#he does leave an impact. in the HEART.

[inbred-eater]

SWEET AS PIE

pairing .ᐟ clark kent x fem!roommate!reader

warnings .ᐟ 18+ | mdni | whole lotta fluff. friends to lovers. “and they were roommates 😱”. they are painfully in love your honour. heated make out session. minimal dry humping. oc named mera (reader’s friend) & oc named linda (their landlord). mentions of clark getting kryptonite poisoning.

summary .ᐟ the 4 times your adorably dorky roommate, clark kent almost gives in and kisses you + the 1 time he actually does it :p

acknowledgements .ᐟ gif (1) creds: @myrcella-lannister | gif (2) creds: @clarkgirl | white ribbon divider creds: @v6que

the first time clark kent nearly throws caution to the wind to press his lips to yours, is the day you find out he’s superman.

you were supposed to be gone, on a date with some douchebag you met whilst at work, meaning clark would have all the time in the world to heal up after the fight he’d been in as superman, discard of his suit and get a story straight for when you’d eventually come home.

but what he didn’t know, was that your date cancelled, something about if he died today at the hands of the funny looking malicious creature superman was fighting, he wanted to at least confess his love for his ex again, leaving you hung out to dry as you walked back to your apartment with a frown on your face, muttering profanities to yourself as you entered the apartment.

you had showered, thrown on one of the many shirts you’d stolen from clark’s wardrobe (you were best friends first before being roommates let’s be real) and sat in bed to watch your comfort movie.

normally clark would’ve been able to hear your beating heart from a mile away, especially if he were flying right up to your balcony to get into your apartment, but due to the gnarly fight he’d had, his head was a little out of sorts, unable to focus his hearing, leading him into sloppily flying right into the living room of your apartment, the couch scraping against the hardwood floors as he plopped down onto it.

you shot up from your bed, brows furrowed as you looked at the door, your heart thumping in fear, immediately reaching for the stiletto you kept close by in case of emergency.

your socked feet padded softly against the floor as you walked across your room to the door, death grip on the stiletto as you walked down the small hallway leading to the living room.

“whoever you are i’ve got a really sharp object in my hand and i’m not afraid to use it!” you yelled out of fear, already bracing for impact as you rounded the corner, ready to scream only to be met with the last thing you’d ever expected.

superman jumping up from your living room couch, all battered and bruised. your stiletto dropped from your hand, brows furrowed in utter confusion.

“s-superman?” you questioned, completely puzzled as to why superman would be inside your apartment, on your roommate’s side of the couch, with your roommate’s phone in his hand.

“oh gosh-“ he paused, mentally face palming himself as he tried to find a way to break it to you; clark had wanted to tell you he was superman on so many different occasions but each time he tried, you’d somehow get interrupted.

“wait did—did something happen to clark? why do you have his phone? is he dead? oh my god, oh my god, he’s dead isn’t he?” you panicked, hands shaking as your mind began spiralling, already tearing up when superman placed his hands on your shoulders, squeezing to try and ground you.

“woah woah no-no-no, hey hey, clark’s fine—i’m fine; it’s me it’s clark, no need t’panic i’m alright, well save for a few broken ribs maybe but nothing the good ol’ sun can’t fix,” he finally revealed, looking down at you with piercing blue eyes, a lopsided smile on his lips.

your panic subsided, thoughts halted as you processed his words, even more confused than you already were.

“what? but clark is—“ you paused, watching as superman marched with a wince in his step toward his or what you thought, clark’s bedroom, retrieving the all too familiar glasses your clumsy roommate wore.

“see? it’s me angel it’s clark,” he reiterated, your eyes widening and jaw dropping at the image of clark kent, messy hair and glasses, decked out in superman’s suit and cape.

clark kent was superman.

“what the fuck?!—freak, sorry” you corrected yourself, thinking back on the little lecture clark gave you about not liking profanities.

made sense now why.

“i’m sorry you found out this way—i swear i meant to tell you sooner i just—never found the right time to,” he sighed, taking the glasses off before plopping back down onto the couch.

either you had really bad vision or those glasses were something else because how had you not come to the realisation before?!

a beat of silence passed, still frozen in place as you watched him slumped on the couch, the superman logo on his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath, only then pulling you back from the daze you were in, the realisation only really hitting you right in the face then.

clark kent was superman.

superman was clark kent.

superman was beaten bloody and bruised.

clark kent was beaten bloody and bruised.

your roommate had been beaten bloody and bruised and you were standing there, mouth agape as your mind tried to catch up with it all.

“oh shit! clark you’re bleeding!” you finally spoke, feet slipping slightly on the polished hardwood floors as you made your way over to him, sitting on the coffee table, directly opposite him, your knees brushing his.

“it’s uh nothing, really—don’t stress yourself out, i’ve looked worse believe me,” he attempts to jest, hand clutched over his abdomen. “well is there something i can do to help? i don’t—please let me help,” you stammered, wide eyes darting all over his features, the look of pain on his face completely pushing away any thought you had about being mad about him not telling you the truth.

he only shakes his head, the soft rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds, already working its magic, his hand reaching out for yours, palm rough against your skin as he pulled you to sit next to him, “i’m fine, seriously—sun’s already patchin me up, just-just stay here—please,” he asked, turning his head to look at you, really look at you.

those piercing blue eyes you constantly joked about, felt softer than ever in this moment, his hand still holding yours, his eyes darting over every feature of yours he’s already committed to memory.

for a moment there you held your breath, your bodies gravitating toward one another without question, the rest of the world fading away, just you and clark, alone in a little bubble you didn’t ever want to leave.

a hiss through clenched teeth, pulled you from your bubble, your eyes averting to his hand still holding yours, rather than those expressive eyes of his, clearing your throat as you straightened yourself.

so you stay by his side, distracting him from the pain that slowly subsides, with little stories of your own, which all eventually divulges into questions about the superhero life, questions on how the glasses work and so on.

after a beat of silence passes, you finally spoke up, “sooo my roommate who can’t for the life of him not spill his coffee’s on a monday morning, is metropolis’ saviour and protector? god we’re doomed then,” you joked, eliciting a smile from the kryptonian, shaking his head at your antics.

the second time he nearly kisses you, is on a saturday afternoon; you’d both done the monthly grocery shopping together, talking his head off about anything and everything (not that he didn’t absolutely love the sound of your voice).

you’d both decided to get something to eat right after packing the groceries away, the soft breeze welcoming as you sat next to him on the park bench you found open, over exaggeratedly humming at the taste of the smash burger you’d just ordered.

“it’s that good huh?” he asks with a smile, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose, making him all the more adorable; you nodded, holding it up for him to take a bite.

the domesticity of it all wasn’t lost on you, and god you loved it; tucked into his side, talking about whatever you wanted with him, sharing food and later going home together.

you watched as he took a bite, his brows shooting up at the taste; “darn it, that really is good,” he smiled, nodding along as you took another bite, chewing and swallowing your food before taking a sip of your drink.

in that moment, your focus entirely on the little squirrel that had run up to the bench, clark’s gaze grew tender, wiping the side of his mouth with a napkin as he continued staring at you, not in a creepy way but more so in a way that conveyed just how important you were to him.

he smiled as you did, watching you coo at the array of wildlife that had gathered in the park; “clark that squirrel looks a little funny,” you mentioned, tilting your head as you stared down the squirrel, snapping him out of the little trance he was in.

his brows furrowed, following your gaze to a rat eating some seed along with the squirrels and birds; he broke out into a fit of laughter, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before speaking, “that’s—cause it’s a rat, not quite a squirrel—a cute one at that actually,” he adds, smiling as the realisation hits your face.

“oh wait—it is, shit maybe i need glasses,” you laughed, your smile lines only adding to your beauty, something clark absolutely loves about you.

the day went on, all but dragging clark to the ice cream stand a few blocks from your apartment complex, unhooking your arm from his as you ordered an ice cream for you and clark to share, nothing out of the ordinary for the pair of you.

“mhm, remember when that-that weird alien thing you fought kicked your ass,” you hummed, thinking back on when clark had hazardously landed on the balcony of your shared apartment, groaning about how annoying the alien thing he’d just fought was.

he scrunched his nose at your words, eyes pierced as he looked down at you, only eliciting a giggle from yourself as you added another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth.

“uhhh he did not—did not totally kick my ass, nope no maam,” he scoffs, all pouty as you giggle in response, rolling your eyes as you walk back to where he’d stopped in his place, wrapping your hand around his forearm to all but drag him along with you.

“he kinda did honey but for the sake of our friendship i’m willing to lie if you want?” you smiled, offering the ice cream to him, to which he took a spoonful, some of the ice cold treat smudging against his cheek.

you smiled, chuckling as you stopped him again, slightly moving the both of you out of the way of people passing by.

“you got a little,” you mumbled, gesturing to his cheek to which clark raised a brow, that dorky smile of his encompassing his features as he swatted at his face like a toddler, shaking your head in response.

without thinking, you reached up, your thumb brushing the little bit of ice cream that had smudged there, right over his dimple, the same dimples you found yourself day dreaming about.

“there, all clean,” you murmured, bringing your digit up to your lips, licking the sweet treat from the pad of your thumb, unknowingly flipping clark’s world upside down with the small action alone.

if you had the same enhanced hearing he had, you’d for sure hear the rapid up and down beating of his heart, his heart rake spiking due to your close proximity, along with your previous action, his body getting all hot and bothered.

you stumbled forward slightly, too focused on the ice cream at hand, clark’s hand shooting out to steady you as he gripped your waist. your eyes picked up at the touch of his warm hand to your waist, finding his cerulean ones already staring down at you, gaze flitting down to your plush, ice cream stained lips, before going back up to your eyes, desperately wanting to press his lips to yours; and he almost did, his arm curling around your back to lean down, just inches away from your face when some asshole shoulder checked you, sending you and the ice cream, right into clark’s chest, gasping as the cold dessert smeared all over his front.

your jaw dropped, turning around, ready to chase after the pretentious asshole, “you douchebag!” you yelled, clark’s arm around your waist the only thing stopping you from running off.

another chance to do what he’s always wanted to, ripped right from his fingertips. great!

the third time he’s tempted to completely change the trajectory of your relationship with him, is as he’s making his way home from work, the ruckus from inside your apartment along with your giggles, reaching his ears about a block away already.

you were busy in your room when he eventually entered the apartment, too preoccupied with the little black kitten you’d found while on your way home from work.

you were practicing ways to tell clark, convince him to let you keep it, when his voice boomed through the apartment’s thin walls; guess it was now or never.

“what is this? what happened to our apartment?!” he called out i disbelief, completely puzzled by the the multiple items that had fallen from the coffee table and onto the floor, his favourite mug shattered into pieces, along with the multiple pairs of socks, some of them his, strewn across the apartment, leading into your room.

he set his book bag down, loosening his tie as he opened your room door, finding you stood tall with your hands behind your back, no doubt hiding something.

“clark! you’re home early!” you remarked, keeping the feline pressed to the small of your back as you suspiciously smiled up at him.

he pierced his eyes at you, looking you up and down, “what are you hiding? i can tell when you’re hiding something from me y’know?” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest.

“nothing nothing; just—just surprised you’re home early is all,” you laugh awkwardly, praying to whatever god would listen that the kitten in your hand wouldn’t meow and give your game away, stepping back the slightest bit to put some distance between yourself and clark.

your lies, obviously didn’t work, never mind the rapid beating of your heart and the sweat trickling down your brow, effortlessly letting clark know that you were lying, but you had this tell; the side of your left lip would constantly scrunch up whenever you lied, and you were a fool to think clark hadn’t taken note of that.

“i could use the x-ray vision if you don’t wanna tell me,” he hums, raising a brow, his lips curling into a smirk when you curse to yourself, completely forgetting about it.

“alright alright fine fine—don’t get mad okay—i couldn’t leave her there in the alleyway all small and scared and helpless,” you rambled out, closing your eyes and wincing as you quickly brought the kitten forward, pressing her to clark’s chest and into his arms in hopes he’d fall in love with her just as fast as you did.

clark stood still, holding the teeny tiny feline in his abnormally large hands, his blue eyes wide as she nuzzled into his palm, immediately taking a liking to him.

“so you’re the one that destroyed our little apartment huh?” he coos, his voice soft and sweet, mirroring the same tone you had when you first picked the little kitten up; oh you had him right where you wanted him then.

“she’s cute ain’t she?” you smiled, stepping closer as you watch him basically swaddle the kitty to his chest, all enamoured with her, almost in his own little world with just him and the kitten staring all lovingly up at him.

“sooo can we keep her?” you finally asked, chewing the inside of your cheek as you stepped closer, taking the kitten into your hands, holding her to your chest in the same way he had.

clark stands there, his heart pushing against his chest at how hopeful you looked at that moment, eyes gleaming; how on earth could he say no?

“i don’t see why not? we should just make sure with the landlord that it’s okay—“ his words are cut off indefinitely as you put the kitten back down to the floor, squealing as you jump up to hug him, your arms around his neck, your legs around his torso.

“thank you thank you thank you thank you clarkie!” you laughed, so happy you hadn’t even realised the predicament you left clark in, the boy all flustered as his hands hovered over your waist, his adam’s apple bobbing as he took a deep breath to remain composed, the feeling of your front pressed right up against his, sending his mind spiralling.

“and i already checked with linda she said pets are a-okay, as long as we look after them and i think we’d make great cat parents,” you thoughtlessly shrugged, pulling back from his neck to smile at him, his large hands now holding you steady by the small of your back, still being respectful with his hand placement.

hearing you call the pair of you cat parents sent another rush of blood straight to his groin, his cheeks blushing a deep shade of red as you took his face in your hands, his cheeks warm against your palms; you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, something you always did when saying goodbye or when he’d fall asleep on the couch, so nothing out of the ordinary.

but the chaste kiss, paired with your hands to his cheeks, your legs wrapped around him, and the words “we’d make great cat parents,” bouncing around the kryptonian’s brain, clark kent was done for; all he had on his mind was to kiss you, to finally let you know just how much you meant to him, just how much he loved you, just how much he wanted you.

but before he could, as usual, his thoughts were halted by the little feline clawing up his leg, no doubt ruining his pants with her little claws, climbing right up to his waist, wanting to be in on the action.

“oh my goodness she’s perfect isn’t she?!” you giggle, jumping down from him as you smile, your cheeks hurting with just how happy you were.

and god that smile on your face made clark even happier, he’d allow you to take in ten more strays if it meant you’d be this happy all the time.

the fourth time he nearly kisses you is when he’s rushing out of your apartment to come pick you up from a bar, the sound of your giggles in the background of the phone call with one of your friends, all but begging him to come and get you as you were way past your limit, a testament to your inebriation.

you’d somehow managed to calm down in the time you waited for clark to come get you, luckily the bar wasn’t too far from your apartment complex, so the walk there didn’t take too long; but the moment you caught sight of your 6’4, curly headed, glasses wearing angel of a roommate, you brightened up like the sun on summer’s first day, your kitten heels clacking against the pavement as you all but ran over to him, much to your friends’ dismay (you were unfortunately a runner when drunk).

“clarkie!” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his middle, your friends trailing after you with your purse and phone in their hands; “thanks for comin to get her; she wanted to walk all the way back alone but i mean—“ your friend, mera, paused, gesturing with her hands to your drunk off of your ass state.

he nodded, taking your purse and phone into his hand while the unoccupied one rested on your shoulder; “yeah no of course, thank you for calling me,” he hummed, quickly making sure your friends had a safe way home before turning on his heel, your own feet drunkenly stumbling as you held onto his arm, your cheek pressed into his hoodie covered bicep.

halfway through the walk, you’d complained about your feet hurting, leading you to the position you were now in, blabbering a hole into clark’s head as he held you bridal style, your legs swinging as he walked; “oh oh and did i tell you about this friend of mine named clark? he’s an absolute gem,” you slurred, your hands moving eccentrically as you spoke of this gem named clark, to-well clark.

he smiled at your drunken state, stifling a laugh as he entertained it, nodding along to your words, “yeah what about him?” he hummed, brows furrowed intensely as he occasionally looked up to make sure he wouldn’t bump into anyone whilst carrying you.

“he’s the sweetest! really—most decent guy i know—and he’s really fuckin’ hot!” you chortled, gasping once you realised you’d sworn, hands coming up to cover your lips as you giggled into your palms; “don’t tell him i said the f word-he doesn’t like it much, good ol’ farm boy he is,” you hummed, the breeze hitting your face making the nausea bubbling in your gut subside for a moment.

clark’s face turned white as a sheet as you babbled on, his shoulders rolling back as he continued carrying you, apologising to someone that had passed, your heeled feet accidentally kicking them in the arm.

“and and—god i like him so much but i dunno—im scared if i tell him, he’ll tell me he doesn’t feel the same-i mean there’s this gorgeous girl he works with, her name’s lois-a-and i don’t blame him if he does like her but god it would hurt so bad telling him all for it to blow up in my face!” you rambled on, words slurred together due to how drunk you were.

clark’s heart dropped—you thought he had a thing for lois? meanwhile he was hopelessly in love with you, hell everyone at his work knew it; lois, jimmy, even perry.

“i’m sure that’s not true—you’re a great girl, if that clark fellow you’re speaking of doesn’t like you, he’s real dumb then,” he hums, huffing as he turns into your apartment complex, your eyes all glassy as you look up at him, waiting for the elevator to reach the ground floor.

you blinked up at him, pouting slightly before speaking again, “y’really think so? you think he’d like me?” you coo, suddenly feeling all emotional; you really shouldn’t have drank that much.

clark only nods, having half the mind to tell you right here that he was in fact the clark kent you were speaking of, to tell you he did like you, to tell you that he was in love with you, your lipstick stained lips pulling him in.

but if anything clark was a gentleman, and he was raised right, so he’d wait till the next morning need be to see if you’d remember what you’d said to him.

he only nods in response to your question, entering the elevator just as you completely knock out, your head on his shoulder as he carried you to your apartment.

god he was done for.

the following morning you woke up groggily, head thumping as you groaned, the smell of breakfast wafting through from the kitchen.

“ughh i feel like crap,” you groaned, slugging into the kitchen, feeling as dehydrated as someone that had been stuck in the desert for a few days.

“you’re finally awake!” clark exclaimed with a smile, looking over his shoulder before flipping the strips of bacon sizzling in the pan; “don’t shout,” you grumbled, pressing your palms into your eyes as you walked over to him, gulping the glass of water down he had ready for you, along with the pain tablet next to it.

“how’d i get home again?” you asked, running your hands down your face as your eyes focused on clark, moving the bacon into a separate plate from the eggs, placing two slices of bread into the toaster.

“uhh mera called me—told me you were drunk off your rockers and i had to carry you home, you also kicked a lady by the way, she was really angry,” he comments, stifling a smile at the mortified look on your face; “what? you don’t remember anything from last night?” he adds, slightly probing to see if you’d remember those words he found himself holding dear, keeping his fingers crossed behind his back.

“no?! why? did i do something worse?!” you gasped, grabbing his arm to halt his movements.

clark’s face fell at your words, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he cleared his throat, putting on a brave face before speaking up, “almost—uhh your friend told me you were thisss close to strip dancing on the pool table before she called me to get you,” he snorted, your arm hitting his chest as he laughed at you, barely concealing the pang of pain he felt in his chest at your lack of remembrance.

“stop laughing!” you whined, shoving his chest as you stifled your own laugh, oblivious to clark’s true feelings at that moment.

the final time happens as you and mr. terrific get him out in time from lex’s pocket universe, your eyes wide as you stare down at his weakened form, his chest heaving as he lie on the floor, his vision clearing as your face comes into view as you look over him.

“hey hey, clark? you okay big boy?” you hum, slightly tapping his cheek, your hand lingering there as he clears his throat, his brows furrowed in the slightest as he speaks up, “you came to get me?” he asks, his voice slightly raspy, chest heaving as he moves to stand up.

“of course i did,” you hum, your nose slightly twitching at the distress in his voice, your eyes watery as you look over his tired form, his hand slotting in yours as he struggles to stay up right.

“there’s more—there’s more people being held prisoner in there, we gotta go get them,” he huffed, barely able to stand up right on his own, his hand still clutching yours as he stumbles into your side. typical clark, always putting others before himself.

“not through here you can’t,” mr. terrific voices, his eyes zeroing in on the very unstable portal opening; “and not with you like this,” he adds, leading you to sigh, looking down at his hand, black where his veins should be, your eyes widening before looking up at him, “clark—what the? what is this?” you frantically ask, clark’s eyes fluttering shut as he keeps leaning into your side, your hand grasping his even tighter.

“it’s kryptonite poisoning,” the stranger that had helped clark adds, looking as guilty as a toddler with its hand in the cookie jar; “will he be okay?” you ask, your eyes trailing from clark to mr. terrific, the fear evident in your tone of voice.

the world couldn’t lose superman but you couldn’t lose your clark kent.

“he’ll heal, but it’ll take a day or two—in the meantime get him someplace safe, take the t-craft,” he nods, handing you the keys.

you graciously take them, mouthing a thank you to mr. terrific before slowly but surely making your way through the encampment toward where the t-craft stood, your one arm around clark’s waist, the other holding his hand, helping him into the t-craft.

krypto follows after, all clumsily, much like clark you note, barking once inside the t-craft as you settle clark into one of the chairs, squeezing his hand before pecking his forehead, taking a breath as you replay mr. terrific’s words on loop.

he’ll heal. he’ll be okay.

you fly the t-craft all the way back to kansas, the journey a little bumpy but you’d eventually made it to the kent farm, calling clark’s parents in advance to let them know you were on your way there.

you’ve spoken to them briefly over the phone before, once or twice when mrs. kent would ask you how you were doing while on the phone with clark, and naturally of course, clark had spoken about you to them countless times.

his father helped you bring him into their home and up to his childhood bedroom; “will our boy be okay?” mrs. kent asked, to which you nodded, placing your hand over hers with a smile, “yeah, he just needs time to heal,” you reassure her, smiling as she nods, taking a breath of relief as she rejoins mr. kent in clark’s room, stepping outside to take a breath and give them some space with their son.

later that night you slip back into his room; now out of his suit, he looks just like the clark you’re used to, hair tousled as he sleeps. you take the time to look him over, your gaze longing as you sit in the chair closest to his bed, your heart in your throat as your mind takes you to a dark place, thinking of what you’d have done if clark was gone, how much you would’ve hated yourself for not being honest about your feelings toward him; how much you would’ve hated yourself for letting him slip through your fingers.

you swallow your tears back, looking over your shoulder through the window, the stars shining brighter than ever, a beacon of hope, calming you down, reminding yourself that he’d be fine.

he’d be okay.

you take a final look at him, your lids heavy as you pull your knees up to your chest, ‘he’ll be okay,’ repeating over and over through your head like a mantra, eventually lulling you to sleep.

the early morning sun woke clark from his sleep, krypto’s barks from the field outside making him sit up. the rays of sun filtering through his bedroom window already working at healing him, his strength pumping back into his veins like a drug, clearing his throat as he sat up.

that’s when he spotted you, a blanket strewn over your sleeping figure, no doubt his ma who’d done it. he smiles, that sickly sweet smile you secretly swooned over, stretching his limbs as he clears his throat, running a hand through his unruly hair, your own body stirring at the commotion.

you squeeze your eyes as you come to, yawning as your eyes adjust to the light filtering in from outside, krypto’s barks in the distance as your eyes zero in on a very healthy looking clark, the horrid black that had been in his veins due to the kryptonite poisoning, gone.

“you’re awake,” you groggily spoke, tilting your head from side to side to stretch out your neck, clearing your throat as you got up, moving closer to give him a once over.

“you stayed,” he hummed, looking down at how close his hand was to yours, your pinky finger just barely touching his.

“yeah, how are you feeling? you really scared me there clark,” you mention, nodding as you thought back to how sickly he’d looked.

his eyes pick up to find yours, pupils wide, not with lust but with love, adoration and want, his heart beating in his chest for you at that moment.

“i’m all good now, right as rain angel don’t you worry,” he smiles, pearly whites on display as you smile in reciprocation, moving your hand over his without thinking.

“don’t ever do that again okay? give yourself up like that when you hadn’t done anything wrong—i-i can’t lose you,” you shakily spoke, wearing your heart on your sleeve, bottom lip trembling as you sighed, taking a breath as you looked out the window again, smiling as you saw krypto spinning circles around clark’s parents’ cows; “god that dog has behavioural issues,” you hum in an attempt to alleviate the mood, trying to change the subject. clark’s chest rumbled with laughter as he moved to sit closer to you, wholeheartedly agreeing.

“he really does, doesn’t he?” he hums, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his eyes scanning your side profile, trailing from the flutter of your eyelashes down to your neck, his breath hitching in his throat as he throws caution to the wind, finally reaching out to gently grasp your chin between his nimble fingers, his thumb caressing your warm skin, turning you to face him.

your breath hitched in your throat, butterflies damn near raving around in your stomach, legs like jelly as your eyes found his, the desire in them making your mind all fuzzy, “you really don’t know what you do to me do you?” he breathily says, his eyes flitting down to your parted lips, practically begging to be pressed to his.

you blinked, head dizzy as you pinched yourself to make sure this wasn’t a dream, and lo and behold it wasn’t, “clark—what?” you stammered, your mind struggling to keep up with his words and before you can say anything he speaks again.

“can i kiss you? please?” he hums, his words laced with desperation, his tone of voice almost turning you into a puddle; before he can even second guess his question you’re lunging at him, pressing your lips to his with a need you haven’t felt for anyone, your hands coming up to cradle his face as he kisses back, his one arm moving to swoop you up and into his lap, smiling into the kiss.

“i have wanted to do that for so long,” he laughs, breathing you in as he presses his lips to yours, over and over again, desperate to feel them against his again.

“then why haven’t you? you’ve been driving me nuts all this time and turns out you’ve felt the same for me this whole time! we’re so stupid,” you belly laugh, moving your hand into his hair, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

he laughs, chest rumbling against yours, “so stupid,” he agrees, his eyes fluttering as he presses his lips to yours again, getting his fill of something he’s been depriving himself of for way too damn long.

he kisses with an urgency that sends you reeling, his hands roaming as he deepens the kiss, groaning into your mouth as you part your lips, granting him entry, his tongue finding yours. the kiss gets hot and heavy fast, your hips moving on their own accord, grinding down into his growing hardness as his hand moves under the hem of your shirt, his palm splayed over the small of your back, the warmth from his body seeping into yours, your souls becoming one.

your body’s screaming for you to do more, take control and take it another step further but you will your hips to stop, ignoring the throb at your centre as you press your hand to his chest, pulling away breathless, your forehead resting against his as you smile, his lips still chasing yours.

“clark hey hey, we are not about to have our first in your childhood bedroom with your parents right outside and the world on the brink of collapse,” you breathlessly hum, lips kiss bitten and swollen.

he groans, but nods with understanding, keeping his hand where it is, swallowing as he presses his lips to your jaw instead, trailing his kisses down to your neck, nosing the side of your face where your hair tickles him; “clark i’m serious,” you snort, leaning your forehead onto his shoulder.

“i know i know, i am too,” he smiles, pulling away, looking at you with his eyes softened, the love he has for you evident in his gaze.

“the world still needs saving—i think we can wait just a teensy bit longer right?” you hum, bottom lip caught between your teeth before pressing another chaste kiss to clark’s lips, giggling as you force yourself to stand up, laughing even harder once you spot the huge problem in pants.

“hey! don’t laugh! you did this missy!” he yells after you as you run out, smiling, satisfied with himself.

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꩜ .ᐟ david corenswet + characters m.list

[satorena]

.𖥔˚. “and whenever we fuck she be fuckin’ me back, put her in a headlock with my elbow” or whatever dababy said.

cw. explicit content. afab!reader. mild asphyxiation play. báckshots. squírting. implied marathon séx. mild impact play. reader is freaked out & toji is trying to keep up. 1.8 wc.

heat.

he feels nothing but heat as your velvety walls swallow his throbbing cock, consuming his vulnerability straight into the warmth of your core. heat, as the course in which blood pumps through his veins runs hot, flashes of pure adrenaline the only fuel left steaming in his worn out body from sheer overstimulation. heat, in the way it creeps up his chest, past his love assaulted neck and sits all over his face.

heat, the way the smooth skin of your ass feels as it ricochets off his hips in ripples that waves of the deepest of sea floors couldn’t ever dream of recreating.

he fucks into you like he’s got something to prove, and maybe he does. because you sit there, sprawled on all fours, a sinful dip in the arch of your spine glazed in drying semen— and in the midst of your mewls, you’re smiling, the furrow in your brows and your loosened jaw a telltale of satisfaction on your end. but, there’s an almost relieved smile etched on your lips, and toji’s never found a woman enjoying herself during sex any more attractive.

he’s rounds deep into fucking, has forgotten the amount hours ago, but even with sweat seeping out of every pore on his body, there isn’t anything celestial that could sever the magnetic pull of his thighs meeting the back of yours. your cunt is soaked, so wet he hardly feels his own dick crushing your cervix. but clamps down on him with a grip so tight— as if running from good pussy has ever been in his character.

he holds onto your hips harshly, and knows he’ll leave visual proof of his dedication printed into your skin. there’s a wonton symphony that soars into the sex scented room— a harmonious blend of your dripping pussy squeezing onto him for dear life, sweaty skin slapping against sweatier skin, and the love child of guttural groans and throaty moans. his name spills past your swollen lips in broken hiccups, but the way your nails claw into damp sheets suggests you’re just as relentless.

if not more.

his abdominal muscles tighten with every devastatingly deep thrusts, and there’s the familiar tingle simmering in his guts. he knows he’ll hold out until he rearranges yours via mushroom tip, but there’s only so much a man can muster out of sheer will alone, and you looking back at your bodies’ point of contact with heart in yours eyes certainly isn’t helping.

he doesn’t need to look to feel your creamy essence enveloping the base of dick. it sits into the patch of raven hair right above and connects strings of the sticky substance from your rear end to his front. it’s as messy as it is disgusting, and it takes every brain cell left in his putty mind to not cum.

a stray drop of sweat trickles from his matted locks and lands straight onto your ass cheek, and he brings a hand to land a firm blow onto the flesh. a deep rumble emerges from the depths of his lungs when your sweet cries are accompanied by a tighter claw of your cunt on his cock, “fuckkk mama— you tryna k-kill me here?”

a rhetorical question, of course, but the probabilities of it are never zero, by the way your misty eyes drag up slowly to meet his darkened ones.

your torso twists as your neck shifts, the love bites near your jugular blossoming into a purplish hue on full display. your smaller frame bounces forward from ruthless pounding, and even as your head jerks from the repetitive attacks, your smile never fades. and the wider your cheeks split, the harder he pistons his length into you.

his heavy balls ache for release, desperately tempted to fill your womb full of his unconditional love, but knows better than to cross that bridge, and instead lurch forward with each stroke to slap at your puffy clit. the additional stimulation forces your teeth to sink into your bottom lip, failing to contain the whimper that crawls out of you.

“tojiiiii,” follows the pathetic sound as his knee knocks into yours to further spread your thighs apart and deepen the exploration of his tip inside your cave. “you fuck me sooo good— can feel you in my s-stomach, baby.”

what a sweet little thing, he thinks smugly, though doesn’t doubt your words in the slightest . he’s positive if he flips you onto your back, the outline of his cock protruding your tummy would be prominent. you always take him so well, possibly better than how he takes you. little to no complaints ever, besides to up the pace or readying up for another round.

toji doesn’t get the chance to answer when he hears the thick sound of your bodies colliding echo in the air. there’s a look of overwhelming lust glazing over your eyes, and it doesn’t take the namely faster point of contact of your ass against his pelvic region to piece together that you’re fucking him back .

as your hips push backwards to chase that euphoria, his own drag forwards in timely manner. the gravitational push and pull of your sweaty bodies in synchrony has long surpassed human comprehension, your battered cunt surely in dire need of a break despite your mind’s own desires, as well as his painful hard-on diving back into the familiarity of home. toji didn’t care enough to let his weary body rest— he’d blow your back out until you personally begged him to stop.

and judging by the subtle throw of your head from his hand wrapping around the column of your neck with pressure applied, he knows that isn’t any time soon.

“that’s it, doll.” toji praises you through an animalistic growl, hooking his thumb in between your gaping mouth, doubling in the groan when you latch onto his digit with pouty lips. “fuckin’ show me how bad you need this dick.”

and show him you do, hips relentless as you bounce on his puncturing cock as if it were your lifeline. he matches your energy effortlessly, his body having a mind of its own as it meets you halfway. there’s bliss spread all over your face, a feeling you’re unable to shield even if you wanted to, as drool slobbers past his calloused knuckles.

the sharp coil in his stomach feels too big for the space it occupies, as it tightens the faster the pace augments. you throw your ass back so hypnotically that toji has no other choice but to spank both cheeks to cease the daze you were pulling him in.

it does no damage, of course, but the reddening hand mark embedded into your jiggly flesh certainly riles him up .

when the glide of his thick cock against a fleshier wall in your cunt has your teeth sinking painfully into the pad of his thumb, he knows you’re near. the soaring pain shoots straight into his balls, the sack twitching in anticipation to release generations worth of hot cum onto you.

not into you— yet, at least.

it starts with heat licking at every limb in his body. then, the tingling buzz in his rib cage. his mind runs miles a second, simultaneous full yet deviated of thoughts, besides a range between putting a ring on your finger as soon as he’s finished shooting blanks and how sinful every dribble of your essence melting into his skin forces a curl of his toes.

and your eyes— god, your eyes.

they don’t leave his for a second. not when the tickle of his pubic hair scratches your ass. not when the back of your thighs meeting the front of his starts to become borderline painful. not even when he pokes at your golden spot like he’s trying to push all your buttons for that explosive reaction. they don’t pull back, barely even blink at all, but stare deep into his emerald ones as if trying to bare his soul open at your disposability.

if your body wasn’t revealing your every desire to fuck like animals, then the look in your eyes most definitely did.

“shit,” he cusses, realizing he’s lost both the battle and the war, “‘m gonna cum.”

your moans come out muffled around his finger, though the excessive nod of your head confirms you’re both on the same wavelength. he feels it in the way your pussy kegels on his dick, practically begging him on your knees to grace you with his nut.

and just who was he to deny you of that right?

though, you beat him to the chase as you suddenly pull forward, just barely, off his cock and robbing him of warmth, and your body convulses in tremors of ecstasy. your jaw slackens and his thumb slips from your mouth, but easily finds your neck and clutches. he then only realizes you’re cumming when your smaller hand wraps around his cock, and drags his tip up and down your slit as you shower him in liquid.

what a sight for sore eyes— your body hardly able to contains its arch as your thighs tremble, and your lips part to cry out his name. his fingers hold a little harder around your neck while you use him to get yourself off, spraying yourself all over. the desperate tugs of his dick at your pussy lips are amplified by the unexpected but never unwelcomed dam that floods.

his chest pants heavily, and the coil in his guts snap. he swears his mind blanks out as he coats your fleshy pussy in hot strings of cum. he doesn’t even try to suppress how desperate his moans come out, not when your upper body slumps into the bed and your ass toots in the air. you let his cock rest in the crack of your ass as he finishes up his heavy load, the evidence leaking from your spine to the dimples in your lower back.

it takes both an infinity and a second for his high to come down, dick jumping weakly against your ass as it empties its contents out. he’s struck with the urge to spank your globes one more time and does just that. “fuckkk,” toji sighs, the tingle in his cock breaching the painful zone as you wiggle your hips back. you’re fucking insatiable, teasing him so.

“come on, old man,” you peer over your shoulder, giggling at the scowl on his face from that god forsaken nickname. he watches as your hand slips beneath your body to knead at his balls, and his cock twitches eagerly at the touch. fucking hell, he’s just as insatiable, “don’t tell me you’re already tappin’ out?”

he knows you’re baiting him. he knows you know he could and would keep you up until sunrise. but dangle a bone in front of a starving dog and watch how fast it’ll lunge. and before he can even bother weighing the pros and cons, he flips you onto your back and rests your legs over his shoulders.

and your smile is telling. i’m gonna be here for a whileee, toji thinks internally as he grips the base of his weeping cock and slips back in.

rena writing for toji????? hello????

[sukunasweetheart]

Sukuna, a middle aged man jaded by the harsh realities of his life. He steps outside for a smoke nearby a convenience store, completely bored out of his mind.

A lady is handing out flyers nearby, although nobody is bothering to look her way, including sukuna himself.

You approach the man who's getting irritated by the lighter that refuses to work in his hand.

"Hello there, sir. Would you be interested in taking up classes for arts and craft?" You offer the cute flyer up.

Sukuna scoffs. Is she serious?

"No thanks."

"Are you sure? You look like you could use a bit more colour in your life."

He's too exhausted at this point to get angry at a random woman on the street.

"...You're not too far off, i suppose," sukuna mutters, still trying to get the spark to stay on his lighter. "Even so, I'm not interested in the likes of arts and craft. Do i look like a child to you?"

You withdraw your offer of your flyer, and inspect him for a moment.

"Arts and craft can be enjoyed by anyone, regardless of age. But moving past that... you seem a bit down. If you'd like to confide in a stranger for a night, I'm happy to listen."

What a strange, persistent woman. Sukuna gives up on his lighter, and takes out the unlit cigarette in his mouth to think back for a moment. One thing does come to mind.

"I'm not feeling down. But i remembered something, now that i think about it..." he confesses, feeling weirdly compelled to tell you about it.

"Today is supposed to be my birthday."

Birthdays have never been special to him. Nobody celebrated his birth as a child, and in turn, he's never paid attention to the birthdays of others.

"Oh, happy birthday. Are you doing anything special for yourself today?"

"No. I've never cared for birthdays. And I'm getting too old for that anyway."

"Well, that won't do... Hold on for a second."

Puzzled, sukuna looks back at you but you've already gone inside the convenience store. Whatever you're up to now, couldn't possibly be more enticing than getting in a proper smoke right now. Sukuna begins to zone out.

He only snaps out of it when something mildly cold grazes past his cheek, leaving a ticklish and moist sensation on his skin as it disappears upon impact.

Bubbles. Bubbles are flying past him, and floating away into the sky.

For a moment, he gets mesmerised by the swirl of colours that are harboured in each one. Even just from the light of this dingy street, they fly up while holding a multitude of different colours inside them. Time seems to slow for a split second, and he doesn't understand why.

His gaze follows the trail to identify it's source. And unsurprisingly, it's you, standing behind him. You blow a couple more out, and then grin at him childishly. He finally looks at your face properly for the first time.

"Birthday bubbles. For the birthday man," you chuckle sheepishly, knowing that you probably look a bit silly right now. You put the bubble wand back into the small bottle of the soapy mixture, and screw it tightly.

"Here, you can have it. Next time you're feeling a bit antsy, why don't you try blowing some yourself? They're pretty, aren't they?"

You also hand him a different small item.

"And i also threw in a little something else, while i was at it."

He looks down, and sees that it's a new lighter. He slowly pulls his hand out of his pocket to take both of them from your hands.

"I hope you get to do something more special next year. Birthdays are supposed to be joyful, after all," you comment.

"Thanks for putting up with my nosiness. Farewell."

And then you leave him after a quick wave.

Sukuna stares wordlessly as you walk off, wondering what to name this ticklish feeling rising in the pit of his stomach.

The small bottle in his palm reminds him of a moment in his childhood. Kids in the park bragging about their bubble wands that were gifted to them. the laughs that resounded as they all ran off to catch the fragile spheres as they blew away in the wind. The tiny feelings of envy in his heart.

The item he tucks away into his pocket is the lighter. And when nobody is watching, he blows a couple more bubbles into the night sky.

-

Every time he passes by that convenience store, the thought of you comes to his mind. A flashback of your smile in the back of his mind. Every so often, he comes to this particular store. Despite having closer options, he comes to this specific one.

At times, sukuna regrets not taking one of the flyers that you were handing out. He wouldn't have had to mope around a convenience store in hopes of running into you again.

Today is a rainy day, and this calls for a hot piping cup of instant ramen. He doesn't usually enjoy convenience store food, but he wants a reason to stay around inside for a bit longer.

He needs to wait five minutes for the noodles to soften. In this time, he stares out the glass frame of the store, and watches the various rows of people walking past with their umbrellas opened.

There appears to be one anomaly in the crowd, however. Running without shelter from the rain, clutching her bag as if it contains something important in there. Sukuna realises that it's you.

Forgetting about his instant ramen, sukuna grabs his umbrella and dashes out the door.

You're mildly panicking about being stuck behind the red light at the zebra crossing without anything to save you from the rain, but the sensation of the droplets hitting your body come to a stop all too suddenly.

You look up, and there's a black umbrella sheltering you, big and strong looking. You spin around and recognise the stranger with pink hair and sharp eyes. Seemingly out of breath.

He signals to the light that has now turned green behind you, and ushers you forward to cross the road before you can say anything to him.

Now safely on the other side of the road, you begin to converse with him.

"It's you! Hello. Thank you for sheltering me. How have you been?"

"... So-so. Nothing's changed since the last time we met."

"I see. You look better than last time, though." You get the feeling that his eyes have a little more light in them.

Sukuna doesn't really get what you mean, but he moves on.

"What’s in your bag that's so important for you to be protecting it like that?" He asks, effectively changing the topic.

"Oh, this? I literally just bought some brand new origami paper... i can't risk getting them wet and unusable. The children would be disappointed."

"Origami, huh? How original."

"Hey! That's not all... there's a lot of options i offer them. They voted on origami this time."

"You got a lot of people signed up?"

"Not really... but I'm sure it'll start picking up soon. Slowly, one at a time."

You smile up at him hopefully.

"...is the offer still open?"

You cock your head to the side slightly, confused. Sukuna grits his teeth, feeling a little bashful about having to ask more specifically.

"You know. Lessons for grown adults."

"Oh! Of course, anytime! Would you like to come sign up today?"

"Do you offer one-on-one sessions too?"

"Yes, I do."

"Alright. Let’s go."

Sukuna can't fathom the words that are coming out of his own mouth. But fuck it, what's the worst that could happen? You've somehow intriged him, and he can't think of a better way to approach you.

You chatter his ears off along the way, and he nods along while his shoulder gets wet from the way he leans his umbrella closer to your side.

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ I SAY THINGSㅤ ✩ㅤ𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇

𝓖𝐈𝐒𝐓────𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇.

❪ GALLERIA ❫ ｡ enhypen x fem ! reader 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 angst, comfort, skinshipㅤㅤ⠀✦ ㅤ154Oㅤㅤㅤ✿ㅤㅤㅤwrote this in a hurry, hope you enjoy reading :3

HEESEUNG

he says it mindlessly, words spiked with venom and vitriol. he doesn’t even realise until it’s a little too quiet, until he looks at you in the eyes and sees tears brimming at your waterline. there’s an ache in his heart when he sees hurt spelled all over your face. and you would try to walk away but heeseung wouldn’t let you, trying to hold onto your arm, hand, fingers— anything. anything to fix the damage he has done. he would wrap his arms around you from behind to stop you from leaving and would whisper endless apologies, each one an exhibit of how much he needs you. “i did not mean any of that, i could never.”

JONGSEONG

“oh, dear,” is all he can mutter when he returns home later that night, cheeks flushed from the cold outside. he wanted to put off the conversation till the next morning until his gaze lands upon you sitting at the dining table with food, dozing off, and he feels his break breaking into a thousand pieces. he feels like a coward for hurting you and then leaving out of fear of facing you. when you wake up due to his footsteps, concern and relief glistening in your red, puffy eyes, he finds himself kneeling on the floor in front of you and taking your hands in his, afraid you might not want him close. “i’m sorry, darling. i was being stupid, i never meant to say those things,”

JAEYUN

it is hurting him too, knocking the breath out of his chest. he regrets those words as soon as they leave his mouth, watching your eyes widen in disbelief. his heart cracks when he sees a single tear roll down your cheek. he chokes on his own sobs when he watches you close the bedroom door behind you, wanting to reach out despite knowing you need space. but when he hears quiet sniffles and cries from across the door, he can’t help but walk inside and instantly wrapping you in his arms, sharing every wail and tear with you, rocking you gently while pressing tender kisses on the top of your head. “i’m sorry, angel. i love you, please forgive me,”

SUNGHOON

he hates how he does it over the phone, saying you’re hard to talk to only to end the conversation. he knows he has messed up when you aren’t even leaving him on seen like you do when you are upset. sunghoon feels dread creep under his skin when it’s midnight and he hasn’t heard a word from you, when every thing he said starts ringing in his head like a ugly reminder. it’s two in the night when he finds himself at your door, breathless, drenched, desperate, yet relieved to see you. he feels sick in his own skin when he sees you tear up at his mere presence, when your voice cracks up even before you could utter a word, and he finds himself gulping in guilt and remorse before whispering. “you always listen to me. i’m sorry for not knowing how to talk,”

SUNOO

he cries with you, before you. arguments with him go eye to eye, but when you stop looking at him, when he catches a glimpse of your shiny eyes as you crumble down— he breaks. he immediately reaches out to hold your hands when you take a step back, the action feeling like a sword through his chest. his grip is firm as if you would disappear if he let loose and his heart is in shambles when he sees you breaking down, bits and pieces. he’s ready to get on his knees and beg, apologies pouring out between your sobs twined together to prove just how wrong he was. he lets you cry against his chest, hugging you close and realising he has a lot to make up to when you don’t hug him back.

JUNGWON

he doesn’t realise the impact of his words until he hears absolute silence from you. usually, you respond, you fight back, but you are quiet. and then he sees you standing at a distance looking so small and broken with your lips quivering— it’s all that takes him to drop whatever he is doing and run to you and hold your face ever so gently in his hands. he wants you to argue, to curse him out, but you look away, holding back your sobs and it shatters his entire world. jungwon fears he might have done something irreversible and despite his consoling words and warm caresses, you can feel his hands shaking. he wipes your tears and kisses their remains off your cheek, his chest feeling tight at every sob that falls off your lips. “you know i did not mean any of that, right?”

NI-KI

he says it in defence, only to save himself from getting hurt, but it comes back to him ten times worse when he realises he has broken your heart. he freezes in his stance, unsure of what to do. he feels panic rise within himself when you start walking away. your boyfriend can feel his knees going weak and he feels so ashamed of not being able to say anything when you were probably expecting him to stop you from leaving. it takes him a while but he finally finds the courage to face you, even though you are lying with your back facing him. it’s scary, his arms are shaking when he wraps them around you. and when he feels you relax despite the silence, he pulls you closer to his chest. “let me fix this, please,”

[sacredsorceress]

I'm gnawing at the bars of my enclosure for more bob content. How do you think Bob would be with intimacy both NSFW and non-NSFW?

☆.°*Physical Intimacy w/ Bob HCs*°.☆

a/n: oooo idk if you meant intimacy in general but since you mentioned NSFW, im going to focus on physical intimacy!! no smut though. also forgive the first bit just explaining my thought process word count: 1.0k warnings: sexual content but not smut, regardless 18+ Minors DNI!, also mentions of drugs and insecurities. just anything that would've been in thunderbolts.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・inbox・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Knowing Bob's background, I believe that he would deeply crave intimacy, but be very hesitant to initiate it himself.

He had a rough childhood that probably didn't consist of a lot of affection from his mother and if you read the file that Valentina had on Bob, it says that his drug addiction started in middle school and that he dropped out in eighth grade because of it. After that, he had a juvenile record a mile long from breaking & entering, robbery etc.

With this information, I'm going to guess that he hasn't had many (if any) relationships and if he did, they probably weren't very healthy. Overall, he has a negative history with trust and intimacy.

BUT despite all of this, being with the team has had a positive impact on him- showing him that he isn't alone, what it's like to be sober and that vulnerability can be a good thing. For once, he can let down his walls and be his true self.

Unfortunately, physical intimacy is a whole other battle with the void lurking between the surface.

Before you had even begun dating, you had made the mistake or brushing his hand. Once simply gesture- a subconscious one really- threw you into one of your worst memories with Bob as a viewer. When you both came back to reality you didn't pull away, or flinch. He did.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Bob said tearing his hand from yours. "I can't control it. I- I didn't mean-"

And even though you just relived your own past, you reached for him.

"Bob, I know." You said, squeezing his hand. "It's not your fault."

You didn't leave, didn't scream at him. Just held him. And from that day on its like the barrier was lifted.

He would never make the first moves touching you before you were dating- that's where you come in.

It would start slow: hugging him after a mission, playfully shoving him as you joked around. Before you knew it, you were laying your heads on each other's shoulders when you sat side by side.

Your first kiss was slow. Your hands cupping his cheeks, guided his face to yours and for a moment, as your noses brushed, you could feel his breath against your lips. His eyelashes brushed against your cheek as you hummed, then his lips were on yours.

It wasn't hungry- no. There was none of that carnal desire or devouring. Instead it was thirsty, desperate. He reached for your lips as if they held the last drop of water in a barren desert and held you close like you'd evaporate if he didn't. Your lips dragged painfully slow against his until he reached to meet you.

Cheek and forehead kisses are a hallmark of your relationship.

As much as he absolutely adores kissing your lips and making out with you, those kisses are simply so pure that they held such a sacred place in his heart. No one gave him those before you.

Before you left to go anywhere, you'd find him in his little reading nook, brush his hair from his face and kiss his cheek from behind.

Even after months of dating he'd still blush after you did that and touch his skin to make sure it was real.

"I love you." You said.

And sometimes he'd catch your hand before you turned to go, pulling you in for a kiss on the lips.

"I love you too." And he always said it with a smile.

Bob doesn't hold hands in the traditional way out in public, but he does lace his fingers with yours. Your palms aren't touching but your digits remain interlocked, leaving him room to run his thumb along your hand.

He's not big on PDA. It makes him self conscious, not because he's not proud of you because he is, but because it feels as if he's putting his heart on display. Although Bob knows those from his past aren't around anymore to hurt him, it's a lasting scar that isn't healed so easily.

For my self-conscious girls, I mean this so genuinely, I don't think Bob has a physical type whatsoever. If you were a curvier women and felt insecure about in comparison to him and his physique he wouldn't even be able to comprehend it because to him you hung the stars in the sky. You're ethereal and anyone who tried to take that from you because of something as silly as your weight, or hair or nose is ridiculous. You're a goddess in his eyes.

Like, being insecure is reserved for him and him only. If you started speaking poorly about yourself he wouldn't even be able to stand listening to it and would probably cup your face in his hands and kiss you to make you stop

Is a big-time cuddler. Bob's favorite way to fall asleep is tucked in your arms. Although, that wouldn't last for long because he runs hot and once he was unconscious he'd toss and turn, kicking all the sheets to the end of the bed. He'd only cuddle you once more when he woke in the morning.

NSFW

Now, as I mentioned earlier I don't think he has a lengthy relationship history, however, I do believe that he's had sex before.

Most of the other times Bob had sex he was high and doesn't really remember much, which only makes this moment with you even more significant- and a bit anxiety inducing. With a high, he wasn't as worried about how he did or how he felt. Now, he was hyperaware of all of his inadequacies.

I think he's submissive or vanilla. The only time he's dominant during sex is if he's bolstered by the sentry persona and as we know, that may lead to the void so it is a VERY rare occurrence.

And when I say vanilla, that doesn't mean boring or satisfactory. Bob feels everything so strongly that his love for you would almost be overwhelming for him. You were just intoxicating. His kisses are so deep and soft it makes his head spin.

Loves being called a good boy.

I just imagine sex with him either being the definition of lovemaking: slow, passionate, raw.

Or, so giggly.

He's also a munch. What?? Who said that?? He may be sober but he gets drunk on the taste of you all the same.

He adores looking at you. To him, it's almost the only way. He has needs, sure, but what makes it so special and otherworldly is the love he has for you.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・inbox・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

this is by no means a comprehensive list and I would love to revisit these ideas more. if you have more headcanons you'd like to see my inbox is open

[shaiyasstuff]

pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

masterlist

[rosemaryhoney27]

Ghosts Don’t Kill… Right?

Danny Fenton had always hated clowns. Not just the creepy, unsettling ones, but all of them. Something about their wide, exaggerated grins and unpredictable behavior put him on edge. Maybe it was some buried childhood trauma, or maybe he just had good instincts. After all, his life had been anything but normal since he’d gained his ghost powers.

So when he turned around and saw the Joker standing behind him, grinning that awful grin, his instincts kicked in. He didn’t think—he just reacted.

His fist swung before he could even process the situation. And he hadn’t held back. Not like he would against a human. No, this was a ghost-level punch. A punch meant to put something down.

The impact was sickening. The Joker’s face caved in like a smashed pumpkin, and he crumpled to the ground without so much as a final laugh.

Dead.

Danny froze, his heart hammering. He hadn’t meant to do that. Sure, the Joker was the kind of person the world was probably better off without, but Danny Fenton didn’t kill people.

“Crap,” he muttered. His mind raced. He couldn’t just leave the body. Batman would come looking. The whole Justice League might come looking. And if people found out that Danny Phantom had punched the Joker’s brain into paste, things were going to get complicated.

So he did the first thing that came to mind—he grabbed the body and started dragging it toward a nearby dumpster. He wasn’t proud of it, but he had to act fast. Maybe he could figure out a better plan later.

Then he heard a voice behind him.

“What you got there, kid?”

Danny whipped around, every muscle tensing. Standing there, watching him with an almost amused look, was Red Hood.

Danny knew about him. The Robin who died, the vigilante who didn’t play by Batman’s no-kill rule. If anyone was going to react badly to Danny offing the Joker, it was him.

“Uh.” Danny’s brain stalled. He glanced at the body, then back at Red Hood. “Uh… garbage?”

Hood raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. “Really? ‘Cause that looks a whole lot like a dead Joker. And you? You look a whole lot like the guy who just killed him.”

Danny swallowed. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

Ref Hood tilted his head. “Didn’t mean to?” He let out a low chuckle. “Damn, kid. You just did what I’ve wanted to do for years. And you didn’t mean to?”

Danny felt a cold pit form in his stomach. “It was a reflex.”

Hood crouched down and examined the body, then let out a whistle. “Damn. You caved his skull in like a melon. That’s not normal.” His gaze flicked up to Danny, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “Who are you?”

Danny hesitated. Should he run? Try to talk his way out of this? Red Hood wasn’t exactly a hero in the traditional sense, but he was still part of the Bat family. If he decided to turn Danny in… well, that would be a problem.

Hood smirked. “Relax, kid. I’m not gonna rat you out. If anything, I’m impressed. But I am curious—how does a scrawny teenager punch the Joker’s face into next week?”

Danny took a deep breath. Screw it. He was already in deep. “I, uh… might not be entirely human.”

Hood’s smirk grew. “Now that sounds interesting.”

[luveline]

pls spencer and bombshell reader where she like sacrifices herself for him or does something outrageous for him. i love your weiting!! 💝

You don’t have any other choice, Spencer’s on the other roof being held in a chokehold by the UnSub —rational thinking goes out the window. He sees your face and, though he’s starting to look a little blue, gestures wildly for you to not do what you’re thinking. 

You jump. 

You take the landing hard —you ran hard, jumped harder, cringing as the grit of the rooftop tears through your shoulder. You roll into it. In one moment you’re standing, and then you’re knocking the assailant off of your boyfriend just before he falls unconscious. 

You forget everything you’re supposed to remember, flipping the UnSub without care onto his front, yanking his arms back, and cuffing him tightly. He’s a serial child murderer, so it’s kinder than he deserves. 

“Stay down,” you warn, cuffs so tight you can see the perp’s hand changing colour. You’ll have to fix that soon, but you have more important matters at hand. “Spencer?” 

His answer is hoarse, “Yeah.”

You leave the UnSub where he’s laid down and rush to Spencer. You drop to your knees beside him, alarmed that he’s still curled up and gasping. “Hey, hey, what can I do?” 

He grabs your arm and sucks in another breath. 

“Spencer?” 

“Why did you do that?” he asks. 

“What?” 

“What did you do to your arm? Does it hurt?” 

Spencer can barely breathe and he’s asking you if you’re okay. You can see the spots in his eyes. Fuck, he scared you. 

“I’m fine,” you say softly, holding him by the shoulders. “Take a deep breath, can you do that for me?” 

Your shoulder stings like you’d landed on glass and there’s an ache in your bones from the impact, but the source of your racing pulse is the look on his face, as though he might still pass out. You cringe at the sound of approaching footsteps, but it’s Morgan and Hotch making their way across the gravel top to help you. You turn back to Spencer in relief. 

He takes another huge breath. “Good job,” you say quietly, but saccharinely, rubbing his poor chest. “Do you want to sit up?” 

“I can’t.” 

“Okay. Alright. Just take a breath.” 

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” he croaks, putting his hand over your heart. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Just breathe.” He says your name like a secret. “Just breathe.” 

Of course. He’s lying on the ground panting for his life and he’s telling you to calm down. 

Morgan has the UnSub up and moving. Hotch kneels beside you both, face lined with poorly concealed stress. “You okay?” he asks. “Spencer?” 

“She jumped across the roof.” 

“Spencer.” You’re half wounded, half humoured. 

Hotch raises his eyebrows at you both. “Well, that’s ridiculous. Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine. Spencer almost got choked out.” 

Hotch looks as though he might give in and rub his face, but he pats your arm instead. “Okay. Reid, can you stand up?” 

“Tell her she can’t– can’t jump across rooftops,” Spencer says, suddenly full of indignation as he pushes up onto his elbows. He looks like he’s been hung upside down and shook. 

“Well, clearly I can.” 

“L/N shouldn’t be jumping across rooftops for any reason, but you’re both…” Hotch smiles wryly. “I almost said unharmed.” 

Spencer flops down onto his back. When he speaks, he sounds in a strange place, close to tears and laughing alike, “You have to look at her arm.” 

“I think you both need to see a medic, but first, why don’t we all calm down. Let’s regain our senses, and prevent any further unnecessary pain.” 

Spencer gives your leg an uncharacteristic whack. He’s so messed up from the chokehold that it’s more like a stroke, but you feel the tap for what it is. He’s saying Don’t do that to me again. 

“He really was gonna kill you,” you say, sorry. 

“I had it.” 

“Respectfully, baby, you did not.” 

[l1tw1ck]

Symbiotic Bonding

Bottom!FTM Peter Parker x Top!Masc Reader

🕸️ Word Count: 1,477 🕸️

AFAB Language Used | [Series]

CW: Non-Con, Yandere Peter, Murder (Blood, Mentions of Corpses), Wombfucking, Creampie

Peter blinks a couple times, trying to wake up from what he thinks is a dream.

Blood is splattered all over the floor. Hundreds of glass shards reflect the bright moon outside. Did he kill someone?

Peter whips his head around. His heart drops. A corpse. With markings around their throat. He looks at his hands, it's not his usual suit color. Black and white. He can clearly see the victim’s blood on this suit.

There won't be any evidence he was here. His suit…or whatever he's wearing, won't leave footprints. His mask is intact, no stray hairs to analyze.

He gulps. He needs to figure out what happened. Maybe he passed out while trying to defend them. Peter lets out a shaky breath before leaving.

Peter still can't wrap his head around what happened. He knows that the symbiote you were studying escaped and chose him as its host. You’ve been looking for it but he's scared to tell you. He also knows that the person he killed was someone who worked in your lab. What he can't understand is why. If it happened in the lab or the building itself, he could blame it on the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. But it happened in their home. In a place Peter would never have a reason to enter. He didn't even know their name until a few days ago.

Then it clicks.

They touched you. He assumes the symbiote has some sort of connection to you. Is it capable of having complex thoughts and feelings? Or could it just see you as its caretaker?

Whatever it is, he needs to get rid of it.

“Peter, you’ve been zoning out lately. I know one of your friends went missing so if you need a break, I’ll make sure you get paid time off.”

“What?” He looks at you, bewildered.

“You didn't hear? Flash disappeared without a trace two days ago.”

What could Flash….

“Oh my God.” Peter covers his mouth. A while ago, Flash had a private interview with you. Long before the symbiote was even discovered. It knows his memories.

“You should go home.”

You're right. He needs to focus on getting rid of this thing.

“You're so soft, Peter.” You gently kiss him all over. “And you feel so good.”

Peter moans as you fill him up.

“I’m glad you killed my husband." Your cock pokes his cervix.

Peter wakes up gasping. Another corpse. The corpse of your husband. He didn't even know you were married. You must've kept your ring somewhere safe, that kind of jewelry isn't safe in a lab. But how did the symbiote find out?

His spider senses alert him of your presence. You're never going to forgive him. He tumbles to the ground. His body begins to move on its own, getting him out just before you open the door.

Peter doesn't stick around to watch.

In the morning, an email is sent to the team. Everyone's getting time off. The place can't really function without you and everyone knows it.

No matter how hard or what Peter tries, it won't leave his body. When he's out of the suit, it just…becomes part of his skin. It leaves…a tattoo. He doesn't like to look at it.

He has blood on his hands. He has to tell you. He knows he does.

“Peter…” You let him into your hotel room. There are bags under your eyes. It's his fault. He did this to you and he can't blame the symbiote. He should've told you. “How did you know I was staying here?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Peter frowns. “It’s my fault, Doctor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The symbiote—” He drops to his knees. Strong feelings of arousal overtake him like waves in a storm. He finds himself grabbing your pants, part of the symbiote transfers itself to you. You start to feel what Peter feels too. You know what he wants. What he needs.

You get down and pin him to the floor. Your aggression causes his head to hit the ground too but he can't feel the impact. Your hands move on their own to remove both of your clothes. “Peter-”

He moans your name and spreads his legs, his pussy dripping slick onto the ground. You're both fully aware of what your bodies are doing and you can't stop it.

“What– what’s going on?” You sound exasperated as your body forces you to penetrate him. Peter can see your pain. He knows how much you hate this. There's nothing he could do to you that's worse than this. It hasn't even been a day since you found your husband's body.

“I’m sorry- I didn't—” He hisses in pain. You're just as big as you were in his dream. “I can't control it-”

As you reach deeper inside him, you start to lose your awareness. You groan with pleasure as your brain removes all memories of your husband and replaces them with ones of Peter. “God…Peter~”

Peter looks at you with confusion.

“You're so fucking sexy.” You slide your thumb around his womb tattoo.

“You- your- your husband-”

“You wanna be my husband, baby?” You smile.

If the symbiote can access memories, it's no surprise that it can alter them.

“I..”

“You're so cute.” You kiss his cheek. “I’ll buy you a ring tomorrow.”

Peter looks at you in fear. He can't get over his guilt. His mouth hangs open once you reach his cervix. He whimpers your name.

“Fuck….I could…” You bite down on your lip.

“Do it.” Peter's mouth moves on its own again.

You bury your face into his shoulder as you thrust inside him. You can hear his adorable voice even better now.

Peter's almost surprised it doesn't hurt. There's nothing normal or realistic about this, it seems reasonable…in this situation. He doesn't understand the symbiote’s obsession with you. Is it amplifying his desire for you or is it acting on its own? He can't tell.

You marvel at the feeling of penetrating his womb. Your horny sounds drown out the guilty and fearful thoughts in Peter’s brain.

It's not a sin to enjoy himself, it's not like he's the symbiote. Does he really have to resist the very thing he's been dreaming about for months? The thing that's drastically increased his masturbation frequency? Maybe the symbiote is just making him act on the desires he was too ashamed of. Maybe he is the bad guy, but…

You shakily moan Peter’s name as you start to fuck him. He can see your excitement painted all over you. If you're feeling good, then isn't that a greenlight? If you're acting like this just from your memory being altered, then technically, you are consenting. Technically.

Peter wraps his arms around you. “More– more~” He moans your name. “It feels so good!”

“I didn't think it'd be possible..” You sloppily thrust into him. “What if I….”

Peter already knows what you're thinking. “Yes~ inside– come inside~!” He already comes at just the thought.

“Peter~” You give his skin a gentle kiss before coming inside him. You pull your head back. “Can I…Can I keep going?”

Peter smirks. He can tell you're still hard. He wraps his legs around your body and sits on top of your lap. He's at the point where he can no longer tell whether it's him or the symbiote in charge. “I wonder how this’ll feel.” He holds onto your shoulders and starts to ride you. “Oh God..” His mouth hangs open. It's even more intense like this.

He picks up the pace, increasing the erotic sounds in the room. If it's not soundproof, you two are gonna have a few complaints. He leans in to kiss you, sealing your relationship with his tongue. He's fully embracing this even though he knows he shouldn't.

You deepen the kiss and grope his body. He moans into your mouth. The two of you come at the same time, cum dribbling out of his pussy.

Peter relaxes his body, his breaths in sync with yours. He soon falls asleep in your arms, finally catching up on all the hours he missed this month.

It's been a week and everything has been completely altered to benefit Peter. He has no idea how but the story of your dead husband was twisted into a false story. Now, reports say your friend who was staying over got caught in the crossfire between criminals. They got into your apartment and used your ‘friend’ as a hostage. Not a single person or website has any information about you ever being married. Although, that'll change once you two set the date.

He knows it's awful and completely contradictory to his beliefs, but he's glad it worked out. He loves you.

[myrleius]

love letter — iwaizumi h.

iwaizumi h. X shy fem!reader│word count: 1.9k

synopsis: You’ve had a crush on Iwaizumi for a while now and finally decided to confess through a letter. But to your surprise, he rejects it.

cw/tags: pure fluff, misunderstandings, light angst (resolved quickly)

Today was the day. 

The mirror reflected a face that wasn’t sure whether to look determined or terrified. You adjusted the collar of your uniform for the third time, smoothing its nonexistent wrinkles, then clipped a small, colorful hair clip into your hair–a small attempt at looking cute.

You sighed and stepped back, moving around to check your overall appearance. It wasn’t bad but it looked like your usual ordinary self. You were never one to obsess over your looks, looking clean and simple was usually enough. But the thought of meeting him, of him knowing who you are, made you want to put in a bit more effort. Alas, Seijoh had a strict dress code so you didn’t have much room for experimentation anyway.

Your bag caught your eye sitting on your desk. Inside, the letter waited. You had checked a million times, both night and morning, making sure it hadn’t somehow disappeared. Maybe you hoped it had so you wouldn't have to go through this. 

But no. There was no turning back now. 

You’ve thought about this for months, prepared for it for weeks. You didn’t want to throw away your efforts, and you definitely didn’t want to regret not saying anything like you’ve done with your past crushes. With a determined huff, you grabbed your bag and headed out before you could second guess yourself further.

Classes passed in a blur, your mind too busy daydreaming to focus. You rehearsed the plan in your head over and over, making sure you knew exactly what to say and what to do when you approached him. It wasn't until lunchtime that the nerves started crawling into your skin. What if this was a mistake? What if you weren’t ready? What if you messed up?

Truthfully, it wasn't about his reply (though that's a big deal too)—you were more afraid of how he’d see you after this. 

The two of you only met once at the cultural festival. You had wandered into a classroom hosting a raffle draw, unaware that claiming the prize required completing a dare. By the time you had realized it, it was too late. Your name was called and the attendant asked you to do a cute idol pose. It was simple but it didn’t mortify you any less.

You hesitated, feeling your palms grow clammy and your heart pounding against your ribs. The murmurs of the students behind you heightened into a roar of complaints in your ears, and it made you want to run off and just disappea–

“You’re overthinking it. Just go for it.”

A voice murmured behind you, steady and matter-of-fact. You turned and met the gaze of the guy next in line, his expression unreadable.

“No one’s going to remember in five minutes,” he added, hands in his pockets. “They’re too busy worrying about their own dares.”

It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was grounding. He spoke like it was simple, like this wasn’t something worth spiraling over. And somehow, that made it easier.

You did the pose—quick and awkward, but done. And the moment passed yet the world didn’t end. When you turned to sneak a glance at him, he wasn’t even looking anymore. That small exchange lingered in your mind long after. It wasn’t the fact that Iwaizumi had helped, it was the way he had done it that impacted you the most. No coddling, no teasing, just quiet confidence in you, like you were already capable.

And now, standing outside his classroom with your love letter behind your back, you at least wanted to leave a good impression on him as he had on you, even if he does reject your affections in the end.

Taking a deep breath, you slide the door open just enough to peek inside. A student near the door glanced at you, his brow raised in curiosity.

“Um, sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Iwaizumi-san?” you asked, shifting nervously on your feet.

The student nodded, looking around before his eyes fell on the volleyball player in the corner. “Oi, Iwaizumi!” he called and jerked his head over to you. “Someone's looking for you.”

Iwaizumi's head snapped up. The moment your eyes met, your breath hitched. He stood and walked towards you, his footsteps syncing with the pounding of your heartbeat.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone serious and stoic as ever.

You didn't answer at first, too dazed with the fact that this was really happening. Your friends had never understood why you were so smitten with Iwaizumi (even after telling them the story of how you two first met) especially when Oikawa, the team’s captain, drew all the attention. Iwaizumi wasn’t flashy or outgoing, but that was exactly what you admired about him. There was a quiet yet solid confidence in the way he carried himself, and to you, that was way more captivating.

“Uh, yeah, hi. Can I talk to you?” you managed to say once you’ve regained your composure, gaze shifting to his classmates. “Alone... if that's okay?”

Iwaizumi stared at you, his expression hard to read, before nodding. You nodded back, somehow finding comfort in mimicking his action, and began to lead him to a more secluded spot behind the school building.

Once you were sure no one else was around, you turned to face him. Little pins prick at your cheeks, a sure sign that you were already blushing furiously. You took a deep breath, it was now or never. Shutting your eyes, you held the letter out toward him. 

“I-I, uh, the reason I…” you fumbled, the script you rehearsed in your head drawing blank and you start to feel the panic set in. “Can... Can you take this for me!?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew you had messed up. That wasn’t how you had planned to say it at all. Your heart pounded as embarrassment washed over you. Was that too abrupt? Too demanding? Oh god, what if he thought you were rude? 

“Sorry! Oh gosh, I didn't mean it like that!” you blurted out, frantically waving your hands. “Wait. Let me start over—”

“No.”

You froze. The word had hit you harder than it should have. “I... What?”

“I won't take it,” Iwaizumi repeated, more stern this time.

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers curling slightly at the letter that was supposed to be in his hands now. 

“But why…?” you asked, your voice coming out more quieter than you intended. You knew he didn't owe you an explanation, but asking was the only thing keeping your composure from cracking entirely.

Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I'm not trying to be mean but you should really do this by yourself. You won't raise your chances at getting with him through me. Trust me, that jerk would be way happier receiving that love letter from you directly. Would probably inflate his already shitty ego too.”

“... What?” you asked, blinking in confusion. 

“What?” Iwaizumi asked back, just as confused.

“What do you mean by ‘giving it to him’?” Your brows furrowed. “Who?”

“Oikawa?” He said it like it was obvious. “Weren't you talking about him?”

“Oika—Of course not!” you said quickly. “I was talking about you!”

The words hung in the air, its impact resonating.

Iwaizumi's eyes widened, a blush creeping up his cheeks. You were just about to think it was cute when your mind screeched to a halt. 

Oh.

You confessed to him. 

It was roundabout, super awkward, and completely unintentional, but it was still a confession.

Your heart stuttered in horror.

“I, uh…” Iwaizumi trailed off, visibly struggling to respond. “Sorry for assuming? Most girls usually talk to me for... that.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t expected that. You knew he wasn’t as popular as Oikawa, but somehow, the idea of Iwaizumi being overlooked made your chest tighten. “It's okay. I... kinda didn't say it clearly so I understand why you misunderstood. Sorry.”

“No! It's my fault for jumping to conclusions,” he said quickly, stepping forward as if to further insist his point–only to freeze when he realized how close he got, a deep red spreading up to his cheeks. “I-I should've heard you out more properly.”

“No, it's not your fault, Iwaizumi-san.”

“It's not yours either, er…”

“Yn,” you supplied, realizing with a quiet chuckle that you hadn't even introduced yourself.

“Yn,” he repeated and you nearly forgot how to breathe. There was something about the way he said your name that made you like it ten times more.

“It's really not your fault,” he added firmly.

“Can we just say that we're both at fault?” you offered with a hesitant smile. “Because I don't think I can blame you entirely. Or at all.”

For a second, you were worried the tension would linger, but then–

Iwaizumi laughed.

It was short and awkward, maybe sounding more of a soft snort than a laugh? Still, you found yourself drawn to it. Like it's the best thing you've heard.

Feeling a bit braver, you offered the letter toward him again, wincing slightly as you realized it was a little crumpled from how tightly you’d been holding it. “So… are you okay with taking this?”

Iwaizumi eyed the letter, his gaze lingering on the small doodles you decorated at the edges. You suddenly felt embarrassed. Was it too childish? Maybe too much?

"Y-You don't have to give me a reply now,” you added quickly. “I know it's sudden, and I don't really think I did the best job at putting my feelings out there, but I'd appreciate it if you answer me honestly after thinking about it. Even if just a little.”

Iwaizumi was quiet for a moment. Then, he smiled.

“Sure,” he said, finally taking the letter off your hands. “I'll tell you when I've made up my mind.”

You felt your shoulders sag in relief and you returned his smile with one of your own. “Thank you.”

That night, Iwaizumi sat at his desk for hours, staring at the letter. He'd read it four times already, to the point where he could anticipate the next compliment, his eyes tracing her neat handwriting once more.

It was his first time receiving something like this. He couldn't really call it a 'love letter' per se. He'd seen those before–notes littered with flowery and gushing phrases–when Oikawa received some from his fangirls. Yn’s letter wasn’t like that. It was more like a letter that said she saw him.

Sure, it was also filled with praises that inflated his ego more than they should, but the way she worded it felt more like respect rather than infatuation. It was weird. He never saw himself like she did. To him, he was just doing things normally. 

But as he read through her words, a realization settled in–maybe he really was someone worth admiring. 

To know that his kindness, passion and earnestness reached someone he hadn’t even known existed until today filled him with a quiet, humbling warmth. It was proof that even the smallest gestures could ripple through the lives of others.

He sighed and folded the letter neatly back into its envelope, the smile on his face still lingering even after hours had passed. Now, he understood why Oikawa liked the attention. It was both amazing and terrifying how a few words from someone could make him feel invincible.

Iwaizumi leaned back in his chair, glancing at the letter one last time before tucking it safely into his drawer. He wasn't sure what answer to give yn yet. They've only just met after all. 

But he was sure of one thing.

He would carry her words with him, knowing that who he was, as he is, mattered to someone.

[viperify]

oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

☾₊⊹ To The Moon n’ Back.

Short Summary: This year you’ll spend another ordinary Valentine’s Day, all by yourself. Or that you think—until you receive a mysterious letter.

Warnings: 18+ only! soft impact play, brief fingering, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, also this is kinda ooc!Tom bc how do I make this man engage in Valentine’s Day activities.

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day!!! 💋🩷

wordcount: 2,4k

part 2

Tom Riddle does not do love.

So why is it that every time you walk past him, his heart beats just a little bit faster?

He’s done everything to distract himself—drowning himself in books, studying more than what is usual, even for someone called Tom Riddle.

Yet, you never fail to leave his mind. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to get the thought of you—specifically your lips on his—out of his mind.

By sweet Merlin, that’s the worst part of it all.

──

It’s Valentine’s Day.

Safe to say—you aren’t interested in a relationship.

So it shouldn’t bother you that all of your friends are out with their partner. But it does, your chest tightening at the thought of spending another night alone on a day that’s meant to be celebrated with your loved ones. It’s always been like this though, they’ve had their fun, and you—well, you stayed behind.

You decide to head to bed early. Right after dinner, which was awfully boring with none of your friends around, you make your way back to your dorm. Or try to, at least. Because as soon as you turn the corner, someone bumps into you.

Not just anyone—Tom Riddle. Head boy, former prefect, top student in every class, teacher’s favourite, award winner… you could go on like this for hours. There is probably nothing in this world that he hasn’t achieved—except for finding a Valentine’s date, it seems.

“I am sorry,” you mumble as you crouch down to pick up a piece of paper he has dropped. And it’s really not that you wanted to know what was written on it—it must have been the familiar number that caught your eye—the number of your dorm to be exact.

Though slightly taken aback, you hand him the paper—or better—he rips it from your hands. For a moment when his lips part slightly, you think he might want to say something in return—maybe apologize for bumping into you—but nothing ever comes.

So you leave, shooting him a weak smile.

It’s not like you expected an apology from him. He has his close circle of friends, all of whom are from renowned pureblood families. Even if you wanted him to like you, look at you the same way you’ve looked at him for years, it wouldn’t change a thing. Tom Riddle was unreachable. Any girl that has ever been interested in ended up getting rejected, and you wouldn’t be one of them.

Yet, the rich scent of his perfume lingers, the way his eyes flickered to your lips for a brief moment imprinted in your mind. His hands brushing over yours briefly, feeling his warmth, the warmth you’ve been craving to feel on your skin—

You shake your head. You’re interpreting too much into it.

──

Tom curses himself for almost blowing his cover.

After hours of contemplation, hours of sitting in front of a blank piece of parchment, he finally writes something down.

My dear—

He scoffs. Pathetic.

Scrunching up the paper, he discards it on the wooden floor of his dorm.

I hope this letter finds—

Definitely not.

Please meet me at the Astronomy Tower tonight at—

Please? Who is he to beg? You should be the one begging for— fuck.

Twenty crumpled-up pieces of parchment later, Tom’s had enough.

He opts for something shorter.

Astronomy Tower. 9pm. Don’t be late.

Perfect.

──

You are tucked under your duvet, putting the romance novel you had started on the nightstand. It was only 8pm, but with nothing else to do, sleep didn’t seem like the worst option. Soon enough, your eyelids flutter closed, and you drift off to sleep.

Though, it isn’t too long before a sharp knock on the glass of your window wakes you. It’s your owl, delivering a letter. Quite an unusual time for you to receive something, yet curiosity gets the better of you, and you open your window to get it.

No sender.

Reluctantly, you tear the envelope open, and your eyes skim over the words written on the parchment.

“Astronomy Tower. 9pm. Don’t be late.” You whisper, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. You don’t recognize the handwriting as anyone's you know, and as soon as you wipe over the words, the ink smears, vanishing, leaving you with an empty parchment.

At first, you are quite unsure whether to go. There’s no name on the letter, and especially on a day like today, there will be stricter enforcements of the curfew rules. Though, knowing yourself, you would have probably gone anyway. Even on a day like this, the moon and the stars are the only company you crave.

So you change, folding your PJs neatly on your bed, putting on the first skirt you find—though as soon as you step out of your dorm, you regret your decision. Tonight is cooler than usual, a soft breeze brushing past your skin, having you shiver. It’s too late to turn around, though. So you make your way, walking the route you normally take when you sneak out past curfew.

As you ascend the stairs to the tower, a figure leaning against the railing catches your attention. Only when you take a few steps closer do you recognize who it is. The brunette curls are unmistakably Tom’s, and for a moment your breath catches in your throat, halting your movements. Knowing that he is most likely on his patrol, you turn around to return to your dorm, but as you do just that, his voice stops you.

“You came.” He remarks quietly, without turning around.

It is him.

“You wanted to see me?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “Riddle, if this is some kind of—“

“Come closer.”

You walk forwards then, though reluctantly, and lean against the railing next to the brunette. It’s silent between the both of you for a while before he speaks up again.

“They fascinate you, don’t they?” He asks subtly, staring into the distance of the night sky. You follow his gaze, taking in the stars and moon on the otherwise pitch-black horizon. “You watch them each night when you can’t sleep.”

You turn your head then, looking at him briefly. You want to ask how he knows, yet you decide to keep it to yourself. Instead, you answer honestly.

“It’s a rare constant in my life. They help me calm down, especially after a long day.”

He gives you a soft nod in return, and silence returns between the both of you, left with owls howling in the distance. There’s still snow on the ground, and it must be below freezing temperature, because when another cool breeze brushes past you, you shiver, scrunching up into yourself.

“Why am I here, Riddle?”

Tom finally turns towards you then, a spark of something softer shimmering in his otherwise so strict chocolate-brown eyes, and he takes a measured step closer.

“You didn’t have any other plans tonight, did you?” He asks, in a way that’s implying he already knows the answer—because what does he not know—and you shake your head no.

“Then that is why.”

You part your lips to question him but are interrupted by his hand reluctantly reaching out, fingertips ghosting over your cheek, trying, testing, before his hand wanders to your neck. His thumb draws small, soft patterns on your jaw, and you tense slightly at the contact. He stops then momentarily, watching your softened expression, but when you don’t complain, he continues.

His gaze flicks to your lips, the air between the both of you growing thick with tension as he slowly leans in. Your surroundings fade into a blur, and before you know it, his lips are on yours.

Tom Riddle is kissing you.

The kiss isn’t what you’d expect of someone like him—it’s soft, tender, your lips moving in sync as his second hand rests on your lower back, pulling you closer.

Soon enough, he has you pressed against the railing, lips only parting from yours when a soft moan falls over your lips. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, then he goes back to kissing you as his fingertips trail up the soft skin of your thighs, stopping at the hem of your skirt.

“Okay?” He murmurs, waiting for a verbal agreement before turning you around, adjusting your position with a firm grip on your waist. He bunches the skirt around your hips, delivering a soft smack to the round curve of your now exposed ass.

A soft whimper falls over your lips, and you slightly lurch forward at the contact, but he is quick to reposition you, pulling you back to him.

It is most likely the choice of your underwear that has him go silent, fingers softly tracing along the lace of your burgundy thong, though he is quick to rid you of the last piece of fabric covering your lower body. Tom makes you step out of it, crouching down to lift your leg. You only faintly notice that he puts it in his pocket, and time to complain is sparse because his hands are back on your exposed skin within a second, cutting off your thoughts.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, drawing a soft mewl from your lips, “even more so than I thought.”

Another gentle smack, and you feel his hand gently massaging your thighs before they wander up further. He doesn’t proceed—he waits, lingering there for just a moment.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.” He instructs, his voice soft, and you obey, parting your thighs to allow him better access. A whimper escapes your lips when Tom fully presses himself against you, making you feel the problem you’ve caused him.

His hand leaves your thigh, traveling up until he reaches your already soaked heat, humming as his fingers swipe through your folds, collecting your arousal. One finger slips inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, and you can’t help but buck your hips into his touch.

A second finger enters you, stretching, preparing you for him. You appreciate it—but all you want is to finally feel him.

“Riddle, please— I need you.”

His fingers withdraw then, hand wrapping around your throat instead, tilting your head backwards as you feel his hot breath ghosting over your ear.

“What’s my name?”

“Tom, God— please let me feel you, Tom.” You croak out, whimpering in defeat.

He lets you go then, the sound of him undoing his belt cutting through the night. “Good girl. Sounds so good when you say it.”

He casts a warming charm on you, a pleasant heat spreading through your body, and the next thing you feel is his tip nudging against your soaked entrance, slipping inside of you with a single, slow thrust. He groans when he’s inside of you completely—and it might be the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

He’s told you to stay quiet—though that order is quickly forgotten when he sets a steady rhythm, fingertips pressing hard enough into your skin to leave bruises. He stretches you perfectly, filling you completely with every snap of his hips, knuckles turning white from how hard you are gripping the railing. The sound of your skin colliding with each thrust fills the air, accompanied by your moans and whimpers and occasional low groans from the man behind you.

“Spread your legs a little further for me, love.” Tom breathes, hand slipping between your legs once more as you do. Again, he finds your sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing the bud in slow, circular motions.

As your moans grow louder, walls clenching around him, he angles his thrusts slightly differently, his tip brushing over your most sensitive spots inside of you.

“Oh— Tom, don’t— don’t stop, fuck—“

His palm lands on your ass once more, but this time you arch your back into his touch, thighs trembling at the electrifying sensations shooting straight to your core.

With one of his hands on your waist, pulling you back into the sharp snaps of his hips, the other wraps around your throat again, pulling you flush against his chest. Like this he is able to reach even deeper, tip brushing against your cervix with every thrust, providing you with the perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

“Fuck— squeezing me so tight. That good?”

You only manage a nod in return, eyelids fluttering close as you near your climax, walls fluttering wildly around his invading length.

“Open your eyes and look at the sky when you come, darling.”

So you do.

With one last high-pitched moan, you tumble over the edge, hot, white pleasure rushing through your veins as your cunt clamps down around him, his hands on your hips as they stabilize you when your knees are about to give in.

Soon after, your mind still hazy with the aftereffects of your own orgasm, he empties himself inside of you with a low groan, hips stuttering as he is buried to the hilt, making sure you take all of him.

Both of you stay like this for a while, catching your breath. Only when the warming effects of the charm he casted on you wear off does he pull out of you slowly, drawing a soft whimper from your lips at the loss. He fixes your skirt for you, takes care of his appearance before his arm wraps around your waist, helping you stand upright.

“I will need that back,” you say, pointing to the lace half hanging out of his pocket.

He tucks it away completely then. “Don’t know what you are talking about.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, leaning back against the railing.

A slight smirk plays at the corner of his lips but fades as he studies you in the faint glow of the moonlight, his expression turning more serious.

“Did so well for me,” he says after some time, voice soft again, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

You blink in confusion. Surely he didn’t—

“I wish you could see yourself the way you see the stars and the moon.” He goes on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are worthy of love.”

You shake your head. “Tom—“

Before you can protest, he presses his lips on yours, cutting off whatever words you were trying to form.

“I want you to teach me,” he exhales then, wrapping his coat around your shoulders, “how to love. Teach me how to love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

this was requested by my lovely @riddleswhcre 🩷 thank you so much for requesting baby!! you already know I am not particularly happy with how this turned out, but I hope it was still somewhat alright. <3

part two coming April 13th! <3

[enhaflixer]

Bf!Jay x f!reader - when walls fall.

angst, fluff, - she thinks he cheated on her (he didn't) the post to THIS ask.

The message had arrived three hours ago, shattering your world like a hammer to glass. A simple photo—Jay with his arm around her, both laughing with the kind of intimacy that only comes from shared secrets. The anonymous sender had added just five devastating words: "Thought you deserved to know."

Five years together. Five years of nursing him through pneumonia, of holding his hand at his father's funeral, of sacrificing that dream job in Seattle because he couldn't leave his hometown. Five years of choosing him, again and again, only to discover you were never his only choice.

You sit perfectly still on the edge of the couch, back straight, hands folded in your lap like some parody of composure. You've cried already—hours of silent tears that left your eyes puffy and raw—but now there's just hollow calm. You're an adult. You'll handle this with dignity, with maturity. You've rehearsed what to say, how to ask for your keys back, how you'll listen to his explanation with detached politeness before walking away forever.

When the door finally clicks open and he calls your name in that voice that used to make your heart flutter, you rise to your feet with mechanical precision.

"We need to talk," you say, your voice remarkably steady as you hold up your phone with the damning image. "I think it's time we were honest with each other."

Jay's face falls, confusion clouding his features. He steps toward you, hand outstretched.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"Don't," you warn, stepping back, maintaining the careful distance you need to keep your resolve intact. "Just don't."

But he doesn't stop. He keeps coming closer, concern etched into every line of his face, and when his fingers brush your arm, something inside you—something you've been holding together with nothing but willpower and pride—simply disintegrates.

"I said don't!" The scream tears from your throat as you violently shrug away from his touch. All your carefully constructed composure evaporates in an instant, replaced by a tidal wave of raw, unfiltered agony.

You beat your fists against his chest, each impact a punctuation mark to your anger, your hurt, your betrayal. The cotton of his shirt crumples beneath your knuckles. Your planned speech, your dignified exit—all of it vanishes under the sudden explosion of pain that's been building inside you like a pressure cooker.

"How could you?" The words tear from your throat, raw and ragged. "How could you?"

Jay stands there, solid as stone, absorbing each blow like he deserves it. Maybe he does. The thought only fuels the fire in your veins, makes your strikes harder, wilder, less controlled.

"Say something!" you demand, voice cracking. Your palms are stinging now, but you can't stop. If you stop, you'll have to remember how pathetic this is, how you promised yourself you wouldn't break down, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you shatter.

Your strength is fading, arms growing heavier with each strike. Your vision blurs as fresh tears finally break free, streaming hot down your cheeks. Your blows weaken, turning from punches to pathetic pats against his chest.

"I trusted you," you whisper, the words barely audible through your sobs. "I trusted you."

When your legs finally give out, betraying your last attempt at dignity, he moves. His arms circle around you with a gentleness that breaks something fundamental inside you. You collapse against him, face pressed into the same chest you were assaulting moments ago, fingers now clutching at his shirt instead of battering it.

Jay holds you like you're made of something precious and fragile. His embrace is tight, secure—like he's afraid you might dissolve if he loosens his grip even slightly. His chin rests atop your head, and you feel the slight tremble in his body that tells you he's fighting his own battle.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into your hair, his voice a low rumble you feel against your cheek. "I'm so sorry."

You should push away. You should remember your plan, your dignity, your resolve. But you can't move, can't do anything but hang there in his arms, utterly spent, hollowed out like something scraped clean of everything that once made it whole.

Later, he'll show you the full thread of messages, revealing the photo as a malicious edit by his ex—the one who threatened suicide when he ended things, the one who's been watching from the shadows for years. He'll show you the real image: Jay with his cousin at her wedding, before he even knew your name. He'll take you to his mother's house where they've been planning your surprise thirtieth birthday party for weeks.

But right now, there's just this: your broken heart leaking between your ribs, your pathetic whimpers against his chest, and worst of all—the tiniest spark of hope that refuses to die, that maybe, just maybe, there's an explanation that won't destroy the life you've built on the foundation of his promises.

[inupibaldspot]

Wingman ain’t subtle.

Paring: Gojo Satoru x reader

Note ₊˚⊹♡ : This takes place when Gojo and the rest are students and you are one year senior/older than them

Gojo thinks today is a bad day.

“y/n-senpai apparently only dates guys older than her” Shoko says she sucks the drink from the straw. As much as she’d like to be smoking, it wasn’t allowed on campus.

The lollipop in Gojo’s mouth falls to the ground which makes Geto snort.

“Sucks to you Satoru.” He comments. “If only you were born a year or two before you’d have a chance.”

Gojo winches as he looks over to Shoko with eyes pleading that she was lying “For real?”

“Yeah.” Shoko and you shared being gifted with Reverse Cursed Technique so they’d spend a lot of time training together so the two were close.

Ever since he learned that fact, Gojo had Shoko be his wing man on learning to be and also learn about your type. She was hesitant at fist but oh boy! Gojo was so hopelessly in love with you she kinda felt bad. Shoko adds. “She thinks older guy make her feel protected.”

Gojo huffs, his stomach churns with jealousy. “I’m literally the strongest…” who else would you need to feel protected?

To add on the fact that learning about him having no chance with you because of the year he was born — ‘Satoru was spawn killed.’ Geto would add— he and his classmates had forgotten to put up a veil during a mission which triggered Yaga’s, their teacher in charge, wrath.

Yaga takes in a deep breath“How many times do I have to tell you to put up a veil ?!”

Gojo really couldn’t careless as his teacher yaps away and probably neither did both of his two friends. He could see Geto nod at times as if acting like he was taking Yaga’s word to heart and with Shoko dozing off with her eyes open.

He does his best to fight back a yawn as something suddenly grabs his attention. You. His eyes trail to you ,who was a year senior to him, walking along the hallway, revealed by the long strip of windows between the classroom and hall. Gojo thinks you’re the loveliest piece of existence in the planet as you gently tug a piece of hair behind as you talk with Utahime.

Feeling a piercing gaze — or maybe it was Yaga’s shouts— you look over inside the class as meet your eyes with beautiful vibrant blue ones of your junior, Gojo Satoru’s.

When you give him a smile and a small wave, you weren’t expecting him to straight up beam at your direction and full on wave as if a kid would wave at an airplane passing by.

Of course this angered Yaga further as a nerve pops on his forehead and hands clenched. “Pay attention, Satoru!” He swings his fist at the boy.

The impact of his teacher’s fist on him sends him flying. If he weren’t such a good student he would have actually used his limitless to block such hits but alas— it may not look like it but he was. “Sensei—! Hitting your students should be against the law.”

He sees Geto sent him an amused smirk and Shoko,who finally woke up, trying to figure out what was happening and to his horror, you were giggling at him. Not many things can make Gojo feel embarrassed but his crush laughing at him when he got hit was one of it.

Yup-! That’s exactly what he needed; his crushing laughing as he gets beat up and lectured by his teacher. His day was going fan-tas-tic!

The day goes on with with the remaining classes. Evening classes were usually training so Shoko was in infirmary with Gojo and Geto on the training grounds but one thing bother Gojo was that the ‘hit’ from Yaga earlier did leave an impact. The back of his head a aching and even made him jump when Geto applied the slightest bit of pressure.

Call him dramatic but he didn’t want the ache to go on further so there he was on his way to the infirmary. He really needed Shoko to patch him up.

He slides the door open as he starts to complain. “Shoko heal me up. Yaga’s hit really did some damage on me”

“You’re hurt?”

Hearing a voice which wasn’t Shoko’s and with almost a magic like ability to make his heart race grabbed his attention. He turns to see you who was near the storage cabinet as if you were arranging something.

“I- uhh…” Suddenly his throat constricted and he couldn’t speak. His face heats up as you tilt your head waiting for an answer as he clears his throat. “Just a bit, y/n.”

“Shoko is out though. She got called to assist in a mission. ” You smile as you sit on a near by chair, pulling another chair beside.

You smile at him as you pat the chair beside yours indicating him to sit down there which makes him tense up slightly but he does as told. “Also you should be calling me ‘senpai’. Utahime-senpai was complaining that youth these days have no manner.”

You laugh. “Now tell me where you’re hurt.”

He sits beside you as he tilts his head and points at his sore spot. “Here.”

Gojo watches you raise your hand and inspect his heat, the places where your fingers grazes heats up which makes him gulp deeply. You laugh as you see a swelling on his head. “Wow- Sensei really did hit you hard…”

The white haired boy relaxes as he he feels the calming sensation on his head which means you were using your technique of healing him. “Does age really matter that much?”

You hum as if thinking through your answer. “Of course. Even a year older means you’ve been in this world for a year longer. That in itself is commendable enough.”

“I heard from Shoko that you like guys older…” Gojo says no longer trying to contain the jealousy in his voice. “Is it because of the same reason?”

Gojo watches your eyes widen and blink in confusion; he thinks any expression you make is so so adorable. You then proceed to giggle. “Just because I dated people who are older than me doesn’t mean I have a type.”

Damn that Shoko probably messed around with her wording. Gojo curses as the girl made it seem you would only date guys older than her.

“For example…” You hum as you bring your finger up to your lips. “Right now I like a guy who is younger than me who never respects his elder.”

Hearing her words, every restrain in his body breaks free and Gojo stands up from his seat ; before he knows it his lips are on yours. He hold your face in place, cupping both side of his cheeks.

Gojo kisses you. Your lips are softer than he imagined it to be and when you let out a small moan he deepens it, stronger and desperate as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

He brings one of his hands to the back of your head, as he runs his hands through your hair. His lips keep moving as if he had lost his mind; deep and urgent as if he couldn’t waste a single second.

Out of breath, he pulls away and looks at you who was breathing heavily and lips slightly plump from his desperate tugs and bites. He watches the same lips curl into a smile as you give him a teasing smile. “Also tell Shoko to quit being your wing man,Satoru. She isn’t quite subtle about it.”

Check out more of my work here !! <3

[jennxxe]

NSFW Alphabet // Erik Campbell.

pairing — erik campbell x fem! reader

warnings — 18+, p in v, sex, unprotected sex, piercing play (nipple + prince albert), degradation kink, praise kink, impact play (belt, spanking, paddle), smoking, choking, breath play, orgasm denial, temperature play, knife play, marking, semi public, dirty talk, masturbation

a/n — i got invested in this one

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

— He acts like he doesn’t need it—“I’m fine, what are you looking at?”—but will immediately collapse next to you and drape himself over your chest.

— Always helps clean you up. Always. Might even mumble something sweet if you catch him in the soft haze. (Clean you up with a towel or his tongue? Your choice.)

— Chain-smokes afterward. He loves when you light one for him, especially if you smoke too. (bonus — he finds it hot as fuck when you take a puff, kiss him and let him inhale it out of your mouth. Instant boner.)

— Would love to go to a late night drive after to get take out or park somewhere secluded and just talk.

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

— On himself? His tongue. Or his hands. He knows what they do. He’s smug about it.

— On you? Your thighs. He’s obsessed. Bites them. Leaves bruises. Makes homes out of them. Bonus if you straddle his lap, he’ll never shut up about it.

— Also loves your mouth. Especially when it’s full. Or smirking like you’ve got him wrapped around your finger (you do).

C = Cum (anything to do with cum)

— It’s a whole thing with him. He likes mess. Marking. Ownership. Watching it drip.

— Loves leaving evidence. On your stomach, chest, tongue, he doesn’t care. You’re art. He’s just signing his name.

— Loves to hit it raw. Any hole, he’s down. Seeing it leak out after does something to him.

— Bonus: he does have a Prince Albert, so yeah… the sensations? Unhinged. He watches your reaction like it’s a religious experience.

D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)

— He’s a perv in denial, and the secrets he keeps? Filthy. Starting with the fact that he’s definitely stolen your underwear.. more than once. The first time, it was “by accident.” You left them at his place, and they ended up balled in the pocket of a hoodie he refused to wash. But the second time? He took them on purpose. Stuffed them into his back pocket when you weren’t looking. He keeps them in his nightstand and jerks off with them clenched in his fist when he misses you too much to pretend otherwise.

— One of his lowest moments? He got off to a voicemail. Not even a sexy one. You were just half-asleep, whispering something about picking you up, soft and breathy and warm in a way that wrecked him. He listens to it on repeat when he’s desperate, biting his fist to keep quiet.

— He’s thought about you tattooing your name on him more times than he’ll admit. Not in some subtle hidden spot either. No, across his ribs. Over his heart. Down his thigh. Somewhere that screams taken. He wants it to hurt. Wants it to be permanent. He won’t ask, though, not yet. Not until he’s sure you’d like that kind of ownership. Not until you say it first.

— He’s filmed himself once, moaning your name, fingers tight around the base of his cock, whispering all the things he’d never say out loud. Never sent it. But it’s in a locked folder. Just in case.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

— He talks a big game and, unfortunately for the world, backs it up.

— Not just physically experienced, but emotionally reckless. Knows how to tease, edge, manipulate every sound out of you like a symphony of sin.

— And he learns you fast. Obsessed with what makes you twitch, beg, break.

F = Favorite Position

— Erik’s a greedy little sinner when it comes to positions, he wants you laid out like a work of art, and he wants every inch visible. Anything with a mirror involved? He’s obsessed. Bent over the bathroom sink, legs shaking, while he watches your expressions shift with every thrust? Chef’s kiss.

— You on his lap in the tattoo chair, knees pressed into the leather, his ink-stained hands gripping your hips while you grind down on him? He lives for it. He’ll growl things like “this chair’s seen pain, baby—go ahead and make it feel something else.”

— He’s a sucker for taking you against the wall of the studio after hours, shirt half-off, hair a mess. One leg hitched around his waist while he bites your neck and thrusts up into you like he’s got something to prove.

— Prone bonEEeeE.

— But also face-to-face? That’s when he lets it get real. Chest to chest, tangled fingers, forehead pressed to yours, he’ll go deep. Snarling one second, kissing your tear-streaked cheeks the next. He loves that contradiction.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

— He’s got a wicked sense of humor, even when things get heated. Biting remarks. Snarky moans. “You like that, sweetheart? Thought so.”

— Will laugh if something goes wrong, gets even hotter when you laugh with him.

— Calls you obscene pet names just to make you blush. Then backs it up like the menace he is.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)

— Grooming is chaotic. Sometimes he trims, sometimes he forgets, sometimes he shaves just because you joked about it.

— And yes, the carpet matches the drapes. Dark. Thick. Wild.

— Sometimes shaves it in the shape of a star or something else.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

— He’ll fuck you like he’s mad at the world, like you’re the only soft thing he’s ever had and he doesn’t know how to handle it. But then he slows just enough to let his fingers thread through yours, to breathe your name against your collarbone like a prayer.

— Eye contact ruins him. He’ll hold it, even when he’s red-faced and breathless, because he needs to see what he’s doing to you. Needs you to know it’s not just about getting off, it’s about you. About this unspoken thing that he’s too emotionally constipated to name.

— His version of "I love you" comes out in other ways. The way he pulls you close after, rubbing lazy circles into your back. The way he kisses your temple mid-thrust.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

— Rarely does it anymore, he’s addicted to you.

— But when he does? It’s filthy. Loud. Desperate.

— He keeps something of yours nearby. Shirt. Panties. A necklace you forgot. He’s down bad. He likes it there.

— Has an album of your nudes he uses. He also jacks off to the amateur sex tapes you two filmed together.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

— Piercing play is his holy grail. Loves when you pull them, bite them, suck on them like it’s a challenge. The way he twitches when you flick them with your tongue? It’s practically a reward. And his Prince Albert? His favorite party trick. He lives for the look on your face the first time you realize just how intense it makes everything feel. He’d get another piercing—a ladder, a reverse PA, whatever—if you so much as murmured you liked the current one. No hesitation.

— Impact play is a language, and he speaks it fluently. He gets off on the sounds you make when he spanks you raw, the fingerprints blooming into bruises. He keeps a paddle and belt in the bottom drawer of his dresser, “just in case.”

— Praise kink meets degradation kink in a chaotic, addictive cycle. He’ll call you filthy, stupid, a brat right before whispering how perfect you feel, how he’s never wanted anyone the way he wants you. He doesn’t even realize how raw he sounds half the time, his voice breaking on “mine,” or “look at you taking it so good.”

— Control play. Choking. Overstimulation. Orgasm denial. If you give him the green light, he’ll keep you teetering on the edge just to see you beg. Loves to tie your wrists with his belt and make you ask, not because he wants to withhold, but because he wants to hear you want him.

— Biting is his second love language. Your thighs, your shoulder, your neck, especially if he’s marking you up before a night out. You’re his canvas, and he paints in bruises.

• Temperature play, knife play, breath play—he’s curious, and shameless about it. If you say yes, he’ll explore everything with you. If you say no, he’ll still fantasize about it when he jerks off later. With teeth in his lip and your name on his tongue.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

— His tattoo shop after hours is the #1 spot. Ink-stained counters, mirrors smudged with your handprints, your back arched over the very same chair he pierces clients on—it’s ritualistic to him.

— Anywhere with risk. A public bathroom, the back of his beat-up car, or a stockroom at someone else’s workplace. He gets off on the tension. The eyes that could see but don’t.

— Loves catching you off guard in non-bedroom places; kitchen, stairwell, the floor of your apartment. Messy. Unplanned. That’s his thing.

— If you ever let him take you on the rooftop, under the sky, he’ll genuinely believe you’re trying to kill him—in the best way.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

— Your attitude. Mouthy, bratty, sarcastic? He thrives on it. If you roll your eyes at him, congrats, you’re getting railed.

— Clothes you stole from him. You in his shirt = feral Erik. You in only his shirt = he’s already pulling your panties to the side.

— The way you look after a fight. Tears on your cheeks, biting your lip, glaring at him? Yeah. He’s painfully hard.

— Piercings. Yours, his, doesn’t matter. Tug his nipple rings while he’s inside you and you’ll ruin his whole life in seconds.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

— He won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Period. If you say no, it’s off the table, no teasing, no pouting, just full respect.

— Not into extreme humiliation. Light degradation? Hell yes. Calling you worthless or hurting your self-esteem? Not a chance. He’ll slap himself for even thinking it.

— Silence. He needs noise. Needs your sounds, needs to hear you fall apart. If you go quiet, he’ll literally stop and ask what’s wrong.

— Absolutely not into denial without payoff. He’ll edge you, sure, but if you’re crying and begging and earn it? You’re getting everything.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

— Obsessed with giving. Utterly obsessed. Goes down like it’s his dying wish and you’re the pearly gates.

— He doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking and you’re clawing at his hair. Might pin your hips down just to watch you struggle.

— Receiving? Oh, he loves it. A lot. Especially when you’re looking up at him with those eyes. But if he had to choose? He’d live between your legs forever.

— And yeah, that PA piercing? You already know. When he’s on the receiving end, the sounds he makes will haunt you in delicious ways.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

— 90% of the time? Fast. Rough. Relentless. He grabs, bites, slams like he’s trying to etch your name into his bones.

— But if you ask nicely? Whisper in his ear? He can go slow. Real slow. Cruel slow. Dragging it out until you're clawing the sheets and sobbing his name.

— He’s a rhythm guy. Knows how to build, how to hold you on the edge, how to destroy you when the moment hits.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

— He lives for quickies. Pulls you into a bathroom stall like he’s a high school delinquent. Unzips his jeans like he’s been waiting all day.

— Can make it quick and dirty or dangerously intense depending on the mood. Either way, you leave shaking.

— Doesn’t care where. Doesn’t care when. If he’s hard and you’re there? Game on. Bonus points if you wear a skirt.

— Secretly gets off on the idea that someone heard. Or might see you after. Legs wobbling. Makeup smeared.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

— He’s a freaky little gremlin. Will try anything once. Twice if he liked it.

— He’s got a thing for risking consequences. Getting caught, getting dirty, doing it somewhere or somehow he shouldn’t.

— Knife play? He’s game. Mirror play? Already grabbing one. Bondage? He’s bought rope.

— But if you ever say stop, or hesitate? He’s shutting it down, no questions asked. Only plays wild if you're both locked in.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

— Ridiculous. Stupid. Unholy. Man has the stamina of a demonic rockstar on espresso.

— One round? Never enough. Two? Still warming up. Three? That’s the baseline.

— Can go for hours. Especially if you tease him first. He’ll make it a mission to ruin you completely before he even finishes.

— Sweaty, panting, grinning like the devil by the end. You’ll be begging to tap out. He’ll pretend not to hear.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

— Yes. Yes. Yes. Entire drawer of them. Some handmade. Some custom. All used on you.

— Vibrators, plugs, restraints, clamps—he has no shame. Will strap one to you and watch.

— Will also use them on himself if you’re not around. He says he doesn’t, but he does. Maybe even sends you a video if he’s feeling reckless.

— And if you’re open to it? Toys + PA piercing + Erik’s filthy mouth = you seeing God. Twice.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

— He’s the king of teasing. Emotionally, physically, verbally, you name it. He’s the kind of bastard who’ll edge you with a vibrator and say it’s “for your own good.”

— Loves seeing you frustrated. Squirming. Begging. Gets off on dragging it out just to see you fall apart.

— Will finger you under the table at a dinner party, whisper filthy things in your ear when you’re trying to focus, lick your lip and then walk away.

— The kind of menace who stops right when you’re about to come and says “Say please.” But god—when you do? He devours you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

— He’s a noisy little freak. Growls, grunts, breathy curses, full moans if you really get him going.

— Dirty talk on overdrive. He can’t shut up—calls you baby, brat, sweetheart, slut—depending on the mood and what you’re doing to him.

— If you’re on top, you’ll hear the filthiest whines ever. His voice breaks. His breathing gets ragged. He’ll curse through clenched teeth like he’s barely holding it together.

— And if you do anything to his piercings? You’ll hear a choked-off moan that sounds like sin incarnate.

W = Wild Card (a random headcanon for the character)

— Erik has definitely gotten off to the thought of you riding him while he’s tattooing someone. No one else would know. You’d look so sweet perched in his lap, clenching around him while he keeps his poker face. It’s 100% unrealistic but whatever gets him to nut.

— He has a tattoo on his thigh that’s an inside joke between you two. Most people think it’s just a weird design. You know it’s a sketch you doodled on a napkin after sex.

— Keeps a secret photo of you on his phone, not even nudes, just you in one of his shirts, smiling half-asleep. That photo has saved his life on bad days.

— He loves to have sex with music in the back.

— Sends you dick pics. Every single damn day.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

— He’s lean, cut, and covered in ink. Veins on his arms. Abs you can trace with your tongue. Every tattoo tells a story he won’t talk about unless you kiss it first.

— As we know, nipple piercings. Silver hoops that clink when you bite them. He loves when you suck on them, tug them. Treat him mean, he’ll melt.

— And yeah, the Prince Albert. Silver. Thick. Curve-hugging. He knows exactly how to use it, how deep to go, how to tilt his hips until you're gasping. He watches your face every time it slides in.

— Average length but girthy. Feels like he was built to ruin you. And when he’s hard? Yeah. You’ll feel it before you see it. Through his jeans.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

— Sky high. Unreasonable. He’s constantly thinking about you, what you’d sound like, taste like, how you’d look on your knees.

— You touch his thigh and he’s hard. You kiss his neck and he’s already planning how to flip you over.

— He’s got this lowkey desperation he hides under all his snark. But when you say his name just right? All bets are off. He’ll throw you over the couch and take you right there.

— If he hasn’t had you in a while? He gets mean. Restless. Grabby. The kind of guy who’ll pull your panties down before you even shut the door.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

— Depends. If it was quick and rough? He’ll still be riding the high, sweaty, out of breath, probably smirking and teasing you.

— But if it was slow and intense? If you kissed him and whispered sweet things while he was inside you? He’s gone. Asleep instantly, wrapped around you like you’re oxygen.

— Snores. Lightly. Face buried in your hair, arm over your waist, legs tangled in yours. He might even mumble something like “mine” before he knocks out.

— And if you try to move? Good luck. He’ll drag you right back, even in his sleep. He needs you like a lifeline.

[thbbie]

༄ suguru x reader

suguru geto is not a jealous man.

no. not in the slightest.

and suguru geto doesn't beg.

ever.

so when he pins you to your shared bed, his larger frame looming over your back and his hair falling around you in a dark curtain, it isn't because he's jealous.

when hes whispering degrading words, not about you, but about the idiots that had the bright idea of commenting something ridiculous about how pretty he is by comparison. something stupid about him doing better, belonging with someone else. insulting the nameless fools as though they had committed an unredeemable sin. and they had.

and you had too.

suguru is a kind man, leanient and forgiving except when it comes to you. his love. his life. his everything.

there was no mercy or gentle smiles or second chances.

your soft chest is squished against the mattress, hips propped up with a pillow, one fo your hand intertwined with his above your head and the other pinned at your lower back while thrusts into you fast. his hips colliding against your ass in messy thrusts that have your soft flesh recoiling so prettily.

your ass is painted a glowing red from the impact of his rigorous thrusts, the weight of all his feelings behind them, he maintains his rhythm but just barely.

suguru's words are stiff, curt. pouring out of his lips between pants and grunts. mean. but oh so hurt, so confused.

why didn't you comment?

why didn't you say anything?

why didn't you let him doing anything? acting instead as though nothing happened, coolly finishing what you were saying and hopping to the next topic of conversation. not batting an eye in their direction. not letting him even challenge the matter.

it stings, the way you angled your head away from his kiss after that, pulled your hand away right before he could intertwine your fingers. going on with your date the way he planned if he could get himself to ignore the growing space you're putting between you. you do it so subtly, so casually, as if it would be easy for you to just let it all go. so calm about it like you are with everything.

would you be that way in some terrible terrible other life where you two did separate?

he feels crazy.

it's so stupid, but it stings. it churns in his gut and twists in his heart,

and it's utterly ridiculous. laughable because with his whole chest, his whole being, and his whole soul, suguru believes the exact opposite to be true.

he loves you, would that not be enough?

you cannot see him, but oh you feel him everywhere. his anger, his frustration. his fingers tighten their hold of yours. his long hair draping over you, he hand even bothered with tying it up. you feel his breath on your skin when he rests his forehead on your shoulder and you feel when he shifts his hips to feel you more.

he's not a man who begs.

even when his thrusts turn erratic and he asks that you call his name again. not when he flips you over so he can look into your pretty eyes. not when his voice breaks telling you he loves you, watching you with wet eyes till you say it back. not when you see his tight jaw go slack at the sight of you, flushed and raw and sweaty and you.

he'll repeat it over and over, professing his love until it pierces your brain, peppering sweet all over your face as he does. licking away your salty tears and swallowing your moans whole, suguru is desperate. pleading

his hand holds yours tighter and then it loosens. his grip faltered and head low. he doesn't want 'better' or someone 'on his level' he just wants- needs you.

you alone. you in whole

tell him he's yours. tell him you love him. tell him hes handsome to you. tell him you feel good. tell him you wont leave. that no one else will ever have him because they wont. they cant.

tell him his love, his worship, his devotion to you, to you is enough.

tell him the words of thoughtless fools mean nothing to you.

tell him he's yours. because he is yours. he's yours.

say it over and over. until you believe it.

suguru wants to be nothing more. nothing else.

[luza-wayne]

who fell in love first.

characters: sanemi, giyuu, gyuutarou, obanai, yoriichi, uzui, haganezuka, rengoku, gyomei, akaza, muzan, kakushibo, douma

knb next!

shinazugawa sanemi (co-hashira)

it’s you, it’s obvious.

he’s the type of person to not notice you unless you do something that really leaves a mark in his mind and heart.

he probably wouldn’t care about you, even glance at you until you decide to make an impression on him.

tomioka giyuu (co-hashira)

him because you couldn’t even talk to him at first, because of the wall he built around himself.

he’ll be the first one to fall for you as soon as he sees you trying to strike up a conversation with him, not out of obligation anymore, but just pure curiosity.

will probably admire you quietly and from afar.

gyuutarou (upper ranks)

gyuutarou will be the first one to fall.

not the type to dwell on his feelings for long, because he’s convinced himself that he’s not worthy of love nor is it worth his time.

would act like he doesn’t care or you’re just another annoying demon everytime you’re near.

iguro obanai (co-hashira)

you, mainly because of his hate on women.

would only talk to you once he made sure you’re not like the woman in his family and strong like the rest of the hashiras.

he’s the type to always debate with himself whether he sees the way you look at him, but also doesn’t want to believe it, thinking he’s not deserving of that and there’s no way you would see him like that, even though it’s so obvious.

yoriichi (slayer-civilian)

you will be the first one to fall for this guy.

the way he’s always protecting your town and checking on you without fail, makes it hard for you not to develop feelings for him.

the type to realize from the get-go about your feelings, but would be nonchalant about it and it won’t be much different even after you confess.

though, it’s not easy to miss how softer he got for you.

uzui tengen (shinobi-kunoichi)

come on, no need to think about it, of course, it’s you.

his flashy personality is enough to hook your interest.

his caring side will nail your feelings deep. he’s very observant and will be very upfront about how he feels to you, though the teasing wouldn’t disappear.

haganezuka hotaru (any dynamic or trope)

he’ll be first.

the type to be either really annoying when he likes you just to make you notice him or you wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of even a strand of his hair because he gets nervous when near you. i can’t choose, so there’s no in between, ‘cause i said so.

also the type to blush even with just a mention of your name, so everyone basically knows his little crush on you.

rengoku kyojuro (any dynamic or trope)

y.o.u. 

anything he does leaves a great impact not just on you, but anyone else.

is used to being admired, so he couldn’t discern admiration from love from other people. you will surely have many competitions anyways.

as soon as he finds himself falling for you too, he’ll be the type to not hide it from you.

himejima gyomei (co-hashiras)

it will be you, but of course, he’ll be aware of it right from the start because of his enhanced hearing.

not the type to point it out or tease you about it and will act the same as always, even while talking to you.

he will be more attentive to your voice even in a room full of people and that’s when he knows you’re not just a coworker anymore.

akaza (upper rank-lower rank)

you’ll be the first one to fall for him

his amazing hold on not eating women and kids will surely grab your attention as soon as you hear about it.

he’s the type to not care about it even if you confess to him in his face, but as years passes and you still show the same enthusiasm as before, he might get a little curious about you.

kibutsuji muzan (demon-human)

yeah, it’s you.

if you're from a distinguished or wealthy family, he might humor your feelings for the sake of using you.

the type to openly disregard his obvious favoritism to you and labeling it as something as just ‘playing the role as a husband’.

kokushibo (upper rank-new demon)

you, because he was too busy being better than his brother.

he’s the type to treat you decently as long as you’re not being disrespectful of muzan and his rules.

couldn’t care less about your obvious love for him as long as it doesn’t get in the way of orders and missions.

will only act or reciprocate your feelings once he is given permission.

douma (leader-devotee)

obviously, it’s you.

he didn’t even know the feeling of real love before came to the cult.

he’s the type to constantly try to get a reaction from you in any way he can. teasing, flirting, playing around— you name it, he’d be doing it as soon as he learned about how you feel.

will unknowingly develop his feelings and would wonder why he gets that dread feeling everytime he teases you too much and you ignore him.

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