaned back on the couch, watching. the way your hips dragged your cunt across your vibrator, hips lifting like even that was too much for you. your tummy flinched and relaxed as pleasure built up within you. your hands gripped desperate fists of the pillow in front of you.

his hand found his way inside his pajamas as he palmed his cock to you. watching the way your breath hitched when your clit knocked against the fast moving vibrator. how you couldn't commit your full weight to riding the toy because it was too much. his hand moved at the same pace as your hips as he imagined it was his cock driving you this crazy. he could tell by the way your chest moved that you had finally looked up at the screen.

the 0 viewers button now had a 1. he watched the way your hips sped up and wondered if it was really just the idea of someone watching you right now, that got you so worked up. your soft hand moved to where your mini skirt laid over, shielding your most intimate area from the camera. your fingers pulled the fabric up to show yourself completely. the red silk panties matched the skirt, and had white cursive over the front that said bunny.

lando was pumping his cock to match your faster pace now. cock red and hot, bucking into his own hand. he could see the wet mark on your panties and how well your clit was grinding into the vibrator now. putting on such a good show, just for him. he saw the muscles of your tummy clench and relax quickly as your hips stuttered. he could tell from your neck that your head was tipping back and you were allowing your high to control you.

his hand kept your pace as he thought about you above him, riding him until you came undone like a slut. how your cunt would wrap around his cock. how you would take the whole thing even if it stretched you too much. how he wouldn't even take your skirt or bunny panties off, but just pull them to the side to use your soaking slit.

you shook with pleasure as the tight bound coil in your belly erupted and sent an orgasm spilling all over you. the way your chest heaved seemed like you couldn't even hold your own moans in, despite being alone while pleasing yourself. lando felt his own body relax with euphoria as he reached the peak of the mountain and fell off. warm, sticky spurts shooting into his own boxers. his eyes never left you as he grunted into his hand and pictured himself filling your tight cunt, before fucking his seed deeper into you.

your breath was heavy as your arms hung tired, reaching to turn off the vibrator. his hand in his own underwear gave himself a few more good pumps before he removed it and wiped it clean. you had a new air to you, more gentle, soft, like you were ready to curl up and rest for a while, like you hadn't just slut-ed yourself out with him watching.

he watched you, mesmerized, as his own muscles relaxed. sitting up straighter, he watched as your raised your hand and gave the camera a barely noticeable wave. something about it sent electricity through lando. you were real, and he was the only one watching, the only one you could be waving to. he felt a bit stupid that his heart was fluttering for a girl he knew nothing about, but he wasn't gonna let this moment pass without taking a chance. he leaned towards the keyboard of his laptop and typed into your chat box

beautiful girl, i hope you're feeling better now, bunny

he watched as your breath caught and your hips grinded a slow circle down onto your pillow. reading his message made your skin flush soft pink, before you were moving off your bed quickly. careful not to show your face, you walked over to the computer that hosted your live stream and ended it without any notice. he couldn't see your face, so he wasn't sure, but you looked nervous. like his praise might have got you excited, as if you weren't on here showing yourself to anyone who might stumble onto your account.

the screen flicked white and you were gone, text appeared, “CamBunny has ended her live”. scrolling down he saw your account. your profile picture was of you in a pink bra holding a bunny stuffed animal. his mind ignored the embarrassment he felt by already being able to recognize your chest. your bio stated simply “live every wednesday and sunday night”. there was nothing else on your account. no name, no saved videos or pictures, no followers, no following. you were gone just as quickly as he had found you.

lando knew he was gonna have a tough time waiting until sunday to see you again. as he cleaned himself up in the bathroom, he let his mind wander to how your waist curved into your hips. how your collar bone showed as one of your tank top straps slid down. how the light freckles on your forearms made his heart race much faster than he wanted. one thing was very clear to him already, he wanted you in a lot more ways than he should.

#oh hi #do we like #i honestly have so many ideas for them #like a series worth for sure #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando norris smut #lando x reader #f1 x reader #f1 smut #lando smut

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hellenhighwater · 3 months ago

Text

Okay, I'm in the research and resource-compilation stage of this Laika project. Dimensions on this are going to be specific enough that I will have to fully mock this up before I can start on the ceramic part of things (though I suppose I could work on Laika herself; we'll see). Rough dimensions on this are looking like probably 24 inches tall, 12-14 inches wide, and 6-8 inches deep.

The upper half of this piece would be relatively straightforwards, from a construction standpoint--layers of ceramic and glass to make a flickering star backdrop for Laika like the one I have in my living room clock of the world. I may do some kind of visible element of the rotating disc layer--maybe do a laser cut sheet of metal with engravings, or some kind of cloisonné with colored enamel illustrations? Doesn't really matter at this stage, that's decorative problems to be figured out later. Tech here: rotating motor, LED backlighting, and some laser cutting.

The bottom half of this is where things get thorny. Laika's capsule had a tiny, 6 inch window* that she presumably could see out of. I want to find a little silver porthole of approximately the correct size, and embed it in the front face, looking into the depths of the piece, where I'm thinking I will rig up a screen looping video footage of Laika herself (a bit limited, since there doesn't seem to be a lot of video of her; little of it in color and all of it the sort of resolution one would expect from 1957), ideally edited so it's sort of scaled like she's in the capsule. Then, screen brightness and venue light levels permitting, I think I want to try for a pepper's ghost effect, in the space between Laika and the porthole. If I can get the light levels to work, which will be tricky, I would have the pepper's ghost show a view of the earth from orbit--that wide, low, curved horizon, moving from light to day, almost like you're seeing a reflection of Laika's view, hovering transparently in front of her. This means I need to trawl the digital archives of various space programs for appropriate footage (thankfully they have TONS of free use video and photos, but there's an almost overwhelming amount to trawl through.)

I think I can get away with just using digital picture frames for my video displays, which may be easier than raspberry pi's. We'll see.

The very bottom would be the rolling reel for a tiny embedded music box, playable in the bottom corner. Details very rough still!

*at least according to my very preliminary research; books shall be arriving in the mail this week.

#i hope you guys like Process #bc this is gonna be one

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shinoko-oshi · 2 months ago

Text

Simon finds your tumblr blog

Simon Riley who decided to get tea from a nearby cafe only to be starstruck by you, the barista, as you took his order. Accidentally nodding, saying yes when you asked him, what kind of tea would he like.

“Sorry, love, what was that?”

So of course, like a person discovering a drug for the first time, he went back for more. Every day. Eventually learning your schedule, framing his around yours. Timing it so perfectly that it looked natural, casual. Like fate.

He told himself it wasn’t stalking. Said he was just checking your socials. Just looking. Making his favorite photo of you on Instagram his phone wallpaper. The one where you smiled at the camera, lipgloss shining, cheeks rosey from the late afternoon sun. The one he perhaps casually jerked off to. Once. Maybe twice. Definitely more than he’d ever admit.

Until that “not stalking” became breaking into your apartment one day when he knew you were working a shift. Going through your place like he had every right to.

Inside, your place was everything he expected warm, soft, cluttered in the way homes are when someone actually lives in them. Your scent hitting his nose the moment he stepped in. Something sweet. Maybe vanilla. Maybe your shampoo. He didn’t bother guessing, just inhaled deeply as he moved through your space. Fingers brushing your throw blanket, your mugs still drying by the sink, the stack of books on your nightstand.

Lingered in your bedroom. Touched your pillow like it might give him a glimpse into your dreams. Snagging a pantie or two. Pressed one to his face. Just once. Maybe more.

Which eventually led to him taking advantage of his job, running a background check on you, the whole nine. Addresses, phone numbers, emergency contacts. He memorized it all. But what really surprised him was what he found buried in there. An anonymous Tumblr blog. No name, no tags ultimately linked to you. Clearly something not wanting to be found.

Silly girl. Didn’t you know he’d always find you?

You occasionally posted filthy little one shots about masked men on there, which got a snicker out of him at the irony, he had thought before he saw that hint of blush on your face when he came back from work that one evening, a simple black balaclava still covering his face. The way your eyes lingered a second too long. The way you bit your lip when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Scrolling through your posts, one in particular caught his eye. A story about a man— too similar to Simon to be a coincidence. A regular customer at a cafe. Bending his barista over in the back, stuffing her full when everyone else had left. Their shifts ending.

Well, if that’s what you wanted, love. Simon was never one to deny a pretty bird of what she wanted.

It was funny, really. You looked so sweet and innocent. Too sweet to be writing filthy smut in your free time. All soft lashes and polite smiles. But then again, here you were, taking his cock so well, just like you had with his fingers as he had you bent over some boxes in the back storage room, filling your pretty pussy full of his eight inches. Stretching you open until you gasped his name like a common saying.

Your hand clamped over your mouth, trying to muffle your moans after your second orgasm. Legs trembling, breath catching in your throat, cunt clenching greedily around him like you were made for him.

And after Simon came himself, zipping his pants back up, he looked over your state, seeing the way you were trying to regulate your breaths, coming down from your high, literally. Pussy buzzing with that happy, content feeling after getting stuffed. Sweat cooling on your skin, hair sticking to your forehead.

He gave your ass a light, playful smack, mumbling, “How’s that for your little blog?” as he walked out. Leaving you dumbfounded. Not just from the way he fucked you but from the fact he knew about your anonymous Tumblr account.

He wasn’t done with you yet. No, not even close. Didn’t plan on stopping until he tried every single thing you’d ever written with you. And even after that… he’d still want more.

You were his now, baby.

Can confirm, this happened. Not really… sigh 😞

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yukkiji · 11 days ago

Text

soft reset

when your boyfriend kenma starts burning out from the pressure of developing his new game, you decide to help him unwind—in your own intimate way—even if it means slipping under his desk while he's live on stream.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kozume kenma x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kenma

wc: 6.8k

warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. oral sex (receiving and giving), praise kink, softdom!kenma, established relationship, domestic setting, multiple orgasms, spanking

life with kenma is quiet, but never boring.

you live together in a cozy house just outside the city—a place that still smells faintly of new paint and the sage candle you always forget to blow out. the air inside is always warm, like a weighted blanket, buzzing gently with the soft hum of kenma’s pc behind his office door. a hoodie of his is usually hanging over a chair. a half-empty boba cup sits on a coaster with some game dev scribbles tucked underneath. takeout boxes come and go like visitors.

the two of you have routines. but they’re soft around the edges. comfortable. familiar. easy.

kenma is currently neck-deep in his new game. that means longer hours at his desk, occasional grunts of frustration, and a more muted tone than usual, even when he's lying beside you at night, staring at the ceiling with tired golden eyes.

you know he won't ask for help—not out loud. but he’s been letting you test his builds lately, and that’s as much of an invitation as you’re going to get.

so, you start leaving sticky notes.

little ones. bright neon colors in your handwriting, dotting the edges of his monitor, nestled between his controller stands, sometimes slipped into the folds of his hoodie sleeves.

“your dialogue coding is getting better. that one npc made me snort my tea.”

“new soundtrack = chef’s kiss.”

“i’m not saying i’d die for this side quest, but i’m not not saying it.”

“this game’s so good it’s criminal.”

and the one you left last night, placed just under his mouse pad:

“if this game gets any hotter, i might need a cooldown in your lap.”

you honestly didn’t expect a reaction. kenma has always been unreadable when he wants to be. sometimes he blushes when you flirt; sometimes he just blinks like you’ve asked him to solve a riddle in an alien language.

but today…

today feels different.

it starts when you pad quietly into his gaming room, the soft plush of your socks muffling each step against the hardwood floor. his camera’s on—you can see the tiny green led above his monitor, the live preview window tucked in the corner of the screen showing his face in soft lighting, blurred slightly by the filter he uses to keep things pretty and distant.

he’s been streaming for over two hours. his posture is wrong for the game he’s playing—something peaceful, a cozy farming sim—but his shoulders are locked tight, his jaw set. he moves with precision, with rhythm, but no ease. his voice, smooth and low, dances easily enough through chat interaction, but you know the tone beneath it. it’s the one he gets when he’s on autopilot. pushing through. running on fumes.

you slowly kneeled in front of him, careful to stay just out of frame. the glow of the monitor painted soft light across your face, flickering gently as the game carried on without you.

"baby… what are you doing?" kenma mouthed the words more than he spoke them, barely moving his lips, careful not to let his mic catch anything. his eyes flicked from the screen to you, then quickly back again, as if looking too long might give him away.

you didn’t answer—just tilted your head slightly, giving him that innocent look he knew far too well. the kind that meant you weren’t planning on being innocent for long.

your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs sliding under the soft fabric. his breath caught. and then, slowly, deliberately, you began to undo the drawstrings.

he froze.

it was subtle—just a tiny shift in his posture, a barely-there twitch in his jaw, but you saw it. felt it. the effort it took for him not to react.

he knew exactly what you were doing.

and you knew exactly how long it would take before he cracked.

his voice returned, quieter now, strained in that barely-audible way that told you he was trying to stay composed, for the sake of the stream. "you’re serious?"

you looked up at him through your lashes, lips curving just slightly. then you eased the sweatpants down a little further.

his hand hovered near the mic toggle. his other gripped the edge of the desk. every inch of him was still as his eyes flicked once to the small camera light—still on.

still live.

and you were still kneeling.

a single muscle jumped in his jaw. his voice, when it came again, was barely more than breath.

“…you’re gonna get me killed.”

but he didn’t stop you.

not even close.

“don’t mind me, babe. just keep doing your thing,” you murmured, voice low and syrup-sweet as your hand curled around him.

he was already half-hard, the heat of him pulsing against your palm before you’d even started moving. the weight, the way his breath hitched the second your fingers tightened just slightly—it made you smile.

kenma’s jaw clenched. he adjusted slightly in his chair, posture stiff, trying to maintain some illusion of composure for the camera still trained on him. his hand hadn’t left the mouse, but his movements were no longer precise. the clicks were slower, more hesitant.

you dragged your hand down the length of him, then back up in a steady stroke, just enough to make his thighs twitch beneath you.

kenma went back to his stream, while you were still stroking him. an awkwardness in his tone is slightly masked by forced calm, but you can hear the subtle waver underneath whenever he answers. his sentences come slower, his usual ease fractured by the way your fingers keep working him—slow, deliberate, mercilessly patient.

he jolts—just slightly—when your mouth wraps around him without warning, his thighs tensing beneath your touch. a sharp, almost imperceptible inhale hitches in his chest, caught just behind his mic. he covers it with a fake cough, hand flying to the mute button for a beat too long.

his knuckles go white on the armrest as you sink lower, tongue dragging slow and warm along the underside of him.

you feel his hips twitch, his composure slipping one thin layer at a time.

still muted, he glances down at you, eyes wide and dark. his voice, when he unmutes, is pitched lower—slightly breathless, just shy of unsteady.

“yeah… no, i’m good,” he says to chat, smiling faintly at his screen. “just got distracted.”

you hum around him in answer. he stiffens.

the sound you make—low, deliberate—sends a shiver down his spine, and kenma’s hips twitch in response. his hand drifts from the mouse to clutch the edge of the desk, fingers curling tight like he needs something to anchor him, to keep him from slipping completely.

you love the way he feels—how he fits, how he reacts. whether he's buried in your mouth or pressed deep inside you, it's the same electrifying heat that spreads low and slow in your core. just the taste of him, the weight of him, has your body aching with want.

without even thinking, you shift in place, your hips instinctively pressing down against nothing, chasing friction. you're getting wet—need pooling and pulsing as the tension climbs. it's maddening, being this close to him and not filled.

kenma’s breathing has gone uneven, jaw tight, and his eyes are locked straight ahead—focused on the screen but seeing none of it. you start to move in a rhythm now, deliberate and steady, each glide of your mouth carefully controlled, paced with purpose.

he’s trembling under the surface, the kind of restraint that looks calm to everyone else but you. you can feel it—how close he is, how he’s trying to hold himself together for just another second.

but he won’t last long.

one of his hands slips off the keyboard, hovering for a moment before it finds your hair. his fingers thread through it slowly, almost reverently, as if grounding himself in the feel of you. the stream rolls on—his voice tight and frayed around the edges—but everything else has narrowed down to this: the warmth of your mouth, the steady rhythm, the helpless tension building in his gut.

you hum around him, a soft sound of encouragement, and the vibration shoots up his spine. his grip in your hair tightens involuntarily—not harsh, but needy. his thighs shift beneath you, restless.

he tries to speak, something about the game, maybe even a reply to chat, but it stutters on his tongue and fades out. his control is thinning, unraveling with each second you stay wrapped around him.

and you—completely in control, completely calm—can feel it. the way his breathing's gone shallow, how his hand trembles against your scalp. he’s close. you know it. and you’re not planning to let up.

not until he breaks.

his fingers tremble at the nape of your neck. he’s trying—genuinely trying—to keep his voice level, to play it off like everything’s fine. but the words on stream have started to taper off. a long pause. then another. his hand, still buried in your hair, gives a telling tug.

“mm… guys, i think i’m gonna… cut it here.”

he clears his throat, swallowing thickly, like he’s trying to shake the edge from his voice. “sorry. my head’s… kinda killing me all of a sudden. think i’m coming down with something.”

his chat floods with concern. hearts. quick wishes to rest. he mutters a soft thank you, already moving to shut everything down—mic muted, camera off. the second the screen fades to black, his whole body slumps back into the chair with a sharp, quiet exhale.

“you’re evil,” he breathes, looking down at you with glassy eyes, skin flushed. his voice is low now—just for you. a hoarse mix of disbelief and want. “you know that, right?”

you glance up at him through your lashes, your hand still wrapped around him, moving with slow, deliberate strokes. the corners of your mouth curve in a teasing smile.

“why’d you end the stream?” you murmur, your voice low, warm with mischief. “i kind of wanted to see you lose it while still on cam.”

kenma lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a groan—caught somewhere between amusement and restraint. his hand finds your hair again, fingers threading through gently at first, then tugging with more purpose as his hips shift forward, searching for more of your warmth.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, voice thick, a little frayed around the edges.

but he doesn’t ask you to stop.

his head tips back, lips parting in a quiet gasp as the pleasure crests higher. his thighs tense beneath your hands, and his voice drops to a breathy whisper. “i’m close… baby, i’m gonna—”

his hips twitch, and then he’s spilling into your mouth with a quiet, broken moan. you hold him there gently, letting him ride it out, not moving too fast—just letting him feel.

when you pull back, you tilt your head up slightly, mouth still open in teasing defiance. his flushed face darkens even more as his gaze locks onto you, both stunned and aroused.

“swallow for me,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

you do, slowly, deliberately, and when you’re done, he leans forward without hesitation, pulling you up from the floor. his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s not rushed, but deep and hungry, full of something that feels heavier than just desire.

his hands frame your face, thumbs brushing gently along your cheeks like you’re something he never wants to forget — like memorizing the feeling of you is as important as breathing.

the room feels warmer now, like the hum of his pc and the muted glow from the led lights have become part of the quiet spell between you. his fingers wander lower, slipping beneath the edge of your silk nightgown, slow and searching. when he realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath, he pauses — amber eyes meeting yours, amused and hungry all at once.

“no panties, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with affection, like he already knows the answer but loves hearing you admit it.

you only smile, your hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie to feel the warmth of his skin. "didn’t think i’d need them."

he huffs a laugh — barely — before leaning in and kissing you again, deeper this time. like he's grounding himself in the taste of you, the smell of your hair, the soft drag of silk against his fingertips.

“you’re trouble,” he whispers against your lips.

“only for you.”

kenma doesn’t say anything right away. he just smiles — that quiet, crooked kind of smile that never quite reaches anyone else but you — and settles you down in his chair, pulling you gently back against his chest. the leather is cool beneath your thighs, but all you feel is the warmth of him, the way his body fits so naturally around yours.

he parts your legs with care, resting each over the wide arms of the chair. the position leaves you open, vulnerable — but never unsafe. not with him. you can feel him against you, firm and unrelenting, pressing right where you’re already aching. a soft, involuntary roll of your hips has you grinding against him for friction.

but kenma’s hand catches your thigh, firm and grounding.

“no teasing, baby,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. “you already had your fun.”

you pout, making a small sound of protest, but he only chuckles — that low, lazy laugh that always sends a shiver down your spine. his fingers trail along your thigh, slow and feather-light as he lifts the hem of your nightgown. his breath hitches when he sees you — already wet, already waiting.

“no panties…” he says again, quieter this time. “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

his fingertips trace the inside of your thigh, close enough to tease, not close enough to satisfy. you shift your hips again, just slightly — needy. he smirks against your neck.

“patience,” he says, voice warm but commanding. “i’ll take care of you.”

and with that, his hand slides lower, purposeful now.

his fingers finally find you — warm, slick, and already pulsing with need. he hums quietly against your neck, the sound low and appreciative, almost reverent.

“already this wet for me,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the heat of you, slow and deliberate. “just from touching me?”

you nod, breath catching as his fingers circle with maddening precision. his other hand is on your waist, keeping you still against him, even though your hips keep twitching forward on instinct, chasing more.

“kenma,” you whisper, reaching for his wrist.

but he doesn’t let you take control.

“uh-uh,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, pressing a kiss there. “you get to feel, not lead.”

his fingers press in slowly — one first, then another — curling just right. you gasp, arching slightly, your body responding instantly. he watches over your shoulder, eyes dark, jaw tight.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice threading between fondness and possessiveness. “falling apart already and i’ve barely started.”

you’re trembling now, his fingers working a slow, patient rhythm while he keeps you spread for him, your legs draped over the arms of his chair. he’s everywhere — behind you, inside you, breathing you in like you’re something sacred. the chair creaks quietly beneath you both, the only sound aside from your breath, your whimpers, and the quiet, wet sounds of him loving you.

“i want to hear you,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. “let me hear how much you want me.”

you can barely manage words — only broken sounds that dissolve into moans when he brushes that one spot inside you just right. your head drops back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

and he smiles.

“good girl.”

then, without warning, his fingers begin to move faster — deliberate, controlled, but unrelenting. the sudden shift makes your breath hitch, and your body tenses in his lap, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.

one of your hands flies to his arm, nails digging in for something to anchor yourself with. the other reaches up, guiding his free hand to your chest, needing more of him — everywhere, all at once.

kenma gets the message. his palm slips under the silk fabric, fingers brushing over your breast before squeezing softly, teasing your nipple between his fingers. at the same time, he keeps his pace below, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with maddening precision.

his lips find your neck, pressing kisses that grow slower, deeper — lingering on the sensitive spots that make your toes curl.

“you’re so responsive tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat, his breath fanning over your skin. “you feel everything, don’t you?”

you can’t answer — your mouth is open, but all that escapes are soft gasps and whimpers, your head rolling to the side to give him more access. every nerve feels like it’s on fire, and the coil low in your belly tightens with each stroke of his fingers, each pull of his lips.

he groans low against your throat. “you’re close, aren’t you?”

you nod, a shiver running through you.

“then let go for me,” he whispers, pressing his fingers deeper, right where you need him. “come for me.”

that’s all it takes.

your body tightens around his touch as the pleasure crests — hot, overwhelming — and then it crashes over you in waves. you tremble in his arms, breath catching, fingers digging into his as you fall apart, his name slipping from your lips again and again like a prayer.

kenma holds you through it, still stroking you gently, soothing the aftershocks while murmuring soft praises into your ear.

“just like that,” he breathes. “that’s my girl.”

your legs feel like they're made of air when you try to stand, muscles still trembling from the high. kenma’s arms wrap around your waist in an instant, steadying you. he keeps you close, grounding you.

his fingers, still glistening with your release, lift between you. without breaking eye contact, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean — slow, deliberate, savoring. the heat in his gaze doesn’t waver.

you feel your core clench again at the sight. it’s almost unfair, how effortlessly he can unravel you.

kenma leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and tenderness, low heat simmering between you. when he pulls back, his voice is soft but firm.

“come on,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “let’s take this to the bedroom.”

kenma lifts you up easily, his arms strong and secure beneath your thighs as you instinctively wrap yourself around him. your nightgown falls around your waist, forgotten, as he carries you through the soft-lit hallway, every step purposeful.

his lips press against your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach as you cling to him. the steady thump of his heart beneath your chest only makes you more aware of your own racing pulse.

when you reach the bedroom, he lowers you gently onto the bed like you’re something precious. his eyes sweep over you—soft, but hungry.

“you look too good like this,” he murmurs, crawling over you slowly, deliberately. “i don’t think i’ll last long.”

kenma’s lips trail over your skin, soft and deliberate—your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest. he doesn’t rush. every kiss feels like he’s memorizing you, savoring the way your body responds beneath him.

he took his time at your chest, his lips wrapping around one nipple, sucking softly while his fingers toyed with the other—gently rolling, massaging, giving each the attention it deserved.

"kenma…" you whined, breath hitching, “stop teasing.”

he only chuckled against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “but you’re so easy to tease,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief as he met your gaze.

his lips moved to your other nipple, lavishing it with the same slow, careful attention. you tangled your fingers in his hair, gripping just enough to make him moan softly against you—the sound vibrating through your chest and straight down your spine.

kenma’s kisses trailed lower, slow and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you with his mouth. from your chest, he pressed kisses down your stomach, pausing every now and then to nip lightly at the sensitive skin. you gasped, your fingers still threaded in his hair as his warmth moved further down.

when he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you—eyes heavy, lips slightly parted. his hands slid along your hips, holding you gently, as though grounding himself before diving in.

“just relax for me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

kenma took his time, kissing a slow path down your body, his touch reverent like you were something rare—something he didn’t want to rush. you felt his fingers trail along your thigh before he settled between them, spreading you open with care.

he looked up once, catching your gaze. “let me take care of you,” he said softly, and then he was leaning in, his mouth finding you with practiced ease.

kenma always made it feel like more than just pleasure—like devotion. every stroke of his tongue was deliberate, slow at first, savoring. he groaned quietly as he tasted you, his hands firm on your hips to keep you steady as your legs threatened to tremble.

he was greedy for it—your sounds, your reactions, the way you gripped the sheets and whispered his name like it was the only word you knew. you could feel him hum against you, the vibration deep, coaxing even more out of you.

you arched into him, breath hitching. “kenma—”

he didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. his mouth moved in perfect rhythm, chasing your release like it was the only thing that mattered.

your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips instinctively moving against his mouth as pleasure surged through you in waves. kenma held you firmly, not letting up, coaxing every last bit of your release with lips and tongue as though he could memorize your taste, your sounds, the way your body responded to him.

your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your chest heaving with every breath. “kenma… i—” your voice broke on the edge of another cry.

he pulled back only when he was sure you’d ridden the high completely, his lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and half-lidded with hunger. he kissed the inside of your thigh before finally looking up at you with a lazy, satisfied smile.

“still with me?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, brushing his knuckles along your thigh as if he wasn’t already driving you wild.

you could barely nod, your body loose and warm. “barely,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and filled with a kind of awe.

kenma crawled up your body, kissing along your skin again, slower now, as if grounding you.

he kissed your lips, soft but insistent, letting you taste yourself on him. “you drive me insane,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

then you felt him, hard and ready, pressing against your thigh.

“think you can take a little more?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

your answer was a breathless nod, your fingers already reaching for him.

kenma peeled off the hoodie he was wearing, the soft fabric sliding off his shoulders. years of volleyball had carved subtle definition into his frame — lean muscle, toned arms, a strength that never flaunted itself but was always there, just beneath the surface.

your eyes followed the motion, drinking in the sight of him. he wasn’t showy about his body — he never had been — but the quiet confidence in the way he moved was more than enough to make your pulse race.

catching your gaze, kenma gave a faint smirk, lowering himself between your legs again. “you’re staring,” he murmured, brushing a hand over your side. his touch was warm, grounding, full of intent.

“can you blame me?” you replied softly, pulling him closer until his chest was pressed against yours.

his forehead rested against yours for a moment as he breathed you in. “i just want to make you feel good,” he whispered.

then, with slow, deliberate movement, he shifted, positioning himself against you. one hand cupped your jaw while the other guided himself to your entrance.

“ready?” he asked, voice low, careful — not because he doubted you, but because he always wanted to be sure.

kenma guides himself slowly, carefully, and when his tip finally meets your warmth, your breath catches — a soft gasp slipping from your lips.

he stills for a second, eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for any hesitation. but you only nod, your fingers tightening around his arms, urging him closer.

he presses forward with aching slowness, every inch a stretch that makes your back arch and your lips part. the moment is thick with heat, but also something unspoken — trust, connection, the quiet reverence in the way he touches you like you’re something sacred.

“you feel… incredible,” he murmurs, voice barely audible as he sinks in deeper. his forehead falls to your shoulder, his breath shuddering against your skin.

you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and he responds with a deep groan — the sound low, restrained. he gives you a moment to adjust, holding you close, grounding both of you in the shared intensity.

then, his hips move — slow, deliberate — drawing a moan from your throat as your body melts beneath his. he rocks into you with care, but every movement is full of intent, of need. his hands find yours, fingers weaving together, grounding you both as he sets a rhythm that sends warmth coiling deep in your belly.

“just like that,” he breathes into your ear. “i’ve got you.”

your gasp melted into a sigh as kenma held you close, his forehead resting against yours. his movements were slow at first, careful, as if memorizing every part of you. he kissed your temple, then your cheek, his hands cradling your waist with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but thick with emotion.

you could only hold onto him, nails digging lightly into his back, grounding yourself in the moment. the world felt small — just you, him, and the warmth blooming between you.

kenma looked at you then, eyes dark but soft. “tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you shook your head, breathless. “don’t stop.”

he smiled, something quiet and tender. and he didn’t. his rhythm deepened, steady and certain, every touch saying what words couldn’t. you weren’t just connected — you were intertwined.

kenma’s pace stayed measured, like he was savoring every second, every soft sound that left your lips. his hand found yours and laced your fingers together, grounding you further as your bodies moved in sync — a quiet rhythm built on trust and closeness.

you felt your body react to him instinctively — the way his movements reached that perfect rhythm, the way his voice wrapped around you like warmth. kenma's breath hitched when he felt the way your body tightened around him, and he slowed just enough to press a kiss to your temple.

"you're close, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and breathless. "i can feel it."

you nodded, your fingers curling against his back as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breath trembling against his skin. he held you tighter — not to control, but to keep you grounded, tethered to him.

“words, baby,” he murmured, voice rough near your ear. “need to hear you.”

“ugh… yes, kenma. please,” you breathed, the desperation in your voice making his heart stutter.

he smiled, lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “that’s my girl.”

one of his hands slipped between you, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. he began to rub slow, deliberate circles, coaxing you closer with every motion — his rhythm unrelenting, but full of care. you gasped into his mouth, your thighs tightening around his hips as your body began to tremble under the wave building inside you.

“just like that,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “you’re doing so well for me.”

your body trembled beneath him, every nerve alight as he continued to move with you — slow, intentional, like he didn’t want to miss a single reaction you gave him. his fingers remained on your skin, drawing soft circles, guiding you closer and closer.

“almost there, baby?” he whispered against your ear, his voice a low, soothing hum.

you nodded again, eyes fluttering shut as the wave built. kenma leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw — like he was trying to hold you together even as he helped you fall apart.

and when the release finally came, it was warm and overwhelming — your name caught in his throat, your body arching into his as he held you through it. his fingers didn’t stop until he felt you pulse around him, clenching tightly. that was all it took.

with a low, strained groan, kenma followed, hips stuttering as he pressed deeper. the warmth of his release filled you almost instantly, making you gasp at the sensation. he buried his face against your neck, breath heavy, arms trembling slightly as he held onto you like he never wanted to let go.

the room was quiet save for the sound of your mingled breathing — hearts still racing, skin flushed and sticky with heat.

kenma didn’t speak right away. he just kissed your shoulder softly, then pulled back enough to look at you, his gaze half-lidded but tender.

“we’re not done yet, baby,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

his hands trailed down your sides with purpose, and before you could catch your breath, he gently guided you to turn, his touch both reassuring and firm. now you were on your knees, the sheets cool beneath your skin and his presence warm behind you.

you felt him press close, his hands exploring slowly, as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. a quiet moan escaped your lips as he leaned forward, his breath hot against your shoulder.

“still doing okay?” he asked, a hint of playfulness tucked beneath the concern in his voice.

you nodded, breathless, already anticipating what was next.

kenma’s body was warm against yours, his touch steady and slow as he guided your hips just right. you could feel the pressure of him behind you, the way he teased at your entrance with deliberate, featherlight motion — a silent promise that made your breath hitch.

he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear. “you feel too good,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

your hands gripped the sheets, knuckles pale, as he finally moved with more intent — slow at first, savoring every moment, every sound you made. the connection between you sparked anew, heady and overwhelming, and all you could do was let yourself feel it — every pulse, every shiver, every breath you took together.

when he finally entered you again, your body reacted instantly — a sharp gasp, a moan torn from your lips, your muscles trembling under the weight of overstimulation. every nerve felt alive, your skin tingling where his hands steadied your hips.

“still with me?” he murmured, his voice low and strained, pressed right behind your ear.

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the intensity but craving more of it — more of him. each slow, deliberate movement pushed you closer to the edge again, your breath hitching with every deep thrust.

kenma’s fingers stayed locked with yours, his grip tight — not just for you, but for himself too. the room was filled with the rhythm of your connection: the sound of skin meeting skin, breathy moans tangled with soft groans, the kind of music only two people completely lost in each other could make.

his pace never faltered, steady and deep, every movement hitting that spot that made you shudder. you could feel how close he was again — the way his breath hitched, the subtle tremble in his hold, the quiet curse he let slip against your shoulder.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like he was holding on by a thread.

he kissed along your back, each press of his lips sending a ripple of shivers through you. the contrast of his tenderness against the intensity of his rhythm made everything feel more heightened, more intimate — like he was trying to show you, with every breath and every touch, just how deeply he felt it too.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and ragged.

your body responded instinctively, leaning into every word, every motion. the sensation built again — not just the physical, but the emotional weight of it all. it was consuming, a shared fire pulling you both closer to the edge, tethered by more than just touch.

his arm curled securely around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, while his other hand slid up to your chest, fingers splaying gently over your heartbeat. your back pressed flush against his bare chest, the heat of his skin matching yours, slick and electric with every movement.

kenma’s pace quickened, each motion purposeful, building upon the tension already thick between you. you could feel his breath against your ear — staggered, heavy, and desperate — matching the rhythm he set.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice low and breathless, as if the words were pulled straight from his core. “so perfect.”

every inch of you was alive beneath his touch. the way he held you — like you were something precious and irreplaceable — only deepened the intensity between you, making the pleasure that much harder to hold back.

he turned your face gently toward his, capturing your lips in a deep, breath-stealing kiss. it was messy, uncoordinated with urgency, lips parting between panting breaths and soft moans. his hand slid lower, finding that sensitive spot between your thighs, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that made your body twitch beneath him.

the other hand cupped your chest, thumb brushing over your skin with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. the sensations layered — the heat, the closeness, the way he murmured your name between kisses — until you could barely tell where your body ended and his began.

"kenma, can i please come?" you whimpered against his lips, your voice trembling with need.

"go on, baby," he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek. "you deserve it."

with those words, everything unraveled. your fourth release crashed over you like a wave — intense and consuming. your body tensed and trembled in his arms, a breathless cry leaving your lips as he held you through it, never letting go.

kenma followed moments after, his release finding you again, warm and deep, leaving you feeling full and overwhelmed in the best way. the shared intensity lingered between you, breath mingling, bodies pressed tightly together.

he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your neck and shoulder, his lips barely parting between quiet, reverent praises — like every word was just for you.

kenma gently laid you down on the bed, his touch never leaving you. his hands moved slowly over your sides, massaging tenderly, easing the lingering tremble in your muscles. he leaned in, brushing soft kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw — each one slow and purposeful.

between kisses, you heard the low murmur of his voice, barely more than a breath against your skin.

"mine," he whispered, possessive but gentle. "good girl."

kenma stayed close, his chest pressed to your back, breath still warm against your shoulder. the room had gone quiet now, save for the soft hum of your shared breaths and the distant ticking of the clock on the wall. his fingers moved slowly along your side, not with intent — just comfort, like he needed to feel you to know this was real.

you let out a small, content sigh, burying your face into the crook of his neck, where your warmth and his seemed to melt together. “you’re quieter than usual,” you whispered, your voice soft and sleepy.

he made a quiet sound, almost like a laugh. “just thinking,” he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “you… really helped.”

you pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but full of quiet affection. “helped how?”

his thumb gently brushed your cheek as he looked at you. “i don’t know. everything’s loud lately — in my head. work. people. expectations. but when i’m here with you, it’s like the volume just… shuts off.”

your heart tugged at that, at how vulnerable his voice had gotten, at how carefully he let you see the pieces of himself he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

you leaned in, kissed his collarbone softly, then nuzzled against his skin. “i like it when you're like this,” you said quietly. “soft. real.”

kenma rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. “i’m always real with you,” he murmured. “even if i don’t know how to say everything out loud… you hear me anyway.”

the room stilled again, but this time the silence felt intentional — sacred, even. like nothing more needed to be said.

his hand slipped beneath the covers, coming to rest over your stomach, fingers splaying protectively. he pulled you a little closer, the warmth of him pressed fully along your spine. “you’re mine,” he murmured again, half-asleep but still clear. “always.”

you felt your heart flutter, soothed more than you expected by the quiet claim. your body, still tender and spent, finally began to relax completely. you let your hand reach back to rest over his, lacing your fingers gently with his own.

“did i destress you already?” you teased, voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

kenma chuckled softly against your shoulder. “you did more than that,” he said, kissing the back of your neck again. “you brought me back.”

your eyes slipped shut at that, a slow smile curling on your lips. his hand didn’t leave yours, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back began to lull you both toward sleep. the air was warm, his body even warmer, and for the first time in days — maybe weeks — your mind wasn’t racing. there was just him, and the steady rhythm of the two of you breathing together.

“i love you,” you whispered into the quiet, not even sure if he was still fully awake.

but he heard you.

“i love you too,” he murmured back, softer than anything, but real.

and in that warmth, tangled together beneath the covers, you both drifted — slowly, peacefully — into sleep.

331 notes · View notes

tfwbluu · 6 months ago

Text

PAIRING — ni-ki + f!reader

WARNINGS — sub!riki & dom!reader, both of them are idols, reader’s older than rik’s by a year, noona kink, oral (m. rec), edging/overstimulation, degradation/praise, bondage, blindfolds, creampie, pet names + reader calls him baby boy, pictures/sextape, aftercare.

WORDCOUNT — 2.4K

NOTE — i mixed like three reqs into this one cs i got lazy zzz im just gonna drop this and leave (,, ‸ ‸ ,, ) rik’s just wants to be a good boy. . lmk if i missed smth in the warnings.

You had just finished a photoshoot with one of the brands you're an ambassador for. Finally getting home, you unlocked the door to the private space you shared with Riki—a place meant just for the two of you to escape and enjoy some “quality time”. You figured it was still early enough to take a nap together, especially since you remembered he only had one comeback shoot scheduled for the day.

Walking in, you heard faint squelching noises echoing through the halls. Curiosity piqued, you followed the sounds, your steps growing quieter as you approached. The soft, high-pitched whines bouncing off the walls grew louder until they led you to your shared bedroom.

Peeking inside, you were greeted by the sight of Riki, completely lost in his own pleasure. He sat on the edge of the bed, desperately jerking himself off, his stage makeup still intact, though he'd changed into one of his hoodies and a pair of sweats. His hand worked furiously, his cock slick with precum, but no matter how hard he tried, he seemed unable to finish.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

Riki froze, his head snapping toward you, eyes wide in shock. His cheeks turned a vivid pink as realization dawned—he hadn’t noticed you’d come home. His cock twitched in his hand, dripping with precum, as he scrambled to process the situation.

“My, I never thought you’d have the guts, baby,” you teased, stepping into the room and locking the door behind you. “Couldn’t even wait for me?” you pouted, now standing directly in front of him.

Riki’s head dropped, his gaze fixed on the floor, too embarrassed to meet your eyes. His hands gripped the bed sheets beneath him, his cock pressing heavily against his pants, flushed and needy.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” you demanded, gripping his chin and forcing his face to meet your gaze. His breath hitched, a soft yelp escaping his lips as you lightly slapped his cock, watching it twitch in response.

“Didn’t even ask for permission,” you continued, your tone sharp but laced with teasing amusement. “Such big hands, and yet you can’t even make yourself cum without my help, hmm?”

“N-no, noona,” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. His face burned with humiliation and arousal, his breath coming in short gasps.

“You know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?” you asked, tilting your head. “Undress. Sit on that chair.”

You stepped back, giving him space, and watched as he obeyed, his hands trembling slightly as he began to strip. His flushed skin glistened under the soft light, his eyes flicking nervously between you and the floor.

You walked to the dresser, retrieving a small box as Riki obediently stripped himself bare. His skin prickled with exposure and vulnerability as he stood completely naked before you, while you remained fully dressed. His eyes wandered over you, unable to resist admiring every detail—the way your perfectly styled hair frames your face, the sharp intensity of your gaze, and the bold, glossy red of your lips that seemed to command his submission without a word.

He twitched at the sight, unable to hide how much just looking at you affected him. Settling into the cushioned chair, he watched you anxiously, anticipation bubbling in his chest as he tried to guess what you had planned.

“Sit still for me, okay, baby?” you mused, your tone light and teasing as you walked toward him with a small box in hand. Placing it on the table beside him, you opened it deliberately, keeping its contents hidden from his view.

Before he could ask or peek, darkness overtook his vision as you slipped a blindfold over his eyes. Deprived of sight, his remaining senses sharpened. The warmth of your breath against his neck sent shivers down his spine as your lips placed a feather-light kiss on the mole there.

“Sensitive?” you teased, your voice like silk as your hands wandered up and down his torso. Your fingertips grazed his nipples, teasing them lightly, and he twitched under your touch.

“Ngh… noona…” he whined, his voice laced with need. His cock, flushed red and angry, throbbed as he unconsciously bucked his hips into the air, desperately seeking relief that wasn’t coming.

“Ah. I almost forgot,” you said, your tone playful as you reached into the box. Pulling out a length of crimson rope, you let it trail through your fingers. “Lean forward a little for me, and put your arms behind your back, baby boy,” you asked sweetly, your words soft yet commanding.

Though hesitant, Riki obeyed, leaning forward and presenting his arms. You worked with practiced precision, winding the rope securely around his biceps and forearms, binding them to the back of the chair. The knot you tied was firm yet intricate, finished with a delicate, decorative bow.

Satisfied with your handiwork, you stepped back to admire your masterpiece. Riki trembled with desire, his body taut with tension. The way his arousal dripped onto the floor below only added to his delicious vulnerability.

You bit your lip, grabbing your phone to snap a picture of him. ‘Pretty,’ you thought, moving to tug on his hair and pulling him into a kiss that he whined into.

“N-noona… p-please,” he whimpered, his voice shaky as his hips bucked into the air, searching for any kind of friction.

You started a small recording, capturing his tied-up, blindfolded form. Blowing lightly over his flushed, throbbing length, you watched as a shiver ran through him, his gasp breaking the quiet, desperate for the warmth of your touch.

“Say hi to the camera,” you cooed, filming his entire body, wanting to preserve this moment forever.

“H-hi...” he managed, his voice a soft, shaky whimper.

“Are you okay with me recording, baby?” you asked softly.

“Hmm, it’s okay…” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled and leaned in, leaving a soft peck on his lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, watching his cheeks tint with warmth.

You set the camera on the table, perfectly positioned to capture the two of you. “What were you saying again? Please what, sweetheart?” you asked, your voice a sultry purr as you leaned in closer.

“P-please... touch me,” he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. “I’ll be a good boy, I promise! ‘M sorry for touching myself without your permission—ah!”

His apology dissolved into a moan of relief as your hand finally wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly, almost lazily. Each deliberate movement of your hand was a taunt, drawing out his pleasure while you watched him unravel. His arousal slicked your palm as his chest heaved with shallow breaths.

“So needy...” you cooed, your lips brushing over the mole on his abs before trailing upward, kissing his neck. You left a trail of red lipstick marks as a reminder of your claim. His moans grew heavier, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“N-noona, please, need m-more!” he begged, his body straining against the crimson ropes, the bindings leaving flushed marks on his skin.

Helpless and utterly at your mercy, he could do nothing but take what you chose to give, his desperation spilling from every gasp and whimper.

Lowering yourself to your knees, you began with delicate kitten licks on his swollen tip, savoring the way he twitched under your tongue. Your lips wrapped around him lightly, sucking just enough to make him shudder, while your hand stroked the rest of his length in slow, deliberate movements.

A soft gasp escaped him as his hips lifted slightly, thrusting into your mouth instinctively. You allowed it, letting him chase just a little relief, all while keeping your pace teasingly unhurried. His body tensed as he teetered on the edge of release, his cock twitching in your grasp. But just as he was about to spill over, you stopped. His frustrated whine filled the air.

“Noona…” he whimpered, his voice shaky and desperate.

“Remember, darling,” you said with a teasing smirk, your hand brushing over his throbbing length, “only good boys get to cum.” You resumed stroking him slowly, watching his hips twitch as you built him back up.

You teased him relentlessly, stroking and sucking him just enough to push him to the edge, only to stop each time he neared his peak. It left him breathless, his whimpers growing more pathetic with every denial.

Finally, his trembling body betrayed him. He came suddenly, thick ropes of release spilling onto your hand and his stomach. Relief flickered across his face, but it was fleeting as your touch never faltered.

“F-fuck… Noona!” he yelped, his voice breaking as your hand began moving faster, not giving him a moment to recover. His oversensitive body writhed against the crimson binds, and within moments, another wave crashed over him, spilling more of his release.

“You’re so tense, baby.” you teased, coaxing every last drop out of him.

“Noona~!” he cried out, his third climax ripping through him, his release pooling on his toned abs alongside the red marks of your kisses.

His flushed face, sweat glistening on his skin, and tear-streaked cheeks made him utterly irresistible. His swollen, red lips practically begged to be kissed, and you obliged, silencing his whines as your mouth claimed his, your hand finally slowing.

‘Fuck, he’s so pretty,’ you thought, finally taking a moment to admire him fully.

Slowly, you undressed, leaving only your top, before positioning yourself atop him. Aligning his still-hard cock with your slick entrance, you slid down his length. He let out a choked sob at the overwhelming sensation, his sensitivity making every movement more intense.

“Such a big cock, filling me up so good, yeah?” you praised, moving up and down on him, your hands gripping his shoulders for support.

“T-thank you, Noona… feels so g-good!” he babbled, his head falling back in ecstasy.

You tugged his head forward by his hair, pulling off the soaked blindfold, and his glassy, tear-filled eyes met yours. Silencing his desperate noises with a deep kiss, you muffled his cries as you rode him harder.

“F-feels... ssoo guhd, nnnmh... f-fuck plees, noona... p-pleasee...” he mewled against your lips, his muffled voice trembling, but you understood him perfectly.

“You’ve got one more in you, baby?” you murmured, your forehead resting against his. “You’ve been such a good boy—just one more, hmm?” Your thumb softly caressed his damp cheek as you held his gaze.

He nodded weakly, his voice lost to the pleasure consuming him. Your movements became frantic as you chased your release, your hand dipping down to stroke your clit.

“N-Noona… c-close…” he mumbled between broken moans, his body trembling beneath you.

“Hmm, cum inside me, baby,” you purred, your hips meeting his thrusts as you felt the tightening coil in your belly snap.

Both of you reached your peak in unison, his warmth spilling into you as your walls clenched around him, soaking his cock in your release. You sighed in relief, easing off him as his cum spilled out, dripping down his length and pooling beneath you.

“D-did I do good, noona? Was I a good boy?” he asked, his voice soft as he looked up at you with those pretty, pleading eyes.

“Yes, you were, baby. Such a good boy for me,” you praised, gently caressing his flushed cheeks.

Reaching for your phone, you ended the recording with a satisfied hum. But before setting it down, you couldn’t resist snapping one final picture of Riki—trembling and spent, his body adorned with your red kiss marks, glistening with sweat and streaked with cum.

“Smile, baby,” you cooed, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you admired your masterpiece, saving the photo as a private keepsake for your eyes only.

Putting your phone down, you turned your full attention back to him, your eyes raking over his trembling form.

“You okay Ki?” You asked gently, patting his head.

“Hmm, ‘m okay,” he mumbled, gazing up at you with adoring eyes. You couldn’t help but think, cute, as you gently squished his cheeks.

“Wanna kiss.” he pouts, “let me take off the ropes first baby.” you mused, removing them slowly.

Fuck. You can’t help but feel a sense of pride looking at the marks on his skin, ‘All mine’ you thought possessively.

“Let’s take a bath, okay baby?” you said, holding onto him as you walked him to the bathroom.

You guided Riki to sit on the toilet while you prepared the bath, testing the water until it was just right. Once the tub was ready, you helped him ease in, his muscles visibly relaxing as the warmth enveloped him. After slipping off the rest of your clothing, you joined him, settling in front of him.

With gentle hands, you washed him, massaging shampoo into his hair and carefully cleaning his body. Between each motion, you left small kisses on his skin, earning soft hums of contentment from him.

Afterward, the two of you dried off, his tired hands fumbling to hand you one of his hoodies. You chuckled at his persistence and slipped it on, indulging his request.

Finally, you both climbed into bed, Riki instantly wrapping himself around you, his lips pressing light kisses against your neck.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, his voice quiet.

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to be sorry,” you reassured him, your fingers gently threading through his damp hair. “Plus, you looked so pretty f’ me.” You teased, unlocking your phone and showing him the lewd pictures and video you had taken. His eyes widened as his cheeks flushed pink all over again.

“Hmph, I just wanted noona so bad, was thinking about you the whole time I was recording the comeback stage. Couldn’t help myself,” he huffed, burying his face against your skin. “Hyungs were annoying too, kept teasing me for missing you,” he added with a pout, looking up at you with those wide, puppy-dog eyes.

“I’ll talk to them later,” you replied, smiling softly. “Let’s take a nap, yeah? You must be tired.” Your hand moved to stroke his hair, lulling him further into relaxation.

“Kiss?”

“Okay, you big baby,” you giggled, leaning down to press a long, soft kiss to his lips. “Sleep well, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too, noona,” he murmured, his voice filled with warmth as his eyes fluttered shut, completely at ease in your arms.

#( tfwbluu )#enha x reader #enhypen smut #enha smut #niki smut #niki x reader #riki smut #riki x reader #ni ki smut #ni ki x reader #sub enhypen

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rannie-moon · 17 days ago

Text

I can do a lot in 15 2 minutes!

synopsis: during enhypen’s desire : unleash showcase, heran is picked for a chaotic handcuffed relay—complete with cherry stem tying, card stacking, and one final surprise task with the crowd chanting jungwon’s name, things quickly spiral into playful tension and public flustering (for both of them). cherry-related implications are made. a cherry is fed. jungwon may or may not hide in her shoulder by the end. chaos ensues.

masterlist | wattpad

the showcase had been going well so far—a little too well. the members were in high spirits, the audience was on fire, screaming at practically everything that happened on stage, and heran had nearly passed out laughing a total of three times already.

the vibe of the event was meant to be sensual. she, however, was currently feeling anything but.

at that exact moment, she was curled over between jungwon and sunghoon, one hand clapped over her mouth, shoulders shaking silently. sunoo had just tried to take a selfie while bouncing on a mini trampoline for his mission. the image of his mid-air hair and blurred face would be burned into her mind forever.

her laughter subsided just enough for her to sit up again, cheeks pink, still trying to breathe through the occasional wheeze of a giggle.

and of course—right when she thought she could recover, her peace was ruined.

she looked like a disaster—but at least a very well-dressed one.

fitted black cardigan buttoned perfectly over a crisp, tight white button-up. the slim black tie at her throat was neatly knotted. sleeves rolled casually to her elbows, tailored black slacks hugging her frame just right, and black knee-high boots that clicked sharply whenever she moved. her deep red hair cascaded down her back, soft waves framing her flushed face.

“heran, you look like you’re having fun,” the MC teased lightly, smiling wide.

heran’s expression dropped instantly—comically so.

the audience cracked up. jungwon smirked next to her, leaning slightly away as if to dodge the incoming storm. sunghoon choked on a laugh, clapping his thigh once.

the contrast of her calm tone and the flush on her cheeks had the crowd screaming again.

without missing a beat, she lifted her mic with a practiced ease, coolly raising it to her lips.

“I’m just trying to ignore my fatigue,” she said airily, even as her voice was faintly breathless from laughter.

the lights dimmed, a playful suspense jingle filling the venue. the spin-wheel animation flickered onto the screen, cycling through the remaining members’ names.

the MC chuckled knowingly. “ah, professional. I see.”

she nodded, turning toward the massive LED screen behind them. “well, let’s see if we can keep you awake with the next mission, hmm? Fingers crossed it’s something fun.”

the pointer stopped on her name.

and right on cue—

💥 HERAN 💥

the crowd immediately squealed, a chorus of high-pitched cheers echoing through the hall. the members, who had been lounging comfortably, suddenly straightened up, eyes wide with gleeful curiosity.

jungwon subtly glanced her way, noting how she absently wiped under her eyes to get rid of the laugh tears. a tiny smile played at his lips—she really was hopeless sometimes. she picked her song, and the screen flickered again.

then—

💥 MISSION: HANDCUFFED DESIRE RELAY 💥

“OH NO—” sunoo practically shrieked.

heran blinked.

her members erupted.

"and I thought mine was bad," jay teased. "good luck with the restraints."

“of course it’s me,” she said into the mic, earning another wave of cheers.

staff members rolled a prepared table onto center stage. the audience collectively leaned forward.

the MC grinned. “you’ll have two minutes to complete as many of these tasks as possible—handcuffed, of course. and your final task—” she glanced at the box of paper. “—will be decided through the box.”

everyone’s eyes shifted to the items being set down:

— handcuffs

— a bowl of glossy cherries

— a neat stack of playing cards

— a pair of chopsticks with a bowl of ping pong balls

— a small box with folded slips of paper

heran nodded once, eyes flicking over the table in front of her. every item, every task. her mind was already mapping the sequence. This wasn’t about looking good anymore—it was a game.

and everyone on that stage knew: heran had a competitive streak.

her only thought in that moment was simple, focused:

how am I going to win?

the MC grinned, gesturing toward the lineup of objects.

“here’s your relay, heran. listen carefully.”

“first, you’ll need to tie the stem of a cherry using only your tongue—” the MC began. the fans immediately screamed. the members hollered.

the crowd hushed.

heran tilted her head slightly, still watching the table like it was a puzzle to crack.

heran gave the audience a quick, sarcastic thumbs up, causing another round of laughter.

“next—stack a small pyramid with these playing cards.”

“after that, use the chopsticks to transfer these ping pong balls into this bowl.”

she squinted slightly, already strategizing.

“finally—” the MC’s smile grew wider. “you’ll select a task from this mystery box of paper slips for your last challenge. we’ll see what fate has in store for you.”

the audience roared.

heran’s lips twitched into a smirk.

a staff member approached, handing her the pair of sleek silver handcuffs. she fiddled with them in her hands, walking over to jungwon who already set his mic down to help her.

the fans lost it.

while the boys debated about how quickly they'd be able to complete the relay, jungwon stood slowly, eyes briefly flicking to heran’s wrists as she positioned herself in front of him, hands ready for him. his usual calm face was in place—but his ears were already turning pink.

his hands gently took the cuffs, clicking one side around her left wrist. his touch was careful, fingers brushing her skin—whether on purpose or not, heran didn’t dare guess.

he glanced up to meet her gaze briefly before fastening the other cuff. the room was noisy but his voice was quiet, just for her:

“too tight?”

his lips quirked upward—barely noticeable. then heran turned back to the audience, her attention fixed on her wrists and how the chain stopped her from moving much. but Sunghoon caught the tiny smile on his face and grinned knowingly.

his thumb hovered, ready to adjust it.

heran blinked, momentarily forgetting what she was supposed to be doing.

she shook her head, voice low.

“nope, I'm good.”

the MC clapped her hands. “alright! heran, ready?”

the buzzer sounded.

heran flexed her fingers against the metal once, twice—her confidence sliding back into place like a well-worn glove.

“I don't really have a choice, so yeah."

heran approached the table, handcuffs clinking softly as she reached for the first task—the bowl of glossy cherries.

the timer flashed to life.

2:00. the countdown began.

“she’s not gonna tie it, no way,” sunghoon announced confidently from behind her.

“fifty bucks she can’t,” jay added with a smirk.

sunoo chimed in brightly, “this looks like torture. I’d fail at the first step.”

heeseung laughed. “they look good though. can we eat them after she’s done?”

the audience was screaming already—half in encouragement, half in sheer chaos.

heran tuned them all out. eyes narrowing slightly, she plucked a cherry by the stem, popped it into her mouth, and tilted her head, her focus razor-sharp.

six seconds.

the members were still talking when she pulled the cherry out—leaving behind a perfectly tied stem resting between her teeth with a smug little grin.

the audience absolutely lost it.

“WHAT—” jake choked on a laugh.

“HUH?!” heeseung leaned forward, eyes wide.

“did she just—” sunoo gaped.

even jungwon blinked once, twice—his expression unreadable, except for the slight crease between his brows as he watched her set the stem delicately onto the plate and move on without a single word.

1:44 left.

she paused, eyes narrowing again.

next: the cards.

heran wasted no time, her cuffed hands moving with impressive precision. the first two levels of the pyramid went up fast—until one sudden wobble drew an audible gasp from the crowd.

heran wasted no time.

her cuffed hands moved with impressive precision, her fingers nimble and light despite the clinking metal between her wrists.

1:25 left.

the first level of the pyramid went up fast.

the second—steady, controlled.

an audible gasp rippled through the crowd.

then—a sudden wobble.

a single card trembled precariously on the edge.

heran froze, eyes narrowing again, tongue poking out between her lips in pure concentration.

she was not about to lose to a deck of cards.

from behind her, however—chaos.

“FALL, FALL, FALL!” ni-ki shrieked, fanning his hands dramatically from his seat.

jay joined in immediately. “come on, gravity, do your thing!”

sunghoon snickered, doing the same—mimicking a storm blowing through the air.

the audience roared.

she let out a loud, frustrated laugh, twisting to glare at them over her shoulder.

“can you all chill out?!” she yelped through her laughter, shoulders shaking. “you’re worse than the mission!”

jungwon, though, was still watching quietly from his seat—a small amused smile tugging at his lips as he observed her determination.

1:05 left.

with a deep breath and an exaggerated shake of her head, heran turned back to the cards, blocking out the noise.

“focus, focus, focus,” she whispered to herself.

she carefully adjusted the trembling piece—steady now. her fingers flew again.

pyramid complete.

final card.

she hovered for half a second—dramatic effect, of course—then lowered it slowly into place.

heran shot her arms up in a mini victory pose, cuffs jingling loudly.

the arena erupted.

“NO WAY—” heeseung groaned, collapsing into jay’s shoulder.

“I'm not even surprised anymore,” sunghoon muttered, clapping with the crowd.

heran beamed and gave an exaggerated little bow—a flourish of her cuffed hands—before pivoting right into the next task.

she eyed the first ball like a sworn enemy.

ping pong balls.

chopsticks in hand.

she gasped, catching it on the first try—but the ball wobbled dangerously as she lifted it.

“TENSE,” jake said dramatically.

“son’t drop it!” heeseung called out, not helping at all.

heran sucked in a breath, carefully guiding the ball toward the bowl—boop. success.

“one down, let’s go!” she cheered herself on.

the crowd joined in, counting with her:

0:45 left.

“TWO!”

boop.

“THREE!”

boop.

the MC called out excitedly. “final one! heran, hurry!”

she dashed over to the small box on the table, her cuffs clinking with every move. snatching a slip of paper, she unfolded it fast—eyes flickering over the words.

her brows lifted—a little smile forming before she bit it back.

the crowd exploded—screaming even before she looked up.

she turned the paper toward her members, voice carrying.

“tie a necktie… on a member of your choice.”

heran was already laughing, the sound bright and unrestrained as she clapped once.

“WONNIE!”

“JUNGWON JUNGWON JUNGWON—”

"PICK JUNGWON!"

turning toward him with a teasing grin, she pointed with her cuffed hands. “hurry up—you heard the people! come on!”

jungwon’s head snapped up, wide-eyed—like a deer in headlights.

for a half-second, he didn’t move—his shoulders rising with a sharp breath as the entire venue’s focus slammed onto him.

with a small, helpless smile and pink already blooming at the tips of his ears, jungwon stood.

“GO JUNGWON GO!” jay hollered.

sunoo cackled, smacking ni-ki on the arm. “HE’S GONNA MALFUNCTION!”

and that’s when everyone remembered—he was already wearing a tie. a sleek black tie tucked neatly into his crisp suit.

“OH—HE’S GOTTA TAKE IT OFF FIRST—” jake pointed out, practically vibrating in his seat.

jungwon brought one hand up—almost awkwardly self-conscious—fingers hooking around the knot of his tie.

the screams hit another decibel.

phones shot into the air.

he still wasn’t moving fast enough.

heran, still laughing, called out playfully.

“you’re wasting my time here. move!”

she was half bouncing on her heels now—the cuffs rattling excitedly with her movement.

without thinking, heran stepped forward and grabbed the tie itself, giving it a sharp playful tug that yanked him toward her.

the crowd absolutely exploded.

jungwon stumbled forward with a strangled breath, eyes wide, blushing hard. his fingers barely caught the knot again as he looked at her helplessly.

“you’re gonna make me lose this thing! handsome but too slow, come on—” she teased, voice low but bright with adrenaline.

the tie finally slipped free of his collar—he handed it over awkwardly, avoiding her gaze, his hands a little shaky.

the cuffs made her movements sloppy—she struggled, brows furrowed, arms crossing awkwardly against his chest.

she grabbed it fast, already reaching up toward his neck.

he froze again as she stepped in—close. too close.

“stay still, stay still—” she muttered under her breath.

jungwon was trying.

but his hands hovered at his sides, twitching, fingers half-curled—aching to settle on her waist out of habit, out of comfort. but they couldn’t. not here.

his breathing was uneven now—he couldn’t look at her face, not like this. not when she was this close, this unbothered, and the entire arena was watching.

heran struggled a bit more, lip caught between her teeth in focus.

The cuffed chain pulled taut across his chest as she leaned in again.

he nearly choked.

then—without thinking, without realizing—heran whispered just loud enough for him to hear:

“you’re really bad at pretending you’re not in love with me right now.”

the tips of his ears burned crimson—his hands fully fidgeting now, his gaze flying straight to the floor, lips parting like he wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

jay howled. “that boy’s about to short-circuit.”

sunghoon laughed, eyes shining. “If he turns any redder he’ll match her hair.”

meanwhile, heran kept working quickly, trying to form a decent knot despite the cuffs clinking and her heart racing too fast now.

her own cheeks were warm—but she grinned in triumph when she tugged the knot tight and patted his chest.

the crowd screamed.

she raised her cuffed wrists with a bright grin.

“mission complete.”

members were cackling.

the MC clapped, visibly impressed. “I can’t believe you actually did it—especially the cherry! wow—alright, as promised—”

she reached over to the small stand beside her and picked up the tiny silver key. “here’s your freedom.”

as soon as the MC handed the key to heran, pure chaos erupted behind her.

“I need to try the cherry.” jake launched himself out of his seat toward the table.

heeseung followed close behind. “there’s no way—she did that in six seconds, cheater.”

heran couldn’t help it. she bent forward, shoulders shaking with laughter, the key clutched in her cuffed hands as her members devolved into a full-on fruit battle onstage.

sunghoon and sunoo were already shoulder to shoulder, arguing as they grabbed cherries.

“you take that one—mine has a longer stem, I’m taking this one!”

“yah, we’re trying for science, not competition!”

but then her eyes flicked sideways—to him.

jungwon hadn’t moved.

he sat perfectly still in his chair, posture neat, legs crossed, hands resting on his thighs—like if he so much as twitched, the world would notice. his head was tilted down, a shy smile curving his lips, ears still pink. every few seconds his gaze would flick toward her—and just as quickly snap away.

he looked like he was seriously rethinking every decision he’d ever made.

heran bit her lip, something warm stirring in her chest.

even with her heart still racing from the relay, she felt this tiny pocket of calm between them—a thread that had tightened with every second he’d been standing in front of her, helping with her cuffs.

she placed the key gently in his palm, her cuffed wrists lifting between them.

she padded back over toward him, hair swaying lightly against her back. she stopped just in front of him and leaned down slightly, voice playful but soft:

"earth to jungwon.”

a little pause, watching the way his gaze flicked upward toward her, wide and blinking. “mind helping me out?”

for a beat, he just looked at the key, the smallest laugh escaping him through his nose—half amused, half resigned. then, finally—finally—he looked up at her properly.

and smiled.

then—he shifted.

not the practiced camera smile, not the polite fanservice one.

a quiet, soft smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

he parted his legs just slightly where he sat on the stool, leaving enough space in front of him, then gave her a gentle tug by the chain of the cuffs—subtle but sure—pulling her a step closer into the space between his knees.

her breath caught for a second. she shot him a look, playful but sharp.

but his fingers were already moving—deft and careful now—sliding the key into the first lock.

his grin widened, ears still pink.

“you’re so annoying sometimes,” he said, voice warm and teasing, low enough that only she would catch it beneath the din of the crowd.

jungwon’s fingers hesitated for the faintest second—but then he exhaled a small laugh again, shaking his head as if trying to steady himself.

heran tilted her head, her own smile tugging at her lips.

“I was under a lot of pressure okay, I didn't mean to ruin your street cred."

he caught her wrist gently to steady it before reaching for the second.

click.

first cuff popped open.

up this close, heran could hear the way his breathing wasn’t quite even—see the way his lashes fluttered when he glanced up at her from under them. his voice was quieter now, the earlier teasing laced with something softer. “please warn me next time. I'd like to prepare for my heart attack in advance.”

the corners of jungwon’s mouth twitched upward—barely, but there. His fingers finally turned the key in the second lock.

she rolled her eyes at his line, though her smile was quick and fond.

“yes, sir.”

again, his hands lingered—one settling briefly at the inside of her wrist, thumb brushing over her skin in a way that might’ve looked casual to anyone else, but wasn’t.

click.

second cuff popped open.

but neither of them moved just yet, as if locked in this suspended space between their little world and the chaos around them—until:

heran could feel her pulse thrum beneath his touch.

so could he, probably.

“apparently being able to tie a cherry with your tongue means you’re a good kisser.”

sunghoon’s voice floated in from across the stage, completely unbothered, still hunched over the table with a cherry stem between his teeth.

“hyung, you can’t just say that!” ni-ki added, both scandalized and clearly intrigued.

“HYUNG!” sunoo practically screamed, face already in his hands as the crowd burst into shrieks.

jay, grinning, lifted to speak into his mic. “well then. I guess heran’s got another talent to add to the list.”

the entire audience went feral, members either hollering or hiding their faces.

but she wasn’t done.

heran—still standing in front of jungwon—snorted, shaking her head as she finally straightened.

“you guys are insane.”

with a playful glint in her eye, she sauntered casually over to the table, plucked three cherries from the bowl—moving with deliberate calm while the others kept bickering over the new “fact” sunghoon had shared.

then—without a word—she padded back to jungwon, who was still on the stool, trying valiantly to look composed even as his ears stayed a steady shade of pink.

she stopped right in front of him again, one cherry swinging between her fingers by the stem. “you wanna try?”

jungwon stared at the cherry stem dangling between her fingers like it was some kind of trap—one he was absolutely about to walk into.

his lips parted in disbelief. “are you serious right now?”

heran’s smile deepened. “dead serious.”

she leaned in ever so slightly, swinging the cherry once like a pendulum. “come on, for science, remember?”

with a dramatic sigh that didn’t match the way his smile twitched at the corners, jungwon took the cherry from her fingers.

the crowd roared with anticipation.

from the table, jay shouted, “please try, I think these cherries are rigged.”

heeseung nearly choked on his own stem from laughter.

“fine,” he muttered—still pink, still fighting a laugh—as he popped it in his mouth.

heran stepped back, arms crossed, watching with an exaggerated air of judgment. “no pressure. just everyone you know is watching.”

“gee, thanks.” his words came out muffled, the stem already between his teeth.

he worked at it silently, brows furrowed in concentration, while the crowd counted down dramatically like it was the olympics.

“ten… nine…”

“give him some room to breathe!” sunoo said into his mic, still half hiding.

and sure enough—perfect knot.

but then—barely ten seconds in—jungwon pulled the stem out of his mouth with a quiet, innocent:

“…did I do it?”

a beat of stunned silence.

the crowd screamed.

ni-ki yelled something incoherent in disbelief.

heran’s jaw dropped.

she blinked once. twice. then burst out laughing.

their laughter blended together in that shared, breathless joy—the kind only found in rare, unscripted moments like this.

“are you kidding me?!” she laughed, reaching for a high-five.

jungwon—grinning now, eyes bright and a little wild—smacked his palm against hers with a satisfying slap.

“guess that’s your new party trick,” she said, still giggling.

jungwon leaned in just slightly, voice low, lips brushing close to her ear: “should I be worried how good I am at that?”

heran’s brows shot up at his words—heat flickering under her skin.

before he could even think of a comeback, she snatched another cherry from her palm and—without hesitation—popped it straight into his mouth to shut him up.

but she recovered fast, eyes narrowing with mock warning.

“okay,” she said, fighting a grin, voice dry—too dry to be convincing.

“stop talking.”

the crowd screeched, despite not being able to hear what they were talking about.

jungwon froze for half a second, blinking in surprise—cherry stem poking out from between his lips—then absolutely burst out laughing against it, eyes crinkling, the kind of full, unguarded laugh that shook his shoulders.

unable to resist, and completely caught in the moment, he leaned forward, still chuckling, and let his head drop right against her shoulder.

heran stilled for a beat—heart stuttering.

then her smile softened, almost instinctively tilting her head toward his as her cuff-free hands hovered awkwardly, not sure whether to hold him or just laugh along.

from across the stage, jay practically yelled into his mic. "okay, break it up!"

later that night, back at the dorm, chaos had not subsided. If anything—it had only gotten worse.

It had started with Sunoo.

he was sprawled across the couch in a pose of exaggerated leisure, phone pressed to his ear, legs kicking idly in the air. his voice, smooth and grave, cut through the hum of the room: “babe, listen—do you think I’m a good kisser?”

the shriek on the other end was instantaneous and piercing. “WHAT?!”

the dorm dissolved into howls.

sunghoon, half-lying on the floor with a crumpled bag of chips beside him, scrambled for his own phone. “wait, that’s actually genius—dude, move over—”

“no point,” heeseung muttered darkly, tossing a mangled cherry stem onto the table. “none of us could tie it. I’m doomed.”

jay was already pacing, jaw tight, phone glued to his ear. “no, sweetheart, it’s not weird, it was for the showcase. yes, with cherries. No—honey, seriously, everyone was doing it—”

ni-ki had simply given up. He lay on the floor, pillow over his face, groaning into the fabric. “this is the dumbest conversation we’ve ever had.”

and amid the chaos—laughing too hard to bother intervening—sat heran and jungwon, curled up together on the couch by the window.

they had drifted there naturally as the others unraveled, drawn to the quieter corner where the windows stood cracked open to the summer night.

heran sat with her knees drawn beneath her chin, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch. beside her, jungwon sat cross-legged, phone in hand, he was doom-scrolling through fan posts. clips of tonight’s showcase were already circulating with alarming speed.

a soft groan escaped him, half-buried in the sleeve of his hoodie. “oh no. nope. nope. why did I say that. why did I say that.”

heran tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “which part?”

he turned his phone toward her with a faint grimace. the screen was frozen on one particular clip—him sitting on the stool, her standing between his legs, cherry swinging tauntingly from her fingers.

the screams from the crowd were near deafening even through the tiny speakers.

jungwon let his head fall back with a dramatic sigh. “I’m never living this down.”

heran laughed softly, bumping her shoulder against his. “you’ll survive.”

“barely.” he peeked at her from beneath his sleeve, the faintest trace of a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “and you didn’t help. at all.”

she gave him a sly look. “what, with the ‘you wanna try’ line?”

he groaned again, dragging his sleeve further over his face. “exactly.”

heran shrugged her shoulders, voice light as air. "It was just a question.”

a helpless sound escaped jungwon before he collapsed sideways, head landing in her lap with a soft thud.

she blinked—then laughed, fingers finding their way instinctively into his hair. she combed through the fine strands slowly, absently, her touch gentle and rhythmic.

“wow,” she teased, voice low with a smile. “one cherry and you’re ruined.”

“stopppp,” came his muffled voice against her thigh.

around them, the dorm buzzed on.

jake had migrated to the corner, phone now on speaker as he dramatically pleaded with someone on the other end. “chae, please, it was just a cherry. I swear this isn’t about kissing technique—”

sunoo was now fully sprawled across the floor, pillow clutched to his chest. “no, I failed. Miserably. Do you still love me?”

heeseung and sunghoon continued their pacing war, arguing furiously over whether certain cherry stems were “defective.” n-ki remained unmoving, phone on his chest, eyes closed in quiet despair.

but heran barely heard any of it.

her focus was wholly on the boy curled into her lap—one arm looped around her thigh, face pressed into the soft fabric of her pants. his breath was warm where it ghosted against her skin, his body so still now except for the faint shifts when she teased him.

“why are you so shy today?” her voice was gentle now, threaded with affection. she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, smiling down at him. “seriously—it’s cute but—” she leaned in slightly, voice dipping, eyes glimmering. “you can’t even look me in the eye.”

another groan, deeper this time, as jungwon burrowed even further, arm tightening instinctively around her.

heran laughed softly, warmth blooming in her chest.

“wonnie,” she whispered, voice velvet-smooth, her fingers moving in slow circles across his shoulder. “how am I supposed to kiss you if you can’t even look at me?”

that—that—undid him.

a soft, helpless whine escaped him, muffled fully into her lap.

heran bit her lip to keep from outright giggling, her fingertips continuing their lazy, teasing rhythm. the contrast between her playful words and her gentle touch seemed to unravel him entirely.

after a long moment, a raspy, half-muffled voice emerged against her skin: “you’re evil.”

she smiled. “hm, I know.”

finally—finally—hetilted his head just enough to peek up at her.

his eyes were wide and glassy, cheeks blooming with warmth beneath dark lashes. His lips parted slightly—then closed again with a tiny, soundless breath.

heran looked down at him fondly, brushing her thumb along the curve of his jaw. “...still can’t look at me, huh?”

he exhaled softly—half laugh, half surrender—then closed his eyes, arms tightening in a silent plea for mercy.

across the room, jay’s voice rang out, utterly unbothered: “guys, I asked haewon. she says tying a cherry stem doesn’t mean anything. but like should I practice?.”

“PRACTICE WHAT?!” ni-ki shrieked, voice cracking with indignation.

sunoo flailed dramatically on the floor. “she thinks I’m a BAD KISSER!” (ari didn't say anything remotely close to that, he was just being dramatic)

at that, jungwon groaned again—this time with more amusement than embarrassment—as he buried his face deeper into heran’s lap, soft laughter shaking through his shoulders.

heran shook her head, a quiet laugh rising in her throat, her hand smoothing over his back.

the dorm was still alive with noise and chaos—laughter, arguments, voices layered one over the other.

but here—tucked into their small corner of the couch—everything felt quieter.

just limbs tangled together, breath soft between them, hearts thrumming in tandem beneath the noise. and one cherry-stained moment neither of them would be forgetting anytime soon.

taglist: @angie-x3@deluluscenarios @chaeryyeongz @akitoshi39i@sparklydoll444 @yunjiiin @kaitieskidmore97 @yb763@reibelhearts @enhaverse713586

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cece693 · 3 months ago

Text

Bound By Obsession Pt. 2

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: I feel bad for you, like you're trying so hard to escape but hannibal is always one step ahead, invasion of privacy, hannibal is a dick, wanted to show a more uncivilized/disrespectful hannibal as he finally drops his 'human suit', it will only get worse from here

RECAP: Your breath rattled in your chest, part of you screaming to keep resisting, to never surrender. But another part—terrified, uncertain—couldn’t ignore the chilling inevitability in his words. His unwavering belief that this was right threatened to unravel your hope. Fury warred with fear. Yet as Hannibal gently dabbed at your temples, as if tending to a faint bruise, you realized he’d planned every detail with excruciating precision. You were truly at his mercy.

Time crawled slowly after Hannibal left. You could almost still feel the glancing brush of his hand against your forehead, the memory of his touch making your stomach turn. He had retreated with the same eerie calm he’d shown when he abducted you. He acted like this was perfectly normal, you thought, fury and revulsion warring in your gut. You tried to keep calm, reminding yourself that you just had to survive until help arrived. Any minute now, someone would notice you missing. Franklyn would realize you weren’t answering his texts and phone calls. He’d put two and two together, but the bitter taste in your mouth told you otherwise.

Franklyn…? The same man who idolized Hannibal Lecter? Who practically worshipped him? The same man who was so obsessed with being “friends” with his revered psychiatrist that he dismissed every uneasy vibe you’d ever shared about the man? No. Relying on Franklyn for a rescue was foolish, and the realization hit like a gut punch.

So you catalogued the room instead. Four walls paneled in pale maple, a ceiling vent too small to crawl through, a single recessed light. No windows. No décor. No edges you could splinter into a weapon. Even the chair you were bound to was a single curve of molded wood, impossible to break. Hannibal had designed the space the way a jeweler designs a velvet box: nothing inside but the gem. Time staggered past in slow, uneven heartbeats. Hunger gnawed first, then humiliation—the hot, urgent ache in your bladder. You clenched your thighs, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing you plead.

Footsteps. Measured, expensive shoes on hardwood. The door whispered open.

Hannibal stepped in carrying a silver tray. He looked maddeningly fresh, like he’d just stepped off a magazine spread: shirt sleeves rolled to the perfect midpoint of his forearm, waistcoat hugging a frame built for precision. His eyes lit when they found yours, as though the sight of your discomfort were a private sunrise.

“Dinner is ready,” he said.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you snapped. Your voice came out ragged, the edge of desperation sharpening every syllable.

He considered you for a beat, then inclined his head. “Of course. However, the door remains open.”

“Close or I piss on your Italian shoes.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, delighted. “Such spirit. Unfortunately, I still require the door open—until I’m certain you won’t attempt to bludgeon me with the cistern lid. I will stand outside the threshold and face away. That is my compromise.”

You wanted to fling an insult, but your bladder had other ideas. “Fine. Just—fine,” you relented with a grimace. “But don’t get any weird ideas. You so much as try anything, I’ll—”

“Nothing untoward will happen,” Hannibal interrupted, a faint, humorless smile curving his lips. “You have my word.”

He loosened the restraints carefully, as though unwrapping a delicate object. Once you were on your feet, he placed a light hand on your arm, guiding you from the room. The hallway was dimly lit, lined with a few closed doors whose locks glinted ominously. He led you to a small bathroom. Sure enough, he propped the door open partway, standing just out of view but still there. You felt humiliated, heart pounding with anger and shame as you went about your business under his watchful presence. At least he’s not looking directly at me, you thought bitterly. Small mercies, I guess…

True to his word, Hannibal didn’t try anything—no touches, no manipulative chatter. In fact, he was startlingly polite, a perfect gentleman. Somehow, that unsettled you even more.

Afterwards, he led you down a short corridor. At the end stood a door that opened into another room—a dining area, by the look of it. Candle‑light flickered over linen as white as a surrender flag. Two place settings gleamed: crystal stemware, antique cutlery, plates art‑house arranged with roasted root vegetables, a pale purée, and a slice of meat pink as a blush. The aroma was obscene in its seduction, but you refused to be impressed. You were still his prisoner, no matter how fancy the setting.

He gestured for you to sit. “I imagined you’d be hungry,” he said, as though discussing the weather.

“You imagined correctly,” you muttered, resisting the urge to snap further. Play it calm, gather info.

You settled into the chair, noticing that while you weren’t chained this time, Hannibal had chosen a seat just close enough to intervene if you tried anything. There was a steely vigilance in the way he watched you, like a natural predator prepared to pounce.

Dinner unfolded in brittle silence. You refused to touch the food at first; your stomach betrayed you with a growl so loud it echoed. Hannibal’s lips curved in quiet amusement but he said nothing, content to watch you with that fever‑bright fascination that crawled over your skin. Finally hunger won. You took a cautious bite—savory, buttery, maddeningly perfect. Revulsion warred with relief as warmth spread through your belly.

Hannibal, for his part, ate with a serene air. Now and again, you felt his gaze cutting across the table, a weird, obsessed gleam shining in his eyes. It was difficult to swallow under such scrutiny, but you forced the food down. Finally, you couldn’t stay silent any longer. “So is this it? Kidnapping me and forcing me to have dinner in your…your psycho lair? How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

He placed his utensils down with meticulous care, meeting your glare without flinching. “I have no end date in mind,” he said mildly, as though discussing a lease agreement.

“Why?” You set your fork down hard enough to clang. “Why do all this? What’s the magic word that gets me out of here?”

Hannibal’s expression softened as though you’d asked something tender. “There is no word,” he said. “Language cannot sever what exists between us.”

“What exists is kidnapping,” you shot back. “You’re going to prison for this.”

He laughed—an actual, delighted laugh. “Prison? I doubt it. Franklyn assures me you are prone to sudden disappearances when overwhelmed. He is already rationalising your absence.”

Your heart lurched. “You manipulated him.”

“I merely provided a narrative. He supplied the belief.” Hannibal leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “In truth, I’ve never met anyone like you—someone who balances genuine compassion with an acerbic wit and an undercurrent of fearlessness.”

You practically snorted. “Fearless? Right. I’m terrified out of my mind here.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the contradiction. “Fear is an instinct. You’ve every right to it. But even in your terror, you maintain a certain core of defiance. That’s rare, and I cherish it.” An icy chill spread across your skin at the word cherish. He talks like he’s in love—and that is infinitely worse.

“So you caged it.”

“I preserved it,” he corrected gently. “In time, the cage will feel less like confinement and more like sanctuary. You will come to understand that freedom is not the absence of walls, but the presence of someone who sees you utterly.”

You swallowed a surge of bile. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast. “But I am also patient. Fascination, like good wine, deepens when allowed to breathe. We have all the time we need.” The crystal of his glass clicked softly against the rim of yours—an accidental toast you wanted no part of. You set your drink down, untouched, pushing the plate away even though hunger still gnawed at you.

Hannibal watched every small rebellion with fond amusement, as if you were a child refusing bedtime. “Eat a little more,” he urged. “Strength will serve you, whatever path you choose.”

“My path is out of here,” you muttered. “One way or another.”

“That is a destination,” he allowed, folding his napkin with immaculate precision, “but not a path. And destinations are so often less important than the journey.”

You stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor. “Show me the way back to my life, Doctor. Right now.”

His eyes glittered. “Would you believe me if I said the door is unlocked?”

For a heartbeat, hope surged—then died beneath his measured tone. “Unlocked but guarded,” you countered. “Or rigged. Or you’ll hunt me the second I step through.”

“Consequences are not chains,” he replied, rising with fluid grace. “But they do guide behavior.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Come. I’ll prove there is no lock.” Wariness warred with curiosity, but you followed, pulse hammering. He led you through a winding corridor lit by low lanterns until you reached a heavy wooden door. At the threshold, he laid a hand on the knob and swung it open.

Beyond lay a dark forest. Tall conifers pressed close on all sides, their branches creating an almost impenetrable canopy that blocked out any hint of moon or starlight. The air smelled of damp pine and moss, and a biting chill seeped in. You could see no roads, no lights—nothing but trees and blackness. “No bolts, no bars. Walk away if you wish.”

A cold wind slid past you, rattling the nearest branches. You squinted, trying to make out a trail or any sign of civilization, but saw only the dark tangle of trunks and undergrowth. Your heart pounded. “Where does this even lead?”

“Somewhere you’re not prepared for,” he replied. “Freedom is rarely found by sprinting into darkness—especially when you have no idea where you are.” An image flashed through your mind of yourself stumbling among those trees, lost, maybe succumbing to hypothermia or exhaustion, while Hannibal followed at his leisure.

He closed the door without force, a quiet click that sounded painfully final. “If you want to wander out there, I won’t stop you,” he said, turning to face you, “but I assure you, it’s a harsh environment. I planned this location for its isolation.”

You swallowed hard. “You couldn’t have just asked me on a…on a date?”

His brows rose with mild amusement. “Would you have accepted?”

“Of course not.”

“Precisely.” He inclined his head as though that single word justified every abhorrent thing he’d done. “Conventional courtship would have led only to your polite refusal. And then distance. I couldn’t allow distance.”

Your anger flared. “That’s not how people function, Hannibal. This—this kidnapping— I’m not going to just fall in line because you’re too cowardly to handle rejection.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, his soft amusement a nightmarish counterpoint to your rage. “Cowardly?” he repeated in that cultured, low voice of his, as though you’d just made a delightful observation. “Would a coward risk everything to ensure someone precious does not slip away?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re justifying kidnapping as bravery? That’s twisted.”

“Twisted or simply honest,” he mused, eyes flicking over you with calm interest, like a collector surveying a prized piece of art. “Could it be you’re angered most by the fact that I am willing to do what polite society forbids? Because it calls into question whether you truly know yourself. Whether you might, under different circumstances, be drawn to me.”

“You’re unbelievable.” You spat the words, every nerve alight with fury. “People reject each other all the time without resorting to—to this. You can’t handle the idea that I might say no, so you stole me like some demented child with a shiny toy.”

His expression flickered just once—something close to hurt, as if your fury stung him more than he’d ever admit. Then a measured exhale steadied him. “I prefer to think of it as choosing a path that ensures we fully explore our connection. I will not hide from possibility simply because you or the world might disapprove.”

A tremor rippled through your limbs, pure anger coursing hot. You advanced on him. “No, you’re just hiding behind sedation and locks, creeping around like a monster. That’s the opposite of bravery, you smug—”

The porcelain teacup on the nearby tray caught your eye. Without a second’s hesitation, you seized it and flung it at him. He inclined his head at precisely the right moment, letting the cup sail past and shatter with a piercing crack against the wall.

“Careful.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “You’ll need that energy for what comes next.”

“What comes next,” you snarled, “is me leaving—whether I have to do it over your battered corpse or not.”

You swung a blind punch, your muscles coiling with desperate fury. Hannibal sidestepped it so elegantly, it made your blood boil. Another strike—he dipped under your arm, capturing your wrist. You drove your knee up, aiming for his ribs. He twisted gracefully, letting your momentum pass inches away. A guttural sound tore from your throat—part frustration, part outrage—as you came at him again, swinging for his jaw. He simply circled behind you, and you felt a prick of something cool against your neck.

Instantly, a familiar, sickening warmth spread through your veins. Your blows lost their weight, your vision stuttering. “N‑no—” The word slipped into a groan as your knees buckled.

With obscene gentleness, Hannibal caught you, easing your body against his. Your cheek pressed to the expensive fabric of his vest; you smelled faint cologne mixed with your own sweat. Horror gripped you, but your limbs fell slack, your mind swimming.

“That was quite admirable,” Hannibal said softly, stroking a hand over your hair. “I do appreciate your spirit. It’s part of why you’re here. Why you fascinate me so deeply.”

“Go…to…hell,” you managed, fury still sputtering in your fading consciousness.

“Shh,” he murmured, drawing you close as though comforting a lover. “Sleep now. Anger is exhausting, and we have plenty of time to revisit this conversation when you’re calmer.” Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The world blurred around the edges. Then only darkness remained, along with the nauseating warmth of Hannibal’s arms—his lips against your temple in a final, disturbingly tender gesture before oblivion claimed you.

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andy-15-07 · 10 months ago

Text

A Night in Venice

Pairing! Drew Starkey x reader

Words count: 3032

Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

The gentle lapping of the waves against the wooden stilts of the Venetian docks created a rhythmic melody that floated through the air, mingling with the distant sounds of laughter and conversation from nearby cafés. The golden hour had painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, reflecting off the canals and the city’s intricate architecture. Venice was always enchanting, but tonight, it felt like magic was in the air. Drew Starkey stood at the edge of the dock, dressed in a sleek blue tuxedo that hugged his frame perfectly, a calm smile playing on his lips. His blue eyes sparkled as he looked out at the horizon, but his thoughts were far from the city’s beauty or even the prestigious Venice Film Festival, where his new movie Queer had just premiered to a standing ovation. Instead, they were on Y/N, who was a few steps behind, adjusting the strap of her dress.

Y/N had been there through it all. The late nights running lines, the exhaustion, the anxiety, and the triumphs. Drew had always been grateful for her, but tonight, seeing her standing there in the soft light, wearing a flowing gown that accentuated her every curve, he felt his heart swell with even more love.

"Do you ever get tired of looking so beautiful?" Drew teased, turning towards her with a grin that melted into a more sincere expression. He held out his hand, and Y/N took it, stepping closer to him.

"If I do, I’ll let you know," Y/N replied, a playful twinkle in her eyes. She squeezed his hand, her touch warm and familiar. "But right now, I’m more interested in getting lost in this city with you."

Drew chuckled, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "We’ll have plenty of time for that. The night’s still young. But first, there’s something I want to do."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? And what might that be?"

Drew leaned in, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "You’ll see."

With that, he led her down the narrow streets, their footsteps echoing softly on the cobblestones. The festival had brought a buzz to Venice, but Drew knew exactly where to go to avoid the crowds. They wandered through the labyrinth of alleyways, passing under bridges and beside quiet canals. The city had a way of making you feel like you were the only two people in the world, and in that moment, Drew couldn’t have been happier.

Finally, they arrived at a small, secluded square with a single bench overlooking the water. The only sounds were the gentle ripples in the canal and the distant murmur of the festival in the background. Drew guided Y/N to the bench and sat down beside her, the soft fabric of their clothes brushing against each other.

"Drew, this is beautiful," Y/N said softly, her eyes wide as she took in the serene scene.

"I thought you might like it," Drew replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. "But there’s more."

Y/N looked up at him, curiosity and affection shining in her gaze. "What do you mean?"

Drew reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she realized what it was. She turned to him, her eyes searching his, but before she could say anything, Drew opened the box to reveal a delicate ring, the diamond catching the light from the setting sun.

"Y/N," Drew began, his voice low and filled with emotion, "I’ve been trying to find the right words all night, but nothing seems enough. You’ve been with me through everything—my ups, my downs, my fears, and my dreams. You’re my best friend, my biggest supporter, and the love of my life. And I can’t imagine spending another day without you by my side as my wife."

Y/N’s eyes welled up with tears, and she covered her mouth with her hand, overwhelmed with emotion. "Drew…"

Drew’s heart pounded in his chest as he continued, "So, here in Venice, a place as timeless and beautiful as you, I’m asking you… Will you marry me?"

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The air was thick with anticipation, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. Then, with a tearful laugh, Y/N threw her arms around Drew, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. "Yes, Drew, I’ll marry you."

Drew felt a wave of relief and pure joy wash over him as he hugged her back, his eyes closing as he breathed in the moment. When they finally pulled apart, he slipped the ring onto her finger, the perfect fit symbolizing how perfect they were for each other.

They sat there for a while, wrapped up in each other and the beauty of the city around them. Venice had always been known for its romance, and now, it held an even more special place in their hearts.

After a while, Drew broke the silence with a soft chuckle. "You know, when I signed on to do Queer, I thought the most nerve-wracking part would be the premiere. But proposing to you? That was a whole new level."

Y/N laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. "I had no idea you were planning this. You kept it a secret so well."

"I wanted it to be perfect," Drew said, kissing the top of her head. "And seeing the look on your face when I asked… It was worth every bit of the stress."

They both laughed softly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. The tension had finally melted away, leaving behind a warm, content feeling.

As the evening continued, they wandered back towards the heart of the city, hand in hand, the ring on Y/N’s finger glinting under the streetlights. They passed other couples, tourists, and locals, all oblivious to the magical moment Drew and Y/N had just shared.

Eventually, they found themselves near the famous Rialto Bridge, where the festival’s afterparty was in full swing. The energy of the crowd was contagious, and Drew couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement as they joined the festivities. But despite the glamour and the flashing lights, all Drew could think about was the woman by his side.

They danced together, swaying to the music with the lights of Venice twinkling around them. Drew’s hands were firm on Y/N’s waist, guiding her gently as they moved in perfect sync. It was as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of them in their own private bubble.

"You’re a pretty good dancer," Y/N teased, her voice barely audible over the music.

Drew grinned, dipping her slightly before pulling her back up. "You make it easy."

As they danced, Drew couldn’t help but think about how far they had come. From their first meeting on the set of Outer Banks, to the quiet moments they shared away from the spotlight, to now, standing in the heart of Venice, celebrating not just his career, but the love they had built together. It felt like a dream, but the warmth of Y/N in his arms grounded him in the reality of it all.

As the night wore on, they eventually found themselves sitting on the edge of the canal, their feet dangling over the water. The afterparty had died down, leaving the city quiet and serene once more.

"Drew," Y/N began, her voice soft as she gazed out at the water. "I’ve been thinking… about us, and about everything we’ve been through."

Drew turned to her, his heart skipping a beat. "What is it?"

Y/N looked at him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight. "I know we’ve talked about it before, but now, with the ring and everything, it feels even more real. I want to be with you, Drew. I want to build a life with you, wherever that takes us."

Drew felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to her. "I want that too, Y/N. More than anything."

"But what about the distance?" Y/N continued, her voice wavering slightly. "Your career is taking off, and there’s going to be so much travel, so many commitments… I don’t want us to lose what we have."

Drew took a deep breath, understanding the weight of her words. "Y/N, I’ve thought about that too. And honestly, I’m not going to lie and say it won’t be hard. But I believe we can make it work. We’ve always found a way to be there for each other, no matter what. And now, with this ring, it’s a promise. A promise that I’ll always come back to you, no matter where I go."

Y/N looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of doubt. But all she saw was sincerity and love. "Do you really believe that?"

"I do," Drew said firmly, his hand finding hers and squeezing it gently. "And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure we don’t lose what we have. I love you, Y/N. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears again, but this time they were tears of relief and happiness. "I love you too, Drew. So much."

They sat there in silence for a moment, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water against the canal walls. The weight of their conversation hung in the air, but it was a good weight—a reassuring one.

Eventually, Y/N leaned her head on Drew’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers. They stayed like that for a while, soaking in the quietness of the night, the only witnesses to their love being the ancient buildings of Venice and the stars above.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Drew chuckled softly, the memory clear in his mind. "Of course I do. You were the new production assistant on set, and I think I was more nervous to meet you than I was for my first scene that day."

Y/N smiled, recalling the way Drew had stumbled over his words when he first introduced himself. "You were so serious, but I could see the kindness in your eyes. I knew from that moment that you were different."

Drew tilted his head to rest against hers, his voice soft as he spoke. "And I knew, from the moment you smiled at me, that I wanted to get to know you. I didn’t know then that we’d end up here, but I’m so glad we did."

Y/N looked up at him, her heart swelling with affection. "Me too, Drew. Every step of the way has been worth it, even the hard parts."

They fell into a comfortable silence again, the kind that only comes when two people know each other deeply. Drew’s fingers traced lazy patterns on Y/N’s hand as they sat there, both of them content just to be together.

"Can I tell you something?" Drew asked after a while, his voice hesitant.

"Of course," Y/N replied, lifting her head to look at him.

Drew took a deep breath, his expression turning serious. "I was so nervous before the premiere tonight. Not just because of the film, but because I knew I was going to propose. I kept thinking about all the things that could go wrong, how I might mess it up…"

Y/N smiled, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. "But you didn’t mess it up, Drew. It was perfect. You were perfect."

Drew’s eyes softened as he looked at her, his heart swelling with love. "You make me feel like I can do anything, Y/N. Even when I’m doubting myself, you’re there to remind me that I’m enough. And I want you to know that I’ll always do the same for you."

Y/N’s eyes welled up with tears again, but she blinked them back, not wanting to cry anymore tonight. "I know you will, Drew. That’s why I said yes."

Drew smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. It was a gentle, tender kiss, full of the love and promises they had just made to each other. When they pulled back, Drew rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as he breathed in her familiar scent.

"I love you so much, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too, Drew," Y/N replied, her voice equally soft. "And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

They stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other and savoring the moment. The world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them and the love they shared.

Eventually, the cool night air began to settle in, and Y/N shivered slightly. Drew noticed and immediately shrugged off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders.

"Thank you," Y/N murmured, snuggling into the warmth of his jacket.

Drew smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Anything for you."

They got up and slowly made their way back to their hotel, the city of Venice quiet and peaceful around them. When they reached their room, Drew held the door open for Y/N, and she walked in, turning to watch as he closed the door behind them.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Drew pulled Y/N into his arms, holding her close. "I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of holding you," he murmured into her hair.

Y/N smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Good, because I’m not planning on letting you go."

They stood there in the middle of the room, holding each other as the reality of the night finally settled in. They were engaged. They were going to spend the rest of their lives together.

"I’m the luckiest man in the world," Drew whispered, his voice filled with awe.

Y/N pulled back slightly to look at him, her eyes shining with love. "And I’m the luckiest woman."

Drew leaned down to kiss her again, this time with more passion, more urgency. The kiss deepened quickly, and before they knew it, they were tangled up in each other, their bodies pressed together as they stumbled toward the bed.

Drew’s hands roamed over Y/N’s body, memorizing every curve, every inch of her. Y/N’s fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as she kissed him back with just as much fervor.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed together as they tried to catch their breath.

"I love you," Drew said again, his voice filled with so much emotion it made Y/N’s heart skip a beat.

"I love you too," Y/N replied, her voice just as breathless.

They spent the rest of the night wrapped up in each other, whispering sweet nothings and making promises for the future. They talked about their wedding, their dreams, and the life they were going to build together. And when they finally fell asleep, it was with their arms around each other, their hearts full of love and contentment.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Drew woke up first, his eyes slowly opening to find Y/N still asleep beside him. She looked so peaceful, her hair splayed out on the pillow, her lips slightly parted.

Drew smiled, his heart swelling with love as he watched her. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

Y/N stirred slightly at his touch, her eyes fluttering open. When she saw Drew watching her, she smiled sleepily, her heart skipping a beat at the look of pure adoration in his eyes.

"Good morning," she whispered, her voice still heavy with sleep.

"Good morning, beautiful," Drew replied, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her lips.

They stayed in bed for a while, just enjoying each other’s presence and the quiet of the morning. Eventually, they got up and got ready for the day, but the magic of the night before still lingered in the air.

As they walked hand in hand through the streets of Venice, Drew couldn’t help but feel like he was walking on air. Everything felt perfect, from the way the sun warmed his skin to the way Y/N’s hand fit perfectly in his.

They spent the day exploring the city, visiting the famous landmarks and indulging in the local cuisine. But no matter where they went or what they did, Drew’s mind kept drifting back to the fact that Y/N was now his fiancée. The thought filled him with a sense of joy and excitement that he had never felt before.

At one point, they found themselves back at the square where Drew had proposed the night before. They sat down on the same bench, the memory of the proposal still fresh in their minds.

"Last night feels like a dream," Y/N said softly, her eyes reflecting the soft light of the afternoon.

Drew smiled, reaching out to take her hand. "A beautiful dream."

Y/N turned to look at him, her expression serious. "Do you think this will last? This feeling?"

Drew’s smile softened as he looked into her eyes. "I think it will, as long as we keep choosing each other every day. Love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a choice. And I’m choosing you, Y/N. Every day, for the rest of my life."

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion, and she squeezed his hand tightly. "I’m choosing you too, Drew. Always."

They sat there for a while longer, just enjoying the moment and the quiet understanding that had settled between them. They didn’t need to say anything more; their love spoke for itself.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the city, Drew and Y/N made their way back to their hotel, their hearts full of love and contentment. They knew that their journey together was just beginning, and that there would be challenges ahead. But they also knew that as long as they had each other, they could face anything that came their way.

That night, as they lay in bed, their bodies intertwined and their hearts beating in sync, Drew whispered into the darkness, "I can’t wait to marry you."

Y/N smiled, her eyes closed as she drifted off to sleep. "I can’t wait either."

And with that, they both fell asleep, knowing that they had found something truly special in each other. Something that would last a lifetime.

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