#more than I can say for she hulk…

[starspangledsteeve]

I don’t know about you but I think marvel is absolutely back in my books w agatha all along. sure, maybe it’s not the same as the good old times, but I’m having fun every single ep! it’s funky ! it’s funny ! it’s gay! I am back to thinking of theories every single week! I never know what to expect each time ! and when every ep finishes I’m like gimme the next one NOW!!!!

[clonerightsagenda]

I am once again thinking about an Arcane alt ending where the hextech damage topside is bad enough that Piltover residents are forced to flee from toxic industrial magical waste to the undercity and they have to beg for scraps from Zaunite leadership instead of the other way around. And we finally check back in on Ekko's fucking tree.

[thestuffedalligator]

There is a species of butterfly that lives in the mountains.

When it hatches as a caterpillar, it lowers itself to the ground on a strand of silk, and then produces a chemical that smells like the larvae of ants. An ant eventually discovers it, lured by the scent, and brings it back to the anthill, where it is cared for by the colony until it pupates. After a few weeks, the adult butterfly crawls back up through the anthill, through the dirt and the winding tunnels, and out into the sunlight before it can finally open its wings.

Some say that the caterpillar “tricks” the ants into doing this. I don’t know if I agree – I think it’s too small a thing to accuse of guile, don’t you?

With this in mind: Once upon a time, there were seven dwarves.

They lived and worked in the mountains, mining for gold and jewels and precious things. And one night, after a long day’s labour, they heard a knocking at the great stone doors of their mountain.

Outside, shivering and small, they found a human child.

I’m sure you can guess most of what she told them. Stepmothers were involved – it’s not important. What’s important was that each of the dwarves felt a dire and pressing need to care for the child, and they took her into their home, fed her, clothed her, and gave her a warm bed to sleep in. And many seasons passed around that mountain, with the dwarves raising the child as one of their own, until one autumn’s day.

The girl laid, slender and still, in a coffin of spun glass. And some weeks later, one of the dwarves had the idea to call for a prince. This was of course the sensible thing to do, and the prince of a nearby kingdom who listened to the story thought an ensorcelled girl would be a grand thing to rescue.

Poor devils. It feels cruel to judge them. But there were so many questions they could’ve asked – what was this stepmother’s name? Was she real? Did she exist? Who had made the glass coffin? Surely one of them must’ve thought of the question. And why did it grow more opaque with every passing day?

Were they wrong to trust?

I guess it doesn’t matter now.

The moment the prince stepped into the subterranean chamber with the glass coffin, it shivered with a twinkling, plinking noise. Threads of glass exploded into glittering, razor-edged confetti.

A claw split the great glass cocoon.

The thing that spilled out of it, hulking and huge, knew in the fog of its mind, in a base animal sense that screamed, that it was in a room too small for it to fit. It wanted up. It wanted out.

In front of it was some twiggy little thing holding a sword.

It took its first breath.

The flames were the colour of cornflowers.

The dwarves fled. The thing followed close behind, up, up, up through the stone and the winding tunnels, not to chase, not to hunt, but to get up, to get out, out, out–

It struck the great stone doors at a run. They crumbled like gingerbread. And then there was sunlight, and the open sky…

And it could finally open its wings.

Convergent evolution is a hell of a thing.

The dragon, of course, lived happily ever after with its loot of gold and jewels from a hastily abandoned dwarf mine. Being much bigger than a caterpillar, we could accuse it of tricking the dwarves who were kind to it, had taken it in, had fed and clothed and warmed it.

It probably wouldn't mind.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Love is a Verb

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 3k words

warnings/tags: fluff, allusions to smut, Simon gets in his feelings™️

It was the first time that you dropped a plate stacked high with heart-shaped pancakes in front of him, that you realized just how much Simon had been starved for love in his life.

“What’s this?” He asks, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, staring down at his plate as though it were a bomb in need of defusing.

“Breakfast? You’d mentioned pancakes the other day and I’ve been craving ‘em since.” You shrug, walking back towards the stovetop where the next batch are waiting to be flipped over.

“They’re- you’ve never-” You glance back over your shoulder at him, watching as he appears to struggle to find the words for what he means to say. He looks almost out of place, his large, hulking frame sitting at a breakfast table with flowers adorning it (he’s the one that brought you that bouquet, of course), his bed head on full display. “You’ve never made ‘em like this before.”

“What, like hearts?” You giggle, scooping up the last of the breakfast onto a plate, making your way back to the table, seeing Simon give you a nod in confirmation. “I just wanted spread some love to my love. Is that alright?”

Setting your plate down next to his, you go to take a seat before you feel two muscular arms wrapping around your middle, pulling you backwards and seating you onto his strong lap.

“‘Course s’alright.” He mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss wherever his lips may land on you. From those two words alone, you can tell his throat is getting scratchy, and you almost think you hear the slightest sniffle coming from him. You can’t help the surprised blush that creeps through you. You weren’t expecting him to react this way. You’re willing to bet he also wasn’t expecting to react this way.

Knowing that communicating, as well as understanding, his feelings isn’t something that always comes with ease for Simon, you decide to give him a moment, not wanting to put him on the spot. You spread some maple syrup across your stack, tilting it in the direction of his plate and receiving a grunt of confirmation before you drizzle some onto his as well. Taking your cutlery in hand, enjoy your breakfast in quiet bliss, taking turns feeding bites to yourself and your shadow behind you, always receiving a loving squeeze to your thigh after each piece you slip between his lips.

“Mum never made anythin’ like this.” His revelation arrives just as your chewing on your last bite, stomachs content, hearts even more full. You can count on one hand the amount of times Simon has brought up his family to you. You’re aware of the circumstances, and while you don’t know every detail (nor do you need to), he has over time opened up to you about what happened. “Not ‘cause she didn’t love us. I think she would’ve if she-” he clears his throat, and you readjust yourself in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his shoulders, rubbing reassuring circles into the muscles your hands come across.

You don’t want to overwhelm him by looking at him as he opens himself up to you, but you want to reassure him that you’re listening, you’re here with him. He can tell you as much or as little as he wants to, and you’ll listen.

“Beth did though. Once or twice.” He adds, resting his chin atop your head, running a hand through your hair. “I mean, I’m sure she did it more than that but, I saw her do it, once or twice. For Joseph.” Your grip around him tightens ever so gently at the mention of his late sister-in-law and nephew. You’ve never seen a picture of the boy, but you can just picture him, a small little blond head of hair, maybe with eyes like his, running around, keeping his young parents busy. Knowing the fate his family endured, a shiver runs through you, but you don’t let it overcloud the moment that Simon is sharing with you. Certainly not when it appears he’s thinking of them fondly right now, reflecting on his past with a happy lens.

“I’m sure he must’ve loved it.” You whisper into the skin of his neck, sending goose bumps sprawling across the flesh.

“He did. Tommy too.” At that he gives a slight chuckle, shaking the two of you. “Even when we were younger, he could always eat us out of house and home. Was like you couldn’t get anything to stick to his bones, either, that kid. More than half the time I wound up shop liftin’ it was to feed his skinny arse.” You sit there together for a moment, holding one another, basking in the newest glimpse of his past that Simon has just offered you.

“They would’ve loved you.” He mumbles into your hair, emotion evident in his voice, his grip on you tightening desperately, as though you two might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you close enough. “Think you would’a liked em as well.” At that you pull away from his shoulder, slipping your hands to cradle each side of his face, bringing his forehead to meet yours.

“They loved you, Si. Of course I would love them too.” You whisper against his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to each corner of his mouth, the top of his nose, each closed eyelid, before returning to his mouth.

It’s the next week when you decide to finally tackle the last of the moving boxes. You and Simon finally moved in together a few months ago now, and Simon seems to have placed more priority on ‘christening every room’ (also known as fucking you senseless over each and every available surface in the place) over unpacking.

The handful of boxes that are left are more of the miscellaneous, don’t really have anywhere to put them, sort of items that you can’t exactly part with but don’t have any real use for. Most of it being your stuff. His time in the military has left him without a need for many material items, and so you’re surprised to find a smaller box shoved to the back of the pile labeled as ‘Simon’.

Upon opening it, you find it contains a variety of what appears to be memorabilia he’s collected throughout his time in the military, small souvenirs from his travels, old folded up uniforms, and what not. But slipped between two folded shirts, you can feel something more sturdy. Carefully slipping it out of the box, you discover a frame containing a multitude of medals.

In spite of being in love with a Lieutenant, your knowledge of the military is still slim. You don’t recognize any of the medals shining up at you, but they are numerous, and you can tell they must be incredibly important, something he’s worked so hard to earn. Why is he keeping this tucked away?

“Hey Si!” You shout in hopes that he’s near enough to hear you.

“What are you up to now, mischief?” He asks, his tone playful as you hear his footsteps approaching. “Christ, we’ve still boxes left?”

“Acting as if you don’t purposefully walk around them every day.” You tease back, rolling your eyes at him. You stand up, turning to face him with the frame clutched to your chest. He takes you in and raises a brow in question as to your discovery. “What are these?”

He steps closer to glance at what you’re holding, shoulders tensing for a moment before releasing, letting out a deep sigh.

“Ah. S’nothin’.” He tries to reach to take it out of your grip, but you swing your arms behind your back, hiding it from his grasp.

“What do you mean nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing to me, mister award winner.”

“They’re not- I don’t-” he seems to struggle with his words, and it’s only then that you realize perhaps he doesn’t view these medals in the same way you do.

“Do you not like ‘em?” You ask, bringing the frame back around to your front, glancing down at them with a more quizzical eye this time.

“I just- I’m not always proud of how I earned em, love.” He attempts to explain, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Some I reckon’ I don’t mind but- all just seems unnecessary to me. I did my job, all there is to it.”

“Are these like, the kind they have big ceremonies for and then someone pins them on you in front of everyone?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his large chest.

“And let me guess, you never attended any of them?”

“Don’t need all the fanfare, lovie.” He says, stepping forward and slowly slipping the frame from your grasp, tossing it back into the box you’d found it in. “All I need’s right here.”

“I just wish you’d let yourself be celebrated sometimes too, Si…”

“Well if it’s celebratin’ my birdie is wantin’, how’s bout we go celebrate with you on top of the washing machine eh? Don’t think I’ve made you cum up there yet.” You roll your eyes at his changing of the subjects, but can’t contain the giggle that erupts out of you when he swings you over his shoulder, apparently having decided the laundry room is exactly where you two are going now. “Just put a load in the machine, only right I put a load in here too.” He adds with a smack to your ass.

You’re worried you’re about to make an absolute fool out of yourself. No, you’re sure you’re about to look like an idiot. You know how much that man loves you, but even this might be exaggerating. Glancing at the clock above the stove however, you know it’s now or never. The candles around the room have been lit, the lights are dimmed, his favourite meal is cooking in the oven, soft music is playing from the record player, you’re wearing Simon’s favourite dress on you, and you even went as far as to spruce up your hair and makeup for this. In theory, everything is perfectly set up and in its place.

So why then, do you feel so mortified as you hear the sound of keys jingling the lock at the front door? Oh right, because it’s him you’ve set this all up for.

“Hi sweetheart,” he shouts to you as he walks in, too preoccupied with removing his boots and gear to look up yet. “Smells really good, what’s-” He cuts himself off upon walking into the kitchen, eyes landing on the unusual scene before him. You watch as his irises glance around the room, taking it all in, before landing on you. He’s still stood a few feet away from you, but you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam up and down your figure.

“Hi.” You whisper meekly to him, wringing your hands nervously behind your back.

“Hi.” He answers back, taking an apprehensive step towards you. “What’s all this then?”

“First you have to go get dressed.” You inform him, jutting your chin in the direction of your shared bedroom. The small smile working its way onto his face helps boost your confidence, nerves slowly dissipating.

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. Even laid out your clothes for you, so you don’t have to think about it.”

“We goin’ somewhere?” He asks, beginning to undo his belt already. The movement catches your attention, likely his intention, and his smirk widens upon seeing you blush.

“Nope. We’re just celebrating at home.”

At this, he freezes his movements, belt halfway slipped out of his belt loops. His gaze scans your face, looking for anything he might have missed.

“Shit. Did I- did I forget something, baby? I did-”

“No, no no no!” You cut him off with a slight giggle, coming up to him now to lay your palms across his chest. “No, you’re okay Si. You didn’t forget anything, I’m just surprising you.” You reassure him, knowing that he only calls you baby when he’s worried he’s in trouble (or when he’s already in trouble, crouched between your thighs attempting to earn his way out of the dog house).

“You didn’t have to do any of this love.” He says, hands pulling the rest of his belt out, before he loops it around you, using it to pull you even closer to him.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done yet, mister. We’ll see if you still like me in a bit.” You stand up on your tippy toes, planting a kiss to his Adam’s apple, fingers reaching up to slowly lift the skull printed balaclava off his face. Your lips follow each inch of skin revealed as you finally slip the fabric off his visage, exposing the face of the man you love. “Now go get dressed before I change my mind.”

With a kiss to the forehead and a squeeze to the bum, your man releases you from his grasp to obediently follow your command, making his way towards the bedroom. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you turn towards the cabinets, pulling out the secret you’d been hiding, the reason you’re doing any of this.

Minutes later, Simon is walking back into the room, dressed in form fitting black dress pants, and his large hands are finishing up the last few buttons of his white button-up shirt, the buttons appearing minuscule in his grasp. Your eyes land on his figure, and suddenly the smell of the food in the oven isn’t why your mouth is salivating so much. He glances up at you, eyes meeting and each of you fights off a small blush and a shy smile, as though you’re seeing your dates for the prom for the first time.

“You’re so handsome, Si.” You tell him, stepping closer to him.

“Think you’re just desensitized to me at this point, love.” He attempts to deflect, but you see the blush deepening across his pale cheeks. “Besides, I oughta be kissing the ground you walk on birdie, just look at ya…” He reaches a hand out towards yours, spinning you around gracefully, taking the time to admire you entirely.

The look in his eyes is glazing over, as he licks his lips, eyes unable to tear away from each inch of skin you have exposed. You’re equally become as hot and bothered, but you’ve got a goal tonight, and you want to see it through, for his sake.

“Before dinner, I uh- I wanted to do something for you.” You say, stepping back enough that your backside meets the edge of the counter top. Your hands feel behind you for what you’re looking for, hoping he can’t see what you’re attempting to conceal for just a little longer. “I don’t need to explain to you how hard you work, everywhere you go, you’re always taking care of others, Si. And you don’t get even nearly as much thanks as you should, and-”

“Love,” he tries to cut you off, stepping closer to you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Hold on, I really want to say this. To do this.” He nods at your interjection, accepting to hear you through. “Ever since I met you, you’ve changed my life Simon Riley, and I know I’m not the only person in the world who can say that. You are a good man, a hero to many, a leader to others. You’re just- you are good, Si. I promise you are.”

You can’t help the emotion beginning to seep into your voice now, but it’s important to you that he hears every word you have to tell him, and that he knows you mean them.

“I don’t know everything you’ve done, and I don’t want to. Your job terrifies me, and every time you walk out the door I’m scared you’re going to get hurt but- you’re so good at what you do, Simon. They couldn’t do it without you. You’re important, you’re needed.” At this, you slip the frame of medals out from behind your back, bringing them in front of you for Simon to see. “That’s what these are, at least in my eyes. They’re reminders that you’re meant to be doing what you’re doing, but most importantly, they also mean you made it back. You made it back to me.”

His warm hand reaches out to brush away a stray tear that’s spilled over your lashes, his palm staying to cup your cheek affectionately.

“You’re right, we don’t need all the fanfare, all we need is right here. But some occasions call for a celebration. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll let me put these on you? Just once, just this one time, I just- I need you to know how important you and your accomplishments are to me.”

Wordlessly, he nods to you, his own eyes appearing to be brimming with emotion. Sniffling, you turn the frame over, opening up the back before carefully slipping it off. Your fingers gingerly pick up the first medal they find, bringing it up to his firm chest. You look into his eyes once more, ensuring that this is okay with him. All you see in his gaze is pure, undeniable love. One hand reaches between the fabric of his shirt and the warm, scarred skin across his pec, as the other brings the medal to the front of the button-up. With all the devotion and tenderness in the world, you secure the medal to his front, slowly slinking your hands away to see if it’ll stay in its place.

When the medal does not budge, you repeat the process over with the remaining medals, until one side of his shirt is significantly weighed down compared to the other side, and both your hearts are bursting with affection for the human being stood before you. Sliding your now empty hands up his shoulders, his calloused palms resting on either side of your waist, his eyes communicate to you everything that his lips will never need to tell you. You know him. And you know what you mean to him. That’s why as he shuts his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead, you find yourself whispering the sentence you hope to tell him every day of your life:

“I love you too.”

[hellowoolf]

something, somehow, someday

chapter 4: close to you | prev | next | series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, a lot of yearning :P, chapter specific: SMUT, unprotected piv, creampie (sorry), fingering,

a/n: thank you guys for your responses on the poll! this one is more than double the average length of the other chapters (~8k) and i plan to keep that convention from here on out. i hope you enjoy this one >:)

main masterlist

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

it is a funny feeling, YOU find, making your life new with a thing so familiar. to open your door so often and find satoru standing there, letting him bring food and splaying himself on your couch, walking with him in the heavy mist at dusk, it fills your lungs like smoke, the nostalgia thick and cloying. you remember all of it, it comes back to you embalmed.  

but the differences between now and your time together in high school demand your attention in equal measure. your son, for one: though it’s impossible to find the sight of him with his father unnatural given how obvious their relation is. with their backs turned they move the same, too, something between them irrevocably tied. you had forgotten the way satoru wrought blades of grass between his fingers when he laid in it until you had to clean both their palms of chlorophyll.

nonetheless your affection for satoru is much more hulking a thing than it ever was, supplanted by the tangible aftermath of the ways you used to love him. when takara lets him pick him up, grips to his collar as satoru balances him on his hip, you are defenseless. the softest parts of you win out. 

still, neither you nor satoru make any attempt to name the arrangement you’ve come upon. he is resolutely your child’s father and has stepped into that role with grace, and there are artifacts of your intimacy—his hand on your lower back, brushing your hair from your shoulder blades, an almost kiss, once—but mostly you let the joy of your child consume your time. 

and it shouldn’t bother you. you remember feeling so certain in high school that letting him fuck you was enough, that to love him quietly was a privilege. you suppose you still mostly believe that. but there are moments when takara is asleep and satoru lingers in your kitchen, and the want flares bright then. you are at a loss watching him leave with that look on his face, like he’s afraid you’ll ask him to stay and terrified you’ll let him leave. you sometimes wait a moment before locking the door behind him.

jujutsu tech stands like a graveyard around you, so full of memory the buildings almost sag. you haven’t been back here since the night takara came to you.

“oi!” satoru bellows from across the courtyard, hand high and wagging. 

takara holds a grip on your pant leg, one blue eye peeking out. you feel him loosen a little when he sees his dad, and then refasten when megumi and tsumiki emerge behind him. 

when satoru first suggested you both come to meet them you had hesitated. you were honest; there was something final about this last introduction. there would be nothing else left for each of you to keep separate from the other, your lives entirely reconnected. satoru had laughed at you in that way that makes your heart turn, and that sound was all it took for you—weak to him—to agree.

satoru comes rushing to takara, scooping him from behind you and holding him to his side. takara screeches, half afraid and half delighted. tsumiki walks to you without hesitation, little hand held out for you to shake. 

“it’s nice to meet you,” she says. her smile is soft, a little secret, but you can tell she is pleased with herself for her manners. you smile back.

“it’s nice to meet you, too.” 

she looks up at takara in satoru’s arms and waves. takara is frozen, too shy to move, so satoru takes his chubby wrist and waves it a little. tsumiki giggles. “they’re like twins.”

you lean in a little conspiratorially. “i know. i carried him for nine months and have nothing to show for it.”

she giggles behind her hand before turning to her brother. “don’t be rude,” she admonishes.

megumi cannot hear her, it seems. he’s watching takara paw at satoru’s shirt, turning in his hold as gojo points to the various buildings to explain what they are. to himself, or maybe to you, megumi whispers: “it’s so freaky.”

tsumiki scoffs lightly and goes to elbow him but you can only laugh again, louder this time. he may not be related to satoru but he was certainly raised by him. “you are exactly as satoru described,” you admit.

megumi furrows his brows and crosses his arms. yes, so furious, satoru had said once. “how exactly did he describe me?”

“as a little shit,” satoru offers, one palm now cupped over takara’s ear. megumi’s mouth falls open a moment before making a fist with each hand and bringing them in front of him. satoru only rolls his eyes and uses his knee to knock his arms out of place. megumi practically growls something about i’m really gonna do it someday and tsumiki taunts back at him: you’re such a liar!

oh, but that look on satoru’s face, he is so pleased. his eyes squint with it, you can almost see the satisfied breathing of his cursed energy, satoru is happy. it makes you beam at him and his breath catches when he sees it. 

takara wriggles out of his grip and stations himself at your legs again, but doesn’t hide this time. tsumiki is completely enamored, cooing again, “hi, takara!”

takara sucks in a little breath. “hello.”

tsumiki claps her hands together and looks up at you and gojo. “can we show him around? please?”

“what is there to show?” satoru asks.

“the training room, our old bedrooms, the koi fish—”

your eyes widen. satoru’s gaze flits to you, frantic, and you smirk, the tiniest thing. the koi fish? you mouth. satoru’s cheeks flush pink as he shakes his head slightly, but the damage is done, he knows. tsumiki is still listing menial places across campus.

you squeeze takara’s shoulder. “what do you think, bubba?” he looks at you, owlish, and then at tsumiki, before nodding. she takes his hand with a pleased squeal and the three putter off together.

satoru stands boyish before you as you straighten again. he tends to keep his blindfold off around takara—whether to keep from frightening him or for a more profound reason you don’t know—but he is bared to you without it. he knows exactly what you’ll say, lifting a hand as he turns and starts towards his office: “don’t.”

you skip to catch up with him. “oh, no, i think i have to.”

“i’m just a friend to nature.”

you howl. “you’re just as dishonest as you always were.”

he doesn’t dignify that with a response, pushing into his office and letting you inside. the walls are a dark wood, mostly bare save for the few bookshelves bloated with old novels and records and manila folders. a handful of pens scatter across the desk, like he’d needed to finish a sentence urgently before standing. there’s a record player on the windowsill, fuzzy with dust but clean in places around the arm. it looks like he’d used it recently for the first time in years. most of all it smells like him, mint and cedar and sugar, and you almost double over sick with it. 

satoru settles into his chair as you trace a finger along the spines of his books, his eyes igniting your back but you refuse to turn, you want him to watch. “you’ve done a great job with them,” you admit.

“you think so?”

you just barely twist your head over your shoulder to show him the sincerity on your face. “of course i do.”

he runs a hand through his hair. “they seem to like takara.”

you turn fully now to lean your back on the shelf. “everyone likes takara.”

he chuckles, fond. “yeah, i guess so.”

the sounds of this place are so startlingly the same, you think. the serenity is strange and charged, but nonetheless campus was always quiet enough to hear the wind through the leaves. you hear it now as you flip through mission files and reports: special grade, special grade, grade one, special grade, suguru geto. you put them down.

“is it weird to be back?”

you nod, gesturing around the room. “i’ll admit i was hoping for more of a welcome. is nobody else here?”

“yeah, i asked them to give us the afternoon so takara wouldn’t be overwhelmed for his first time.”

you pout, mainly to bare your lip to him but there is truth in it, too. “nobody wanted to see me?”

satoru shakes his head. “i wanted you all to myself,” he admits. and it’s teasing, easy, he says it like it doesn’t cost him anything, but you know he is like you: he almost never says something he doesn’t mean.

“how did they react when you told them?”

“that i have a son? kept a secret by his villainous mother?”

your eyes narrow but you’re grinning as you respond: “yeah.”

he cocks his head and kisses his teeth. “yaga said he was disappointed in you.”

“for leaving?”

“no, for letting me…” he smiles, wolfish for a second before it fades into something friendlier, “for giving me the opportunity.” you laugh, a bark of a sound, halfway humiliated. you nod him on. “and shoko was the one who found you, so, there wasn’t anyone else to tell.”

your hand finds your arm and you squeeze your bicep once, twice, swallowing around the tragedy in his confession: that all the people you used to know here are gone somehow. you hadn’t visited haibara’s grave since you left; nanami helped you lug a stone out by the stream and you grew flowers around the base, yellow pansies and red carnations. you remember kento pointing to them in a flower language book so you could conjure them properly, remember the promise you made not to tell a soul what they meant. 

the memory must show on your face, because satoru says then, “i still water those flowers you made by haibara’s grave.”

you smile at him, watery and real. you add on, “and feed my fish,” and he laughs like a surrender. 

you move to the record player just behind him and he swivels his chair to follow you. something seizes in your belly at the feeling of him scrutinizing you, the weight of his looking a leaden thing against your skin. you thumb through the few vinyls resting in the window before stopping on one. the words stick to your teeth like honey but you spit them as best you can: “this is mine.”

you hear satoru stand and look over your shoulder. frank sinatra’s close to you: the sleeve is long stained and yellowed, waterlogged in one corner, but the record inside is pristine. 

you remember the first time your grandmother taught you how to play her gramophone. her hands guided your smaller ones across the pavilion, down to the plateau; it was old and rusted, even then, something she’d bought second hand as a girl. but she had collected hundreds of records, they made piles throughout her home, and every afternoon you selected one to play. close to you was her gift to you when you entered jujutsu tech.

of course, you never had a record player. all three years it sat unused on your desk, a remembrance, still smelling like the tatami from her living room. she had told you once that sinatra taught her how to speak english, which you mostly believed; her english vowels opened with the syrup of the american east-coast, and she held each word a moment too long, like it took a great deal of effort not to sing them. 

you run your knuckles along the sleeve, feeling the still-familiar places where the gloss has faded and the paper catches. you hardly notice how close to your back satoru has drifted until he reaches around you to remove the record and situate it on the player. you freeze, his looming figure warm around you, his arms brushing your shoulders as he fiddles with the tone arm. you hope he can’t feel your heartbeat through your spine, but it rushes so deafening in your ears you cannot discern either way.

it could happen to you crackles to life from the speaker and you feel like you’ve been swallowed by space, on the cusp of a wrinkle. you wonder whether time has really suspended around you or if it’s only this, this song and this man at your back. your breathing is uneven and satoru does not step back, head craned a little to bring his chin closer to your shoulder. 

slowly, almost self-consciously, he braces each hand on the sides of the windowsill, keeping you surrounded. 

“it’s been so long since i’ve heard this song,” you whisper. the melody chimes and swings around the violin and you cannot help but tilt your head back a little into satoru’s chest, overcome with the ghost of the music as it hangs above you. satoru lets your weight lean slightly into him, unmoving.

“i hope it’s okay that i took it.” his voice rumbles through your bones before you hear it. you nod and it scrapes against his sternum. the friction stirs something in him, you think, because then he’s bringing a hand to your stomach, fingers long and splayed across your entire torso, and he rests his cheek fully on the back of your head. it would almost look like you were dancing if you began to move, but neither of you seem willing to risk it.

“do you ever wonder what it would have been like?”

you don’t need him to clarify. “all the time,” you confess. the sun moves behind the clouds outside, and you catch a moment of the both of you in the reflection. 

his hand tightens around your middle, holding you against him. the song threatens to end but he keeps his arm banded around you. “are we friends now?”

you laugh softly. “i honestly don’t know.”

he nods before bringing his other hand to your chin. he spreads the pads of his fingers, feeling the shape of your jaw, looking for something, for you. “would you let me kiss you, if i asked?”

“yes,” you say, but it comes out more breathless than you intend. your thighs press together and you’re sure he notices with how his hips cage you in, but he only hums, removing the hand around your chin. 

“it’s a bad idea,” he breathes, but still his nose brushes at the juncture of your neck and your shoulder. you shudder and nod. it is. 

and despite how badly you want him, you do not turn and demand it. it’s so precarious now, and with satoru in takara’s orbit you cannot run again, a chain fastened from your rib to his. you know fucking him would be a reckless idea now, but god, he presses one, slow kiss to the bared skin of your shoulder and your body remembers him. his hips press just slightly further into your ass as he sighs onto the same spot, his breath cooling the heat of his lips where they branded you, his cock alive and right there. but the both of you know it: you are cowards. he untangles himself, and you let him sit back in his chair before moving.

~~~~~~~

SATORU is certain now; you are going to kill him. his grave will be beautiful, he thinks, flowery and green and alive with your energy, but his autopsy will have your name all over it, your lipstick.

he supposes, for his part, that much of your proximity is his fault. a stronger man wouldn’t have stayed in your apartment past takara’s waking hours, used his hands to guide you on the sidewalk, held your hips to his cock in his office windowsill earlier today. and satoru has lived a life of self restraint, has been a shackled man to his own whipping post, but he has found himself helpless to the feeling of your body on his skin.

he had been so irreparably hurt when he saw you in the park that day, or at least it had felt that way at the time. something grew in him then, a tumor with teeth, and he was certain it could never feel the same with you as it once had, that he would withhold something precious from you forever in some lasting spiteful act of defiance. and nevermind the fact that even hours later he moved to hold you, could barely restrain the instinct to kiss you again, was never even angry: for about 24 hours, satoru was sure that he would never be in love with you again.

but even the sharp canines of that wound have dulled with weeks of your presence. the smell of you on your couch when he lays on it, the afternoon scenery of you playing with takara in the park curtained by your vines, your laugh in his office, by your door, in his head. you are an apparition haunting him, one he can touch, and it’s killing him. 

and he knows he should not pursue anything with you. he knows you know this, too. your nebulous reconnection is unsteady at best—a strange amalgam of your old intimacy and the people you’ve become—and access to takara is too important to him to risk. and neither of you would say this, but the fact of your leaving in high school remains a reminder that at any moment you are capable of disappearing again. it’s something satoru always loved about you, actually. you make your own life wherever you step. what a beautiful thing you are. 

he feels ridiculous for thinking of you as often as he does. but how could he not? he visits at least daily to spend time with his son and you are always there, a vision. he sees you in takara, too, his little love. when he tries to explain how to use limitless, takara bears down into himself, thinking to the point of exhaustion. he has gotten that from you, satoru knows.

but it wasn’t a conscious thought that satoru has begun falling back into love with you—or, really, that he has plummeted into the well of it—until today, seeing you laugh with megumi . tsumiki had pointed at you from behind your back: she’s so pretty! and he had nodded without thought, proud as if you were his to boast for. and then, your teasing voice nipping at his heels as he brought you to his office, he realized that he was yours. he should have known some time in the thousand minutes he’s spent feeding your koi.

the smell of your cooking wafts into your living room as he reads to takara on his lap. you’re humming that song from earlier, it could happen to you, and the domesticity makes him beam like an idiot. yes, he thinks, that’s about the most succinct way to put it; he is an idiot for you. takara points to the page and reads a sentence himself.

“yes!” satoru encourages.

“don’t yell,” takara says, patting satoru’s leg as though he’d worked himself up.

“yessir.”

“come in to eat!” you call from the kitchen. takara scrambles to the sound of your voice and satoru is no better. the three of you settle to the table, takara’s legs dangling in his chair, and satoru knows he shouldn’t but he presses his foot to yours under the table. you give him a look, fleeting and knowing, but you don’t move. takara eats exactly the way you do, and satoru wonders whether you’ve noticed.

“what time do you go into work tomorrow?”

“i’m opening, actually, so i’ll head to the cafe early,” you grumble. “i’ll take my lunch break at 8 to take takara to preschool.” 

satoru shakes his head. “i don’t have any missions until the afternoon. why don’t i take him?”

“i don’t have an extra key for you.”

“he could sleep over,” takara offers, barely looking up from his food. you look startled by the suggestion, at first, and satoru is sure he looks much the same, but when the shock subsides he cannot help the little grin that tugs his lips up. you cock your head minutely, but he’s known you long enough to know you mean: don’t push it. 

“bubba, there isn’t enough space,” you explain. 

you had told satoru early on that you started in a one bedroom, fixed a nursery in most of it and fit yourself on a twin bed in the corner. when the owner of the cafe retired, though, she had let you have the place. you made enough now to scrape by with two bedrooms; satoru remembers how dignified you were to recount the whole thing, how hard it was not to kiss you when you smiled in your own self-satisfaction. 

“why can’t he sleep in your room?” takara asks. satoru smiles bigger, nudges your foot under the table. 

“because he…can’t.” you’re becoming flustered now and it only thrills him more.

“i really would like to take him,” he offers, though the sincerity is cut with the sound of his smirk.

you run your hands over your face, mumble out a little groan that softens into a hum at the end, but still your foot doesn’t move away from the press of satoru’s under the shadow of the kitchen table. 

“don’t you need to get home to megumi and tsumiki?”

satoru is beaming like he’s already won. he has. “they have a sitter.”

your head tips back as you say, mostly to the ceiling, “fine. but you’re sleeping on the couch.”

and truthfully he doesn’t mind much at all. he is voracious for more time with takara, for more time in your space, for benign moments you might take for granted. he wants to brush his son’s teeth at night and fix his hair in the morning. he taps your foot one more time: thank you. and you nod, almost imperceptibly: you’re welcome. 

~~~~~~~

as much as YOU might have resisted it, there really was about an hour or so when letting satoru sleep on your couch seemed like a good idea. it felt, if you can admit it, easy, the both of you moving around one another as the evening twilight overtook the windows. and it was so plain to see on takara’s face that he was pleased, too, to have you both here. sitting on the edge of his bed together as you tucked him in, watching his first few moments of sleep, made space for a new sort of intimacy. when satoru reached for your hand in the dark you did not pull away.

of course, you regret it now. maybe you’ll regret it forever. by the time you’re brushing your teeth you know you have made an error of cosmic proportions. some time between settling blankets on the couch and joining you in the bathroom satoru had unbuttoned most of his shirt and removed his belt, sidling next to you at the sink with the spare toothbrush you gave him like you weren’t a moment from dropping dead on the counter. you’re too afraid to look at yourself in the mirror; you already know your cheeks are red, that he can feel the rush of your blood in your jugular from inches away. 

“you seem uptight,” he says, though it comes out foamy around the toothpaste in his mouth.

“i’m not used to having people over.” you can’t look anywhere but the porcelain of the sink, too petrified of what you’d say if you looked at him in full. you remember this afternoon in his office and shift on your weight a little.

“you don’t have a lot of sleepovers?” he asks through a grin.

you’re so focused on not making eye contact with him in the mirror that you answer him honestly. “i don’t have any.”

you hear his toothbrush stop. he spits in the sink before leaning on it to face you. “what do you mean you don’t have any?”

you take a deep breath before turning. god he’s so pretty, even more stunning like this, a little unspooled. “what do you want me to say? i’ve never had anyone else to take care of takara. it’s not like i can…” you don’t even know how to end that sentence.

the teasing look leaks from satoru’s face slowly. he asks you with more earnestness than you think you can stand: “have you not had sex since high school?”

it’s not even fully out of his mouth before you’re pushing past him and out of the bathroom but he is relentless behind you—he always was—and you feel him an inch from your back as you walk towards your bedroom door.

“wait a second—”

“satoru, i’m not talking about this with you.”

“no, but i’m being serious.”

“so am i!” you turn at your door and try not to shudder at how close he is. his eyes glow in the low light, a man made of comets.

“i just,” he huffs a little, “i feel bad, i guess.”

“what?”

“well you—you’ve been taking care of takara alone all this time and you haven’t gotten…you haven’t gotten to do—”

“satoru, i don’t need your pity about my sex life, okay?”

“but that’s my point! it’s not just about your sex life, it’s—it’s everything.” he ruffles the back of his head, almost embarrassed, you think. “i feel bad that you’ve been alone all this time.”

you kick your heel against the door behind you to ground yourself. “it’s my fault, isn’t it?” and it comes out a little small, more pathetic than you’ve ever heard yourself. satoru buckles with it.

“baby,” he starts, and you think his hand flexes to reach for you, but you put your palm on his chest to keep him in place. he hasn’t meant to call you that, you know, the endearment from years ago clawing back, finding purchase on his tongue. his heart murmurs like a bird behind his shirt.

“listen, i—i don’t need you to pity me for a decision i made. especially because i don’t regret any of it.”

he breathes out quick, almost angry, but you know not at you. before either of you can stop him, he holds your wrist to keep your hand on him, thumbs your pulse on one side. he does this a lot, you think. you wonder if he knows that you can feel his heartbeat, too, through the pads of his fingers. and there’s a moment, among the sounds of your breathing and the creak of the floorboards under his feet, when you think it is all over, that you’ll let him kiss you against your door. earlier today you felt like a coward for denying him, but that self-flagellation has waned. no, it takes a great deal of courage now to press your hand more firmly into him, to not rise onto your toes and suck at the skin under his jaw.

“goodnight, satoru,” you whisper, and shut yourself into your bedroom before you lose your resolve.

the night is cruel to you. it feels very much like sleeping with a black hole in your living room; you cannot ignore the thought of him draped over your sofa, body too long to fit comfortably. even with your eyes closed you can feel him from a room away. 

you toss under the covers, try to at least become entangled enough in your sheets that you cannot rise from your bed to check on him. you hope he’s fallen asleep by now, that you’re the only one left in this apartment awake.

being alone in the dark gives you more time to think, more time to resolve a decision you cannot yet name. you have been so insistent that to become ensnared again by satoru’s pull would be a mistake, let him leave you at the windowsill, stiff armed him at your door. you wonder whether any of it matters in light of the fact that you are utterly in love with him. of how much consequence could the physical distinction be now? in truth, you can’t tell whether you are freeing yourself from an obsolete stipulation or looking for any reason to abandon it.

in the blue midnight streaking through your curtains you can admit to yourself that a part of you, the fleshy part that wants for things, is simply too afraid that you need satoru more than he needs you, and to reconcile that is a task too treacherous to ask of yourself. what of the moment when, slick with sweat and the smell of sex, you move to kiss him again and he turns away? it’s all hypothetical, of course, but still it plagues you like a memory. and you suppose you have no reason to fear it at all; he has made clear enough that he wants you. 

it almost feels ridiculous to pine so excruciatingly over the father of your child. you’ve already done all of this before, no less as a teenager, and somehow now, a self-actualized adult, you hesitate and turn your knees in. you flip onto your other side with a huff. you’re only in a tanktop and shorts but you feel like you’re suffocating, or worse: something from inside of you is threatening to come loose.

you wonder whether he’s waiting for you in your living room. what a horrific thing to wonder. 

you creak open your door slowly and pad out.

it looks like satoru has given up on sleeping already. he’s sat upright, head tipped over the back of the couch and legs spread, an arm hanging over his eyes. you know he can hear you—you think he might have heard the moment you decided to come out—but he waits for you to address him.

“satoru,” you whisper. at last, he lifts his head, eyes sleepy but undeniably pleased to see you. he pats the spot next to him on the couch as he assesses your mild state of undress and you settle there, facing him. “i can’t sleep.”

he shakes his head. “i can’t either.” though he doesn’t look all that displeased, certainly not as he bends over to collect your legs and drape them over his lap. you let him. you let him drag one enormous hand up your bare leg, too, and he stops just below the knee but still you watch as goosebumps follow his fingers. your body is traitorous but you can’t find it in you to mind.

“when did we get so weird, huh?” he asks you.

“how do you mean?” “sometimes it feels like it used to feel,” he thinks about how you may take that a moment longer, “when we used to be friends.” you nod slowly. “sometimes it feels like i don’t know you at all.” 

honesty looks so pretty on his face. his eyes are slightly narrowed but they’re no less auroral, his lips slightly swollen on the bottom as he bites them between breaths. he points at your nose. “and sometimes, you make that face at me, and i—fuck i mean what am i supposed to do with that?”

you scrunch your nose. “what face am i making?”

“i mean you look—jesus, i don’t know.” he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further, before continuing, “i just wish you wouldn’t keep thinking in your head.”

you can’t help but laugh softly, bumping your foot into his stomach. “where else am i supposed to think?”

he flails at the sound of your giggle but his lips turn up. “i don’t know! i just spend so much more time now wondering what’s going on in your head. i want to know.” and then, to devastate you further, you imagine, he adds: “you used to tell me.”

you slide a little further into the couch, lay more of your legs’ weight on his lap. he lets his hands drift up to your kneecaps now. “okay, satoru,” you relent. “what do you want to know?”

“you’ll tell me anything?”

“i suppose that’s what i’m offering, yeah.”

he grins. “okay…” he taps his finger on his chin and you snort. “are you still afraid of me being in takara’s life?”

“a little. i’m afraid for both of you. but he…he loves you now, i think. ultimately i’m glad he can know you.”

“what about in your life?”

“what about it?”

“are you glad i’m in your life again?”

you smile, wry. “i think so. even though you torment me and make me spill my secrets.”

he puffs his chest and tugs your legs further into him. you’re almost in his lap, a few inches from it, but whether you notice is a question he decides not to ask. “do you still trust me the way you used to?”

“yes.” you do.

“do you still like me as much?”

“in what way?”

“all of them.”

“you’re greedy,” you whisper.

something punches from satoru’s lungs but you cannot discern what comes out. he says only: “yes, i am. answer me.” 

with a defeated breath you shrug. “yes.” 

his hands have both stalled on your knees, each thumb an omen breaching the threshold of your thigh. your skin twitches, you think, but you can’t look away from his face. he looks like he’s released one foot over the edge of some decision, you can see one teetering moment in the air, and then the resolve sets in.

“do you know how much i still want you?”

your heart kicks. “no,” you confess.

his hands remember themselves again, gripping up your legs higher, higher, now with purpose as they swing around his hips and move you to his lap. straddling him you can feel how hard he is already and you’re certain he can feel your wetness through your shorts, the slick is humiliating and so much. you whine a little and it comes out through your nose. his cock twitches.

“not today in my office?” his right hand cups the back of your neck. “not an hour ago?” your chest rises and falls, stumbling over itself. “you don’t know?”

and you have no faith in your voice now so you only shake your head as much as his hold will allow. he presses his hips into you just once, a fleeting indulgence you’re unsure if he even intended, but you whine again and it looks like it hurts him. 

“let me show you, baby,” he coos, but it’s desperate, too, a prayer into your lips as he brushes his nose against yours. “just one more time.”

you haven’t even finished nodding before you’re kissing him, both of you groaning into the other at the sheer relief of the feeling, his hands grabbing for anything he can reach: around your back, your tit, the globes of your ass to grind you down against him. the fabric of your shorts catches on your clit as it swells and you moan something awful in the back of your throat.

he kisses you like all six years apart demand it, like he can feel how long it’s been in the truest sense, like all at once the wanting has frayed his nerves and your lips cauterize the veins. he bites your lip to make you gasp, taking the opportunity to lick into your mouth as it opens.

you grind your clit onto him again, rubbing little circles on his tip through your clothes and he pants with the pressure. 

“satoru,” you whine, and he ruts up, harder.

“oh, say my name like that again,” he pleads, lips trailing down from your lips to your neck. his tongue streaks hot against your skin, sucking and biting and grinding you onto him like his cock is inside you already.

“satoru,” you repeat, and it comes out clearer without his tongue on yours but just barely. 

“fuck.” he rips your tank top off before attaching to you again, leaving hickies in the hollow of your throat, down over each breast, before taking a nipple into his mouth and laving his tongue there.

your moans almost come out like hums, all strung together, and he preens at the sound of them. you can feel the damp spot on his pants growing as you spread your slick, each wet kiss on your chest demanding a new wave from you. 

“i don’t even need to prep you, do i? you’re already so f–fucking wet,” and he punctuates it with a gyration of his hips that would have made you scream had he not clamped a palm over your mouth. 

you’re almost deaf with the rushing sound of blood in your ears but still you crane to hear him, each filthy utterance a precious thing you covet as he ruts up into you. if you were in your right mind you might find it funny that the experience of dry humping him feels so profound but as it is you can think only of the feeling of his veins through two layers of fabric.

despite how he may have goaded at you he brings one hand down your navel and under your shorts, feeling through your folds and spreading the honey of you further. your mouth is fully dropped open but his hand is large enough to cover it.

“oh, baby—yeah, that’s it, grind on it—you’re dripping for me.” he says it in that pleased way that makes him sound like an animal. you roll your hips onto the pads of his fingers and pleasure shoots up your spine at the rub of them on your clit, around your entrance. he circles his middle finger once before sinking it in and you keen. he holds you still with his other arm, nose pressed to your ear now as he whispers in it.

“f—fuck this pussy is so fucking tight.”

your hole flutters and sucks his digit in and he revels in the grip as he fucks you on it slowly. you try to bounce yourself faster but he squeezes your middle again, bites your pulse as it bumps in your neck. he murmurs there: “let it last,” using his hold to swivel your hips on his hand. your nails grip to his shoulders, surely making marks through his shirt but he lets you, frenetic and buzzing like he gains as much from touching you as you do.

the heel of his palm presses up onto your nub and you bow into him further, and he takes the movement to press another finger alongside the first. something searing and hungry licks up your spine, you’re close already, but there’s no indignity in it. you tug on his hair to bring his face to yours again, pulling back from the hand clamped over your mouth to lick behind his teeth, moaning into his mouth. “cum for me baby, come on,” he encourages.

your eyes squeeze shut as you come undone, heat spasming around his fingers as you soak him to the wrist. “fuck, f–fuck, that’s it,” he curses, mainly to himself, you think. you’re only half-lucid as you come down but you feel him pull his fingers from you and lick them clean, groaning softly around them.

“fuck me, satoru, please.”

his hair doesn’t move as he nods, stuck now to his forehead damp with sweat. neither of you have the patience to remove anything else, simply tugging your shorts to the side and his cock from his pants before you’re dripping right over it. his tip catches on your entrance and you both go half-boneless with the feeling.

when you sink onto him you feel a little like you did in his office earlier in the day. like time has stopped, or maybe like it has all arrived at your fingertips, like you’re everywhere. you remember this feeling, a little bit, but it’s also undeniably new. the stretch burns but you hardly feel it, taking no time before sitting on him to the hilt. your head drops to his shoulder, little pants into his neck, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“fuck you’re so fucking tight, baby, this pussy was made for me,” he chokes into your ear. you each have a handful of the other between your fingers, the lines of your palms tattooing him even through his uniform he still has mostly on. you hope his brand you the same.

all it takes is one, slow pull of your hips before he’s rutting up into you again, not so much ruthless as intense, deep and pregnant with meaning and so precise you wonder whether he’s using his six eyes to assess the inside of you. with one hand he holds your face to his ear to consume your moaning that way. you whine and when he shudders, bucking harder, you whine again.

“o–oh, these sounds are mine, this pussy is mine,” he stutters. the squelch of your cunt sucking him in seems to only encourage him, and you make yourself wetter just hearing it.

“it’s so good, satoru,” you whine.

he laughs softly, manic, “yeah?”

and you only wail quietly again. with each snap of his hips you thrust yourself down, clit throbbing and catching on the little white scratch of his pubic hair, and his other hand, still handled on the plush of your ass, rubs you harder as you move. you vaguely hear your little ah! ah! ah! but mostly you can feel the pleasure building again, can feel the vein down the underside of his cock as you wring him harder.

“hah–i won’t–fuck–i won’t last if you keep squeezing me, baby.”

you only feel encouraged, sliding deeper, revelling more in the slip of your slick as it floods out of you.

“ah–-i’m close, i’m close,” you breathe.

“fuck yeah, i wanna feel you cum on my cock, let go for me.”

and you do. have you ever really denied him? your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your hips buck wildly, the pleasure seizing you from the inside out. satoru moans feeling you ride your high, panting into your ear, “tell me to pull out.”

you shake your head, little smile creeping over your face as he fucks you through your high. “isn’t the damage already done?” you ask breathlessly.

and he can only laugh for a second before his hips stutter and still, pulling you into him like he wants to crawl inside of you and live in your stomach

“fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”

his cum is so hot as it fills you, and so much, your own orgasm jolting you again, exulting in the feeling. 

he drops his forehead to your shoulder now, sweat of your collarbone meeting the beads on his hairline. the sounds of your breathing mix, too; your cum and your hands and your warmth, all of it intertwined with his, maybe forever. he kisses you one more time, sated now, along a hickey he’d left on your neck before. you return one to the corner of his mouth.

he doesn’t say anything when he sits up straight again, supporting the wings of your shoulders with his hands. there is only that look on his face, a cousin to the one you saw the first day he found you and takara, but so recognizably relieved this time: everything is different now.

~~~~~~~

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[imomnba-x07]

I’m convinced that people who keep saying “oh what would Sam’s avengers roster even consist of” just haven’t been paying attention. Anyways.

- Joaquin Torres aka The Falcon. Obviously. Feel like that goes without saying.

- Ant man and wasp. Scott would drop quite literally anything for the chance to gain Sam’s respect. He’s Sam’s number one fan and was mentioned several times in BNW. He and Hope would be there in a heartbeat.

-War machine: also goes without saying. We’ve seen their bond throughout all the movies and his cameo in FATWS. Rhodey has Sam’s back.

- Black panther/ the Wakandans. Sam has kept an incredibly good relationship with the Wakandans (something Bucky somehow fails to do repeatedly) given how he is fully backed by them and they have no problem gifting him suits.

- Hell, by extension of the Wakandans, we can even add Ironheart to the list.

- the young avengers. Not only through Eli Bradley (who I am still holding out hope we are seeing again.) but I have no doubt Clint passed the word about Kate on to Sam as well.

- Thor. most purely because of the recent picture of the 2 of them together, but they were also avengers together at the same time, went to the same parties and trained together. Same can be said about Bruce. Speaking of:

- Bruce and Jen. Sam’s connected to the hulks now, after the whole ting with Ross I think it would be pretty obtuse to believe that Bruce didn’t immediately talk to Sam afterwards. Plus i firmly believe Jen will be the legal consultant to Sam going forward for the avengers. She also such a fan girl it’s almost impossible for me to believe she would miss out on this opportunity.

- Carol Danvers. Fury respected Sam, Carol respects Fury. It’s not that hard to imagine they would eventually cross paths with one another even after the battle of Endgame. (If ANYONE is co leading the avengers with Sam its her, even though Sam doesn’t need a co leading at all I’m just tired of the Bucky co lead narrative)

- Shang Chi. Mainly because he’s in the cast for Doomsday, there is no where else I can imagine him really going other than with Sam. And why wouldn’t he?

Let’s not pretend that Sam wasn’t fighting side by side with countless of hero’s. He’s a man about connection and finding commonality, you really think he wouldn’t introduce himself to his fellow avengers after the dust settles? There are plenty more I can add to this list, but I’ll leave that up to yall.

Let’s stop pretending like Sam isn’t a well connected man.

[starfinss]

ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴀᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴅᴅʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇʟᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱ — ᴡʀɪᴏᴛʜᴇꜱʟᴇʏ

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Genshin Impact

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Wriothesley + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 12,925

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: After beginning work as a doctor at the Fortress of Meropide, Siegwinne decides you and the Duke are a good match, and will do anything in her power to get you to together, even if she has to take drastic measures.

Or, alternatively, Siegwinne adds a little something extra to the Duke's tea. Chaos ensues.

As soon as the suture needle so much as touched the man sitting before you, he was already flinching away.

“That hurts!” He cried, “please, doctor, be gentle with me.”

It was almost laughable, really. Monsieur Phillip was a hardened criminal, or so you’d been told. He was a career criminal, you remembered the Duke remarking, and he’d been sentenced to serve time in the Fortress of Meropide for a myriad of things, such as assault, and even attempted murder, but here he was, a hulking mass of a man, whimpering in pain at the slightest prick of a needle. 

“Hush,” you said, tutting gently, “the quicker I start, the quicker it’s over. Now hold still.”

He flinched back again, eyeing the needle like it was out to get him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Please try and relax. I can assure you, I did go to medical school.”

Before he could say anything else, you made the first stitch, carefully, but quickly enough so as not to cause him too much pain. Even with the numbing gel you’d applied, it seemed that the patient’s pain threshold was quite low. It usually removed enough sensation that any leftover pain would be no more than a pinch, but even with that, you could see tears beading at his lash line.

A hardened criminal, indeed.

You finished the sutures quickly before bandaging the injured shoulder and giving Phillip some care instructions.

“And,” you said, “no more getting into altercations about work times, okay?”

Phillip sighed, casting his eyes away from you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smiled, kindly. “That’s doctor to you.”

It wasn’t wholly unexpected. Men tended to have lower pain tolerances than women did. You’d given stitches to many people before, and when it came to whining, the men tended to be the most common offenders. 

After Phillip left, you checked up on a woman who was resting in one of the infirmary beds, and after taking her temperature and walking away with your clipboard, you nearly tripped over Siegwinne, who had somehow snuck into your path without you noticing.

“Archons,” you exclaimed, a hand flying over your heart, “I need to put a bell on you.”

Siegwinne ignored your remark. “May I see the patient’s chart?”

You handed it to her. “The patient shows signs of improvement. Her fever has broken, and her delirium has started to clear up. She should make a full recovery.”

Siegwinne hummed meaningfully. “Very good. I was worried about that one. I am glad to hear she is healing well.”

You nodded, then turned, starting towards your desk, but before you could make it, Siegwinne called your name, making you pause.

“Yes?”

Her expression remained impassive, eyes curious, unsuspecting, and she tucked the clipboard under her arm as she closed the distance between you.

“Have you seen the Duke today?”

There it was. You didn’t know what you’d been expecting aside from this. Ever since Siegwinne had caught onto the fact that you’d developed a crush on the Duke, she’d tried to do everything in her power to set you up with him. In the beginning, that was all it was. A crush. It was a crush in the same way one would develop an infatuation with a colleague or schoolmate, based on their appearance or the limited positive interactions they had with them. It was no secret that Wriothesley was an attractive man. He was tall, and handsome, anyone with eyes could see that. You’d heard the whispers among female inmates and guards alike. You were not unique in feeling some form of attraction to him. 

But to Siegwinne, your silly crush was an opportunity. 

“You’re a good woman,” she told you, “and His Grace is always stressed. I fear for his health. I think you would be the right person to keep him company. You are a good match. Your influence and affection would do him much good.”

Siegwinne came to you with this a few months after you’d started work at the Fortress, completely out of nowhere, stunning you to silence. You had no idea how she’d caught on to your feelings, and when you expressed as much, she went into a rambling tangent about human behavior, something about the dilation of pupils, and how she’d been taking notes, and that was when you cut her off.

“Absolutely not.”

But nevertheless, she persisted. 

Siegweinne’s matchmaking attempts rarely ended conclusively, since she tended to see things as a logical cause and effect, and did not at all fit the way any normal human would attempt to court another. They mostly involved putting you and Wriothesley into situations that forced you to speak or interact with one another, with little to no regard to how much said situations were an inconvenience to you. Her first attempt, as such, embarrassingly enough, involved telling the Duke you’d had some kind of accident with an inmate, and when he came to the infirmary to check in, finding you unharmed and working at your desk, all that ensued was a lot of confusion. You wondered why he’d come all that way to see you, and he was surprised to find you not laying on one of the infirmary beds.

But, what her attempts did do, was make the way you felt about Wriothesley, which was no more than a passing fancy at first, grow into something more. 

And despite your best efforts, that only made Siegwinne latch on even harder. 

“Hello?” Siegwinne said, shaking you from your thoughts, “I believe it is polite to answer a question when asked one, or have human customs changed?”

You brushed off her unintentional rudeness, instead answering what she’d asked you.

“No,” you said, “I have not seen His Grace today. He’s a busy man, Siegwinne. You know that.”

“Well, you should go see him.”

You sighed, leaning down to take your clipboard from under her arm, then crossing to your desk.

“I don’t have a reason to go see him,” you said, sitting down, “and like I said, His Grace is a busy man.”

She didn’t push after that, simply going back to work as you did yours, and you tried to put it out of your mind. You and Wriothesley were friends, you’d say. Even though you usually found yourselves meeting in less than normal circumstances, you were still fond of him. You enjoyed his frank, matter-of-fact personality, and dry sense of humor, and he seemed to enjoy your company as well. Your relationship was as casual as it could be between you and a man who was technically your boss, and friendly enough that you had conversations outside of work related matters. You’d never let Siegwinne know this, but her repeated and clumsy attempts at setting you up were not without some benefits. 

That was fine, you supposed. You’d bonded over Siegwinne and her antics, and built a friendship over a shared love of tea, as well as an author you both enjoyed, among other common interests. But that was it. As much as Siegwinne, and, begrudgingly, you, would like to say otherwise, you and The Duke were only friends. 

And, it seemed, as you settled into that fact quite comfortably, Siegwinne only grew more brazen in her attempts at Melusine style matchmaking. 

Her latest attempt involved trying to shut you in a locked room with The Duke, which failed when Wriothesley produced the master key in order to open the door. It happened a little over a week ago, which made you nervous, because Siegwinne didn’t like letting too much time pass between her less than gentle shoves. You were almost completely certain that Wriothesley knew what was happening, he’d have to be stupid not to, though he hadn’t said anything about it. This was probably to spare you from any further embarrassment, which you appreciated. 

The situation was hopeless. You knew that well. But Siegwinne didn’t, and that was beginning to become a problem. You didn’t know why you’d let her get away with this for the handful of months that you had, but maybe, deep down, you hoped that something would actually come from all her meddling. 

And apart from that, you had a certain degree of professionalism to uphold. Wriothesley was your boss, and you were both his employee and his doctor. As much as you found yourself wishing otherwise, pursuing your feelings, even if that was an option, just wasn’t ethical. 

But still, you could dream, you supposed. Dreaming was harmless. 

“I need you to run an errand for me.”

You turned in your chair, raising an eyebrow at Siegwinne, who was staring over at you innocently, a thermos in her hands. You looked at it, then back at her, puzzled.

“Siegwinne, I’m not in the mood.”

She frowned. “To do your job? How unbecoming. I’m simply asking you to deliver this tea to the Duke. His Grace is suffering from a headache. I delivered some to him this morning, but the problem still persists.”

You glanced at the thermos again. “Tea? What’s in it?”

She immediately became defensive, and for a moment, you almost felt guilty for doubting her. 

“Medicine!” She cried, “what do you take me for? I’ve brewed a painkiller into the tea. It should help with His Grace’s headache. If you don’t trust me, you can take a sip yourself.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why can’t you do it?”

Her brows pinched together in annoyance, and maybe a little indignance. “I have to go see a patient, thank you. A young man is complaining of nausea, and finds it hard to stand because of it, so I am going to see him in his cell. Now, will you bring His Grace the tea, or not?”

You sighed. In your own mind, your hesitance was completely justified. Siegwinne had tried to trick you into being alone with Wriothesley many times before this, but then again, if the Duke was actually feeling unwell, and you refused to bring him medicine, what kind of doctor would you be? 

And so, you relented. With another sigh, you stood, snatching the thermos from Siegwinne’s outstretched hand. 

“Fine,” you said, “I’ll be back as soon as I drop it off.”

If Siegwinne was disappointed by this, she hid it well. She simply nodded, then crossed over to her desk to busy herself with her medical bag. You glanced over a few more things at your own desk before scooping up the thermos and leaving the infirmary after calling a quick few words of parting to Siegwinne, who only nodded. 

You shivered a little as you left the infirmary. Siegwinne tended to keep it warmer there, with a space heater sitting in the corner to combat the cold dampness of the rest of the Fortress of Meropide. It was better for the patients, she said, if they had somewhere nice and warm to rest and recover. You were fairly certain she also said something about humans and their preference for warmth, but that wasn’t important at present. 

The clang of your boots against the metal floors rang out as you walked, head held high, thermos in your grip. The air smelled of iron and brine, a scent you’d grown used to in the time you’d been working in the Fortress. Artificial light cast everything in a sort of ominous hue, and the low strength of it left everything in partial shadow. It used to make you nervous, not knowing what hid behind them, using them like masks. Now you knew that whatever was waiting for you was something you could handle.

You glanced down at the thermos in your hands. It was warm, likely just brewed. There was no way Siegwinne would have you serve the Duke cold tea. The thermos was plain; unassuming. It was slate gray, probably stainless steel. You turned it over in your hands, studying it. It was just tea. You had no reason to think it was anything other than that. But with Siegwinne, you’d learned to expect the unexpected.

Absently, you stepped into the elevator to take you down to the administrative floor. The car jerked, and with a mechanical clank, began to move. You turned the thermos over in your hands again. It’s just tea. For the Duke. Your poor, ailing boss. You twisted your mouth. It was fine. There was no way Siegwinne would ever do anything to actually harm Wriothesley. You tapped your nails against the surface of the thermos, almost jumping from your skin when the elevator came to an abrupt stop as it reached its destination, jostling you where you stood and ejecting you from your tangled thoughts. 

You sighed as you left the elevator, tucking the thermos into your arms and against your chest. Everything was fine. If Siegwinne took anything seriously, it was health. You’d caught her staring intently at you on many occasions, and when you asked her about it, she told you she was making sure you were healthy, in a very matter-of-fact tone, like it was obvious. She may be odd, but she wasn’t going to try and harm anyone. 

As you reached the doors to the Duke’s office, you reached into the pocket of your skirt, digging out the key to the lock. Because of the Fortress’s status as a prison, it was only natural that important areas such as the office of the warden would remain locked. The only way to get in was if you had a key or if you were invited by Wriothesley himself. There was also the off chance that the Duke left the doors unlocked, but that was uncommon. Regardless, before you put the key in the lock, you raised your hand, knocking on the door with a great clang. 

“Your Grace?” you called, though it was unlikely he heard you through the thick steel, “I’ll be coming in now. I have some tea for you.”

And with that, you pushed the key into place, twisting. With a grunt of effort, you pushed the doors open.

It was as you were opening the door that you heard him, calling to you. It was muffled under the mechanical clank of the doors, making you only vaguely aware of his call of your name, and you hurried to close the door to answer him. The lock clicked as you did, signifying that the mechanism had reset to its previous locked state. 

You expected Wriothesley to call out to you again after your lack of response, or even possibly to come see you. It was unlikely that Siegwinne would send you on an errand without previously announcing your arrival. But instead, you were met with silence. You gripped the thermos more tightly, hesitating.

“Your Grace?”

You heard something else then. A soft intake of breath, only able to be heard because of the complete lack of noise, save for the quiet hum of machinery from beyond the doors. Then, you could hear him clearing his throat. 

“Yes,” you heard Wriothsley say, from up the stairs, “up here.”

You sighed, relieved, as you made your way up the curving staircase and into the main office.

And as for things you expected to see, this was not among them.

Wriothesley was sitting at his desk, but he looked more than a little disheveled. His coat had been discarded, draped over the back of his chair, and his tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck. His waistcoat was also unbuttoned, as were the top two buttons of the dress shirt he wore underneath the garment. His gloves had also been removed, laying out on his desk beside an empty teacup. His hair was tousled, more than usual, and his face…

You furrowed your brows, suddenly concerned. His face was flushed, a deep pink settled in the apples of his cheeks, very evident against his usually pale skin. Breath, feather soft, expelled itself through parted lips, almost too quickly, as he looked over at you, brows pinching together, as if pained or troubled before the expression calmed. Wriothesley straightened, clearing his throat again, and he was hurriedly fixing his clothing, deft fingers doing up the buttons of his shirt, smoothing back over his hair. 

His eyes fell to the thermos in your hands, lingering, before sliding up to your face. 

You stared at him, your concern growing more by the second, and after a beat, you crossed to the desk, setting the thermos down.

“Your Grace,” you said, “I’ve brought you painkillers for your headache, but you look… May I examine you? You do not look like you’re feeling well.”

“Examine me,” he repeated, then took a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut before shaking his head, as if clearing away a fog. He swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, and it was then that you spotted sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Yes,” you said, gently, already in doctor mode, “please, let me help.”

He cleared his throat, for what was probably the third time, and you narrowed your eyes. You were rapidly beginning to get suspicious in addition to concerned. There was something he wasn’t telling you. Absently, you found yourself mentally scolding yourself for neglecting to bring your medical bag.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he certainly didn’t look fine, “please, don’t trouble yourself. You’ve come all this way for me, so would you at least sit with me for a cup of tea?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. It was fine, though, you supposed. Staying around wasn’t a terrible idea. It would give you a chance to more closely study the Duke’s behavior, and try and figure out what the problem might be. And so, you stepped to the table off to the side, picking a clean tea cup from the collection displayed there. 

“I don’t need any, really,” you said as you leaned over to take the thermos from the desk, “Siegwinne made this for you, for your head. I am happy to sit and talk with you, though, if you want me to.”

Wriothesley smiled easily. “If you like, I can brew you a cup from my personal collection of teas. What do you like?”

You flushed, feeling special, and you turned to busy yourself with arranging his cup of tea to hide the pink in your cheeks. 

“You already know my preferences, Your Grace,” you said, over your shoulder, “just a cup of earl gray is fine.”

You heard shuffling, then the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and you knew the Duke was rifling through the collection of teas he kept stored in his desk. Shifting your focus, you removed the small travel cup attached to the top of the thermos, then unscrewed the lid. Immediately, you were hit with the scent of the tea. It was unexpectedly sweet, and sort of floral. It certainly wasn’t the Duke’s usual style, that was for sure. You took another lungful of it, and could make out notes of various medicinal herbs, including rosemary and feverfew, both known to help with headaches. You could also smell a hint of lavender. But there was still that floral, sort of rosy scent, undercut by the bitter, citrus aroma of the feverfew. It smelled a bit like rainbow roses; of petrichor and morning dew and sweet fresh petals. It certainly had herbs in it, some of which were known to help with what the Duke needed, but the combination of them that you were able to discern was puzzling to say the least.

You put it out of your mind, chalking up the roses to being there to help with the bitterness of the feverfew. With a sigh, you poured the steaming liquid into the teacup. It was sort of a deep rouge color, bordering on purple. A nice color, you decided, and not entirely unexpected with what was contained in the tea. You placed the cup on a saucer, then carried it, alongside the still half filled thermos over to the desk, setting them before the Duke. In exchange, he handed you the tea bag you’d requested, which you accepted gladly. 

After you’d filled a cup with boiling water, which the Duke always seemed to have on hand in any nearby kettle, ready for a quick cup. You added the tea bag, as well as a few spoonfuls of sugar, then took your seat on the couch by the tea table. 

Wriothesley’s face twisted as he took the first sip from his cup, seemingly troubled. 

“It’s very sweet.”

You tilted your head. “Is it not to your liking? I’ll be sure to tell Siegwinne to tweak the recipe.”

Wriothesley waved a dismissive hand. “No,” he said, “I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s not my usual style, but I don’t dislike it.”

You nodded meaningfully, blowing over your tea once more. 

“How are things over in the infirmary?” He asked, and you sat up straighter, engaged. 

“Fine. The usual. I had a man who was scared of needles just before I came over,” you said, “I’d barely touched him before he was telling me to stop.”

Wriothesley laughed, amused. He took another swallow of tea.

 “Oh, really?” He said, “Monsieur Phillip, I suspect? That man always gets into brawls, but is terrified of medical treatment. And he never wins those brawls. The gardes always have to pull the other guy off of him.”

You hid your smile behind your teacup. “I know,” you said, “Siegwinne is always scolding him when he comes in for being reckless.”

Wriothesley rested his head on a closed fist, thoughtful, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Maybe a few rounds in the Pankration Ring would do him some good,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t go putting any ideas in his head,” you said, “he might become a permanent resident of the infirmary if he starts entering into any matches.”

Wriothesley made a face, pale blue eyes moving to rest somewhere in the depths of his teacup. “Maybe he’d pick up a few things about proper combat, though.”

It was your turn to laugh. “Maybe, but at the cost of his health.”

You enjoyed this. It was hardly the first time you’d been invited to stay for tea, in addition to being personally invited to tea a handful of times before. Wriothesley’s presence was pleasant and inviting, despite his intimidating stature and appearance. His height dwarfed many other people, and you’d seen few as tall as he was, save for the Iudex, who was far more slim than the Duke was. Where Monsieur Neuvillette was tall and lithe, Wriothesley was broad and powerfully built. His sheer size alone, made only more prominent by the bulky coat he wore around his shoulders, was enough to intimidate anyone.

But despite that, he was an amicable and good-humored man, earnest and straightforward. He made you feel at ease, and your growing affection for him settled low and warm in the spot behind your heart. 

His face was getting more pink, you noticed, with a start. You took another sip of tea, watching him closely. His brow furrowed, just briefly, and he was fiddling with the bands of leather around his throat, as if they were suddenly too tight. He shifted in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Your Grace?” You said, and he seemed to snap out of whatever had overtaken him, regarding you with raised eyebrows and an expectant expression.

“Sorry,” he said, “what were you saying?”

You studied him, eyes narrowed, and he laughed, a little awkwardly.

“You’re doing that thing Siegwinne does,” he said, “the thing she does with her eyes. I don’t know how you replicated it so perfectly. There’s nothing wrong, I promise. It’s just suddenly kind of hot in here. Do you feel that?”

You shook your head. In fact, to you, the room was cold. Just as cold as the rest of the Fortress, save for the infirmary. It was the reason for the thermal lining in the pale blue overcoat of your uniform, the color that marked you as medical staff, as well as the reason for the thicker uniform fabric worn by the majority of the other general staff. 

“No,” you said, and Wriothesley looked puzzled. 

“Oh,” he muttered, puzzled, “I was warm earlier, but I’m starting to get… hot now. I don’t suppose that’s normal?”

You cracked a smile at that. “No, I don’t think so.”

A spell of silence passed before your mind snapped back to what he’d just said.

“You were feeling overly warm earlier? When did that start?”

Wriothesley furrowed his brows, considering your question before answering. He took another sip from his cup, then poured more of the contents of the thermos into it.

“This morning,” he said, “I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, but it was maybe shortly after I had a cup of tea.”

You snorted, amused. “You realize how little that narrows it down, don’t you? You drink more tea than anyone I know, Your Grace. I need a measure of time, not cups of tea.”

He chuckled at that. “I apologize. I believe it was after Siegwinne delivered the tea she made for my head. Which is feeling much better, by the way. I think what I’ve been drinking while we’ve been chatting has helped kick the rest of it. I’m almost finished with the thermos.”

Suddenly, you made the connection. 

Almost robotically, and with learned efficiency, you went over the contents that you’d smelled in the tea, along with their uses. Feverfew, maybe some lavender, and rosemary. All of those had various uses, though they all had one thing in common, which was pain relief. Finally, there was the rainbow rose. The petals and buds were used for medicinal purposes, and could be used as such, similarly to common red roses, for anything ranging from headaches to a sore throat. 

Something was missing. Something was wrong. The scent itself had been off.

“The tea,” you said, “from before. Was it sweet?” 

Wriothesley nodded, taking another gulp, and finally, pouring the last of the contents of the thermos into the cup. “This brew is sweeter, though.”

You stood, then reached for his teacup, bringing it to your nose and inhaling. You caught the same things as before, but as you mulled them over, something else clicked. 

Siegwinne wouldn’t. Would she?

“It’s really hot,” Wriothesley said, and you could see the sweat beaded at his hairline, sticking the hair at his temples to his skin, cresting down his cheekbone. 

You reached out, and when the back of your hand made contact with his burning forehead, he flinched, making a soft sound in surprise and alarm.

“Why is your skin so much colder than mine?”

Your skin wasn’t cold. In fact, your body was at an average temperature, kept warm by the layers of clothing you were wearing. By your own assessment, your hands were probably relatively warm. You frowned, reaching into your pocket and withdrawing your penlight, circling the desk to situate yourself closer to the Duke.

The way he was looking at you when you drew closer was strange. Almost hungry. Famished, ice blue hues swept over your form, and you watched as his hands, previously resting on the desk, folded in front of him, over his lap. 

You moved closer, leaning halfway over to him, hand making contact with his face to tilt it towards you. He flinched at your touch, breath shuddering, and you studied his eyes closely before muttering a warning and shining your light into his face, instructing him to follow the light with his gaze.

“This isn’t… necessary,” he protested, weakly, and you ignored him. His pupils were blown wide, dark pits in the center of the sky blue of his irises. 

“Mydriasis,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him as you switched off your light and pocketed it. 

Your hand dropped from his face to just under where his jaw met his throat. You pushed aside the leather straps, just enough to access his pulse point, pressing two fingers to the spot. His heart was racing, quick and erratic, and you felt him shudder, breath heavy, his jaw setting tightly as your hands drifted across his skin, probing and searching. His skin was burning with heat, feverishly so, and coupled with the elevated heart rate, the blown pupils, and the way he seemed to flinch whenever you made contact with his skin directly, you could only make one conclusion.

“So,” you said, backing up to stand up straight, “this started after you had the first brew Siegwinne dropped off, yes?”

Wriothesley nodded. “It did.”

His voice. It had dropped several octaves in the time you’d been examining him, and you cursed the effect it had on you, coursing hot through your bloodstream. It felt so deeply unprofessional for a doctor to even think of her patient in the way the brief thoughts that fluttered through your mind suggested you do.

“Is it worse after this second batch?” You forced yourself to say.

He huffed a laugh. “You could say that.”

And it was then when you noticed, from where you were standing, that Wriothesley’s belt was undone. Rosy hues colored your cheeks as you yanked your gaze away.

“You need to tell me all of your symptoms,” you said, “spare no detail.”

Panic briefly flashed across his face as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

“Hot,” he said, “I feel far too warm. Do I have a fever?”

You narrowed your eyes. He was purposely hiding the truth, but nonetheless, you answered.

“Yes,” you said, “but I believe it’s because your body is overheated and not because you're fighting an infection. I just said not to leave anything out, Your Grace, please tell me everything. As your doctor, I–”

“I’m… Archons, I don’t want to say it,” he paused, searching, almost frantically for something else to focus on. “What was in that tea?”

You swallowed, leaning back to rest against the desk. 

“Herbs,” you said, “rosemary, feverfew, and lavender. All meant to help with pain and headaches. But I could also smell rainbow roses.”

Wriothesley brightened. “Yes, I thought that was what I tasted. It brings such a unique flavor to the table, don’t you agree?”

You fought a smile, endeared by him, but now was hardly the time. You needed to figure out what was wrong with him, not to discuss tea. 

“Yes,” you said, “but it was strange. Too sweet. It only gets to that level when the powdered roots of a Sumeru rose are included alongside the powdered roots of a rainbow rose, in which case the combination can make–”

Oh. Oh. 

As you were talking, it clicked into place. The scent, which you’d thought was much too sweet before, suddenly made sense. Sumeru rose must have been the final ingredient. It was flavorless when consumed, but smelled quite sweet. When combined with rainbow roses, the scent of the two grew overpoweringly saccharine. Unless diluted, it would almost resemble a syrup. If the rainbow rose petals were boiled alongside the powdered roots of the Sumeru rose, it could become a powerful medicine able to soothe a bad cough. But if the roots of both plants were powdered, the results were…

You cursed yourself for being so stupid. Of course, Siegwinne would see nothing wrong with this. Medicine was medicine, regardless of what the outcome of its ingestion spelled, so long as it got the desired result. To her, the suggestion of something unbecoming would be taken with great offense. 

“‘Can make?’” Wriothesley supplied, and were already imagining the ways in which you were going to rip Siegwinne a new one.

“I need your symptoms. Now. I am a doctor, Your Grace, I promise I will be as non judgemental as possible, just please–”

“Damn it,” he interjected, face hidden in his hands, “I’m aroused.”

Anything you’d just been about to say left your mind, swept away by dread, because you knew what was happening.

Siegwinne was evil. You could already picture her expectant, innocent face, asking just how her little ‘experiment’ had gone, and it filled you with boiling rage. 

Though, there was also the fact that she could simply be misinformed. Melusines had different reactions to some medicines than humans did, and it was equally possible that she simply thought that, if dosed with the tea, the Duke’s feelings for you, if he had any, would just be made more prominent. For her sake, you hoped it was the latter. 

“Aroused,” you parroted, trying hard to stay professional and failing miserably, because this was unethical on so many levels, “tell me more about that.”

He made a strangled, startled sound. “You want to know more?” 

You wanted to melt into the floor. “I need to know how strong the dose you’ve been given is.”

“Dose?!” He said, “of what?”

You refused to look at him. “When mixed together, the powdered roots of a Sumeru rose and a rainbow rose create a powerful aphrodisiac. I believe the first dose you received was a weaker version, and this one is much stronger.”

Silence followed as Wriothesley took in the information, then cleared his throat.

“Do you have an antidote?”

You raised your head to look at him properly. He looked almost haggard, the flush from his face creeping down his neck. 

“There… kind of isn’t one.”

Wriothesley made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, hands raising to card through his hand, and it was then that you noticed it. Now that his hands were no longer hiding it, you could see it, there, outlined against the dark fabric of his slacks. 

He was hard. 

A wave of suffocating, shameful arousal washed over you, and you forced yourself to look away, to ignore it.

You could only begin to imagine how he was feeling. The way you were feeling was nothing compared to him, his condition undoubtedly much more intense than your own physical reaction in response to his arousal, and you could feel his eyes on you as you scrambled to find a solution. 

“What am I going to do then?” He asked, “it’s getting… I’m sorry, It’s getting rather unbearable. I tried everything. It’s impossible to ignore, and I know I can’t use my hands.”

You spared him a glance. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, “I was already trying that. It wasn’t enough.”

Oh. The unbuckled belt. His disheveled state when you’d walked in. He’d already been dealing with the effects of the first dose, or at least attempting to. The call of your name, as you were entering the office. The silence before he summoned you up to the second floor.

Fuck. He’d been thinking of you. 

That had to be one of the hottest things you’d ever heard, professionalism be damned. Arousal rolled over you like a breaking wave, making you bite into your lower lip.

You knew what needed to happen. You knew the effects of this particular drug would take, and you knew that the only way to relieve his symptoms was either to very painfully wait it out or to… find relief. In this case, that entailed another person. 

“You need to have sexual intercourse,” you said, “or you can wait it out.”

Wriothesley cleared his throat. “Wait it out,” he said, “right, I can do that. How long will that take?”

You twisted your hands together. “It… depends. You were likely given a pretty strong dose, even for someone your size. By my estimate, it would probably take several hours for it to work its way out of your system.”

He chuckled dryly, humorlessly. “Great.”

You cleared your throat. “Do you have someone I could… call? A girlfriend?”

He snorted, as if amused by the idea. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

That would make sense, you supposed, if he was calling out your name, and not the name of another woman. 

“We both know what Siegwinne is doing,” Wriothesley said, “not just with this, but for the past few months. I can’t pretend I’m not fond of you, and neither of us can pretend there isn’t something between us.”

It was like the ground dropped out from under you at the sheer brazenness of his admission. You stared at him, thunderstruck. 

“You… what?” 

A cavalcade of thoughts crashed together as you rapidly attempted to process what he meant by that, but he barely gave you any time before he started speaking again.

“Look,” he said, “if you don’t feel the same, I can accept that. I’ll wait it out, and we can pretend this never even happened. But if you do, are you even… slightly interested in um… helping me? Because honestly, I feel like I’m about to explode.”

Heat coiled low in your stomach, threatening to overtake you as the lovely rasp of his voice made any of your logical thoughts close to meaningless. This was so vastly unprofessional. He was your boss, and you were his doctor. But something dangerously close to want was settling neatly over that space you usually reserved, that you looked to for reassurance about your professional standing with the Duke, to tell you that your feelings for him, ever growing, were improper. 

And when you turned, watching his face, the way his hungry gaze traced your body through your uniform, something in you snapped, and you threw caution to the wind.

Head lowered, face flushed, you swallowed your rationality and any remaining hesitance you had left. 

“I suppose,” you said, “I could use my hands.”

Wriothesley’s body jolted in anticipation, and his eyes betrayed his hesitance, darkened to steel blue with lust as he nodded once, then once more.

“Hands,” he repeated, “yes, hands are good. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

You found it touching that he was at least trying to take your comfort into account, even when he was drowning in desire, and you took a slow step forward as he shifted, pulling his chair out enough to allow you room to situate yourself on the floor in front of him. As you took another step, he took his coat from the back of his chair and laid it at his feet, another gesture you appreciated. 

Once you reached him, you knelt down between his thighs, and he watched you with burning eyes, flinching when your palms smoothed over his clothed thighs, jaw tightening. Medical curiosity echoed briefly in the back of your mind, taking note of just how sensitive the drug had made him to the simplest of touches, how he shivered as your nails grazed against the insides of his strong thighs. 

Fuck, he was radiating heat. So much so that it was beginning to affect you, and you shifted back on your knees to remove the overcoat layer of your uniform, leaving you in the blouse and underskirt beneath it. Wriothesley’s eyes followed your motions with rapt attention, and when you moved forward again, settling, you felt him jolt when your palm met his leg once again.

This close up, you could see it, just how much he was straining against his trousers, his erection pressed against his zipper, and hesitantly, you cupped it in your hand.

The Duke gasped at your touch, fingers twitching where he’d curled them around the armrests of his chair, then tightening in a white-knuckled grip as you ever-so-gently squeezed. He twitched against your palm, and you removed his belt entirely, dropping it to the floor with a clatter before you were unfastening his button and zipper.

You palmed him through the fabric of his underwear, and you could already feel how big he was just from that. A sort of eagerness threaded its way into the burn of your arousal as you pushed away any remaining layers, pulling him free.

Fuck. He was so thick, and when you slowly wrapped your hand around him, your fingers just barely met. He was long, too, though you supposed it made sense for a man of his size. He was flushed red, painfully hard, and when you squeezed, you felt him twitch once more, his body tightening like a coiled spring. His hands tightened their grip on the armrests, flexing, and you felt his hips shift forward, unconsciously. 

The first stroke made his head roll back, the sound he let out one of relief, just from that simple touch alone. It made you squirm in place, the sound of his voice and the stricken hitch of his breath causing the desperation of his arousal to bleed into your own building need. Precum was beaded at his tip, and you almost wanted to lean forward to lap it up, especially as more leaked out in response to the way you were stroking him in slow, even movements. 

Heavy breath expelled through clenched teeth, followed by a low, low groan as your thumb found his tip, rubbing in slow circles, and it was then that you leaned forward, giving into temptation as your tongue pressed to the underside of the head of his cock in a slow lick.

“Oh,” he gasped, “oh, you don’t have to– oh, fuck.”

He cut himself off as you lapped at his slit, groaning through his teeth. He was already completely lost to pleasure as you pumped the base of him, and when you took him into your mouth, sucking on the tip, you heard him curse, a sound drawn out with a low, decadent groan. 

“You said your hands– oh!”

Arousal was settling low and smoldering hot in the pit of your stomach, pooling between your thighs, and you whined as he whispered your name. You released him from your mouth, hands moving to rest on his thighs, and you dragged your tongue up and along the underside of his dick, gathering up any precum that had dribbled down. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his slacks, lips grazing the side of his shaft, and he repeated your name, louder, voice twisted with an urgency that made your blood sing.

It was embarrassing, just how quick you’d gotten like this, punch drunk on the reactions he gave you, the way his body reacted to your touch. It filled you with an addicting sort of power, one that threatened to overtake you if you weren’t careful. But right then, all you wanted was to add fuel to the ever growing fire. And, with the way he was breathing, rough and ragged and broken, you doubted he’d be opposed to that. 

Your tongue flicked out, against the fold of skin just below his tip, and he tensed, crying out helplessly. When you finally took him in your mouth, fully, his head fell back against his chair, a feral groan tearing itself from his throat as your tongue pressed firm against him. Your hand moved from his leg to encircle the base of him again, squeezing and stroking in tandem with the slow bob of your head, and making the Duke gasp at the sensations. 

When you sucked, just a little, Wriothesley babbled a string of curses, hips twitching up towards your mouth, and when you ducked down, bobbing your head, one of his hands flew from the armrest to the back of your head. You thought he’d push, or maybe take control, but all he did was lace his fingers into your hair, unmoving. His body shuddered under the roll of your tongue, under the press of your free hand to his stomach, creeping under the layers of clothing covering him, his skin fever hot against your own.

You took him deeper, and he twitched, hips jumping as you hollowed out your cheeks, drawing back before surging forward once again. You relaxed your jaw further as his hips bucked, and he muttered an apology, breathless and feverish. His head pitched back as you rubbed your thumb against his base, and he twitched again, sharply. When you looked up at him, through your lashes, he was gazing down at you with hooded, burning eyes. There was desperation in his cool blue hues, a wordless plea for anything, everything you could give him.

And with everything you had, you delivered. 

You dropped your jaw, swallowing as much of him as you can, drinking in the sound of his breath shuddering, tapering off into a low moan. You sped up, gradually, and the sounds he made were so madly erotic that you found yourself aching to reach between your thighs and take care of your own growing need, but you could hardly focus on anything apart from taking him as deep as possible without choking. The sheer girth of him was enough to make your jaw sore, and when you moved forward again, he hit the back of your throat, making tears catch in your lashes. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, drawing the word out with the sound, long and low and you kneened around him, making him curse and buck. 

The hand not tangled in your hair raised to his face, balling tight, and he bit down on his fist, stifling his uncontrolled cries of ecstasy, eyes squeezing shut, brows pinching in concentration. He was trembling beneath your touches, twitching against your tongue, and when you moved back to suck on the tip, slow and indolent, the noise that left his mouth was nothing short of pornographic. 

“Yeah,” he seethed, voice breathy, needy, “fuck, yeah, don’t stop.”

Not a chance in hell you were doing that. You clamped your thighs together, squeezing around nothing, and you knew you were soaked, evident in the way your panties were sticking to your skin, your thighs tacky with sweat and the soak of your own arousal. Your hand curled into a fist where it rested on his stomach, then flattening once more and flexing, searching for anything to anchor yourself. When you took him into your mouth once more, fully, he bucked his hips, groaning with no regard for volume. He was close, teetering on that edge, evident from the way his grip on your hair grew tighter, the way you could feel the muscles in his stomach tensing, and when you took him deep and sucked, he moaned, long and low, the sound almost forced from his fraying lungs. The sensitivity had to be maddening, you decided, and you’d use that to your full advantage. 

Slowly, you pulled back, lapping at the leaking tip, hand working tirelessly at the base of him, and you barely had any warning before he tipped over the edge, back arching, breath all but leaving him. You shifted back in surprise, reflexively, and cum painted itself across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the seam of your lips. You closed your eyes in an attempt to keep anything from getting into them before you were hurrying to take him in your mouth, sealing your lips around him. His hand was fisting in your hair, and the sound he made, a low, breathless groan, was one of sheer, debauched relief. 

You sucked, and he let out an obscene moan as you swallowed down his cum, hips jerking, the hand previously fisted between his teeth flattening against the desk, palm slamming down, just once, and you heard the rasp of wood under fingernails as he moved to grip the edge. 

You slowed, working him through the intensity of his orgasm, as he twitched and throbbed under your touch, the sheer volume of cum surprising you. It leaked from your mouth, down your chin, and you did your best to swallow as much of it as you could. He slumped, boneless, against his chair, and when you moved to clean him with your tongue, you got to listen to the delightful sound of him gasping from oversensitivity.

“Fuck,” you heard him say, dazed and utterly breathless, “fuck.”

Slowly, you drew back, and his eyes followed you, breath hitching and gaze darkening as he took in your appearance. The sight of you, knelt before him, covered in his cum, was enough to make him groan aloud, cheeks flaring pink.

“Archons,” he said, “that has to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a short, breathless chuckle.

“Do you have a rag or something?”

He nodded, once, and you stood on shaking legs before leaning sideways against the desk, and he pulled you closer, gently wiping your face clean with a tissue before depositing it in the trash situated under his desk. 

“How do you feel?” You asked, and he huffed what may have been a laugh, nearly disbelieving.

“That was… Incredible. But I’m still, um…”

You crooked an eyebrow, watching him, expectantly.

He looked almost guilty. “I’m still hard.”

Oh. Oh. 

You weren’t completely surprised. You didn’t know if a blowjob alone would be enough to work the drug from his system, and clearly, it wasn’t. Not that you minded. Your own arousal was a steady pulse below your skin, working like a second heartbeat. Desire coursed through you, and you pressed your thighs together once more. You wanted it. You already knew that. You wanted him. 

“Alright,” you said, and what was left of any phantom of resolve, or the shreds of your until recently professional relationship with him all but vaporized, “sit back.”

“You don’t have to,” he started, the protest as fragile as glass, but you cut him off.

“I want to. I’ve… wanted this– you– for a while. So please, Your Grace– Wriothesley. I want it all. If you’ll have me.”

That was all it took. With a low, shuddering breath, a signal of his rapidly fraying restraint, he was yanking you forward and into his lap, his fingers working the buttons of your blouse open, hurriedly shucking it down your shoulders once undone. He made quick work of the ties fastening your skirt to your body, and you briefly shuffled off of him to drop it to the floor, along with your stockings, before resituating yourself on his lap. 

“If I’ll have you?” He rumbled, the low, rough ombre of his voice sending prongs of lightning down your spine, and he yanked you closer, mouth dragging along the curve of your jaw.

“How could I possibly refuse?”

And then, for the first time, he was kissing you. 

His lips were burning hot against yours, and your fingers found his hair, threading into messy locks, nails dragging against his scalp. He huffed a sigh into your lips as he nudged his tongue between them, tilting his head to slot his mouth more firmly against yours, and when his tongue dragged against yours, you moaned, low and soft, into his mouth. He kissed you slow and deep, almost a juxtaposition to the way he was feverishly running his hands, large and calloused, down your body, and when his fingers grazed over the patch of nerves just where your lowest rib met the curve of your waist, you shuddered in his hold. 

You could taste the tea he’d been drinking on his tongue, cloyingly sweet, and it was almost too much when mixed with the heady, spiced smell of his cologne. Everything about him was overwhelming you in the best way possible, rendering you pliable and soft in his hands. Fuck, Wriothesley needed his own warning label. It was almost funny, really, just how riled up you were when he was the one who had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. 

His teeth caught your lower lip as he drew back, tugging, before he was diving back in, hands planted firmly on your hips, and you let out a stuttering gasp as he pulled you forward, his bare cock pressing against your stomach. 

The way he shuddered at the contact was enough to make your head spin with arousal, and when you shifted forward once more, just to see what he’d do, the grip on your hips grew to nearly bruising. 

“You have no idea,” he husked, low and rough, the very threads of his sanity slipping from between his fingers, “how hard you’re making it to hold back.”

His words shot straight between your thighs, and you rolled your hips again, loving the way he stiffened. You felt his palm, dragging slowly up your body, then finally moving to cup your breast through the fabric of your bra, squeezing. You arched your chest into his touch, his name whisper soft on your lips. 

He unfastened your bra after some fumbling, his coordination clearly beginning to become impacted by the drug. Once the garment was discarded, he barely gave you time to breathe, and you gasped when his head dipped down, mouth dragging across the valley of your breasts, skating along the side of one before his lips found one of your nipples, drawing it into the heat of his mouth.

He groaned at the taste of you, indulgent, as he laved his tongue over your flesh, hands sliding up to grip your waist, holding you in place, allowing him to explore the newly exposed skin with his mouth as much as he pleased. He was strong, his grip like iron, but it didn’t prevent you from slowly rocking your hips, rubbing your clothed cunt against his bare cock, and the way he groaned into your skin was a sound of delirious pleasure. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost disbelieving, “fuck, I’m a lucky man.”

His tender words made your heartbeat quicken, and you squeezed him closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt, and you quickly unfastened them, pushing the cloth away to smooth your palms over his bare skin. Gently, you pushed him back against the chair you were both situated in to look at him, and the sight before you was almost too much.

You already knew he was muscular, that much was obvious by just looking at him. But beneath his clothing, among thickly corded muscle was a patchwork of scarred flesh. You’d known about some scars; three of them crept up over the collar of his shirt, partially hidden by the straps he wore around his throat. There was also a collection of them on his arms, and of course, the one under his right eye. The ones that were hidden wove their way across his chest like a roadmap, some of them faint, and others more prominent, pale threads across his already pale skin. You laid your palm against him, tracing the one closest, and he shuddered, leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers skimmed down his chest, to his trim waist, and when your thumb caught in the deep v at his waist, he let out a soft grunt. 

One of his hands moved from your waist to your hip, squeezing the plush flesh, then migrated to the apex of your thighs, and when his middle finger rubbed you through the sodden fabric of your panties, a high, breathy whine tore itself from your throat. He pressed harder, and your back arched, eyes falling half-lidded when he circled your clit through the fabric.

Then, without warning, he was pushing the cloth aside, and the feel of his calloused finger dragging across your entrance was enough to make you jerk in his hold.

He dipped his head, forehead making contact with your shoulder, and it took you a moment to realize he was watching himself, observing the sight of his hand between your legs. When your hips twitched, he used his opposite hand to hold you steady, effectively forcing you to stay in place as he did what he pleased with your body. 

“Please,” you whispered, and that was all it took for him to tire of his teasing, sinking his finger inside you with a slow, indulgent movement.

You gasped, the sound bleeding into a moan when his finger curled inside of you, and he pushed you down, forcing you to take him to the knuckle. You whispered his name as he curled his finger again, and when he added a second finger, you squeezed your eyes shut. He groaned at the sound it made when he thrust his fingers into you, the lewd, embarrassing schlick of you around him, and you had to take a moment for your jumbled thoughts to catch up with you. His fingers were so much thicker than your own, not to mention longer, and he was hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. He thrust again, and you cried out, hips twitching, causing him to tighten his grip. 

The curl of his fingers hit a spot inside of you that made you see stars, and when he felt the way it made you tighten around him, he began to abuse it with everything he had. 

“Oh, Gods,” he groaned, “you’re so wet.”

You could do no more than gasp as his palm ground against your clit, and he held you there, forcing you to take it as he pressed in slow, maddening twists of his wrist before replacing his palm with his thumb.

It was arousing how easily he could manhandle you, and you had absolutely no desire to fight against him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were getting close, embarrassingly quickly, and you could do nothing to stop yourself from hurtling towards that end, walls throbbing and contracting around his fingers.

One of your hands shot between you, encircling his thick wrist, and you weren’t sure what the purpose of that was, either to push him deeper or simply to find purchase, but you did know that your desperation made his dick twitch where it was pressed between you, forcing him to stifle a groan.

You convulsed in his hold, hips jerking in his iron grip, his name on your lips, and with a final press of his thumb against your clit, you came hard around his fingers, biting down into his shoulder, and he worked you through it with slow thrusts that made stars and celestial bodies dance across your closed eyelids. You called his name, urgent and drawn out, yet high and needy, and he replied with a groan of his own, his free hand flying from where he was holding you in place to wrap around his own cock, palming it, thumbing the head, forcing a moan from between his teeth.

You slumped heavily against him as you fell from your high, and when he withdrew his fingers, you let out a shuddering breath, the sensitivity sending your thoughts into nonsense. Your head was spinning, thoughts in a daze, and all you could feel was him as he panted for breath. 

Seconds of silence, only interrupted by heavy breathing, passed before you rose on unsteady legs to discard your panties before you were settling over him once more, and he watched with hazy eyes as you shifted forward, pressing your bare cunt against the underside of his shaft in a slow grind. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, brows pinching upwards, the sensitivity clearly unbearable. Suffocating, maddening lust worked its way through your bloodstream like a toxin, and you knew he needed more, from the way his hips rutted up in halfway thrusts as you rubbed against him.

“Fuck,” he choked, head falling back as the tip of his cock caught against you, “I wanna–”

You rocked forward, and his entire body jolted, tearing a groan from deep in his chest.

“What do you want?” You asked, breathless, and he lifted his head to look at you, the fog of desire in his eyes downright sinful.

He yanked you close, trapping his cock between your bodies, and into a frenzied kiss, his restraint all but gone as he unabashedly moaned at the feel of your skin. 

“I want,” he husked, mouth pressing open kisses against your jaw, and he stopped, breath hot against your ear, “to be inside you.”

Your breath left you in a rush, and you drew him into a deep kiss, one he returned with vigor, hands smoothing down your body to grab at your hips, pressing you forward and against him once more, and when you pulled back, his eyes were wild with desperation and maddening lust. 

“I don’t have protection,” he said, and you shook your head, dismissing him.

“I’m on birth control,” you said. Siegwinne made the tonic you took, something she supplied even to female inmates to help with lightening periods. But right now, it would be used for its intended purpose. Wriothesley nodded as he took this information in, seemingly relaxing a little.

“Please,” he mumbled, and you blinked, surprised to hear him beg for anything, but you were hardly going to deny him, “I’m going insane. I need you.”

You took a shuddering breath as you shifted up, using one hand to brace yourself as you took his cock in your hand, pressing him against you. You both cried out in unison at the feeling, even the slightest whisper of much needed friction enough to make you feel lightheaded, and you felt his hands grasp your hips, urging you downwards.

You sank down, slowly, and even the tip of him was a stretch, a dull ache blossoming as you pressed closer. Both hands landed on his shoulders, breath heavy, and he groaned lowly at the sensation.

“Slow,” he said, fighting for control, “c’mon, you can take me. Relax, deep breaths.”

You nodded, once, as you did as he instructed. Your knees shuffled as you pressed yourself down, met with more resistance, and forcing you to stop, gasping for air. He was only halfway in and you already felt full, stretched to accommodate him. It was unfamiliar and new, and you weren’t used to this, but his grip was tightening, and with a deep breath, you thrust down, taking the rest of him in one quick motion. 

The sting of the stretch danced across your frayed nerves like a livewire, and you grit your teeth, head slumping forward as Wriothesley let out a long, low groan, both of his hands rushing to your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place. 

A string of curses left his lips as his head fell back, and you could feel him throb inside of you, so deep you could hardly believe it, stuffed full to the brim. 

“Just– oh, or you could just take it all. Fuck,” he quieted, breathing heavily, before speaking again, “are you– did that hurt you? Are you okay?”

The pain wasn’t horrible, and you hesitated to even call it pain. It was just an ache, dull and unpleasant, but you’d been wet enough that taking him hadn’t caused you any actual damage. You sat still as you adjusted, the aching burn of the stretch rapidly fading into something maddening, replaced by a desperate need. 

“I’m fine,” you said, voice strained, “I’m okay.”

He nodded, once, before drawing you close, linking your mouth to his in a kiss far more gentle than you’d expected. You felt him throb, and when you squeezed, you got the pleasure of hearing him groan your name.

“You’re so tight. Please, please– yeah–”

His head fell back as you rocked your hips, lifting yourself up, only to sink back down, and when you repeated the action, he groaned helplessly, a string of almost nonsensical praises spilling past his lips, only serving to make you want to wreck him even further. 

Sheer, uncontained relief was tangled inextricably with every sound he made, his hands squeezing your hips as you took him again, and again, and again, and oh fuck, you felt like you were being split open, impaling yourself repeatedly on his fat cock. The burn from before turned into pure ecstasy, the stretch of him inside of you intoxicating, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck as you moaned out his name. He wasn’t even bothering to stay quiet, not that it mattered, nobody could hear from outside the heavy office doors, which was an advantage right then. 

You keened as his hips rose to meet you, the base of his dick rubbing against your clit. You sank down, taking him fully, ejecting any rational or sensical thought from your head, grinding in deep, easy circles, and you could feel blunt nails digging into your hips as he held you in place, totally drunk on pleasure. 

His grip eased as you slid back up before taking him again, and he was kissing you frantically, one of his hands flattening against your breast, rolling the nipple under the rough pad of his thumb, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Faster,” he hissed, pulling back to meet your eyes, “faster, ride me faster.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, using them as leverage to move yourself faster, arching your back as the new speed made you see stars, and you whined, burning pleasure shooting through you at the grind of his cock against your clit.

“Good girl,” he groaned, dizzy with pleasure, “yeah, just like that.”

You could feel yourself getting close again, and you groaned his name as you swiveled your hips. Your thighs were beginning to burn with the exertion, even with just the short time you’d been moving at this pace, and when he felt you shudder, his hands found your waist, helping you along.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” Wriothesley panted, “that’s it, fuck me just like that.”

He was moving you with his own hands, easily, and you tried your best to move along with him, swiveling your hips whenever he bottomed out, and his head fell back in rapture, gasping for air. 

Your orgasm was approaching fast, and you were helpless to its pull as you sped up, chasing after it frantically, the sound that filtered through your clenched teeth one of desperation. You felt like you were losing yourself, and when you sank your teeth into the soft flesh of his throat, an unrestrained groan fell past his lips, his hips bucking up with enough force to make you see stars. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you tipped over the edge hard, stilling as you clung to him, sobbing his name into the curve of his shoulder.

You tightened to a vice grip around him, throbbing as your climax crashed over you, and you heard him growl at the sensation, hips bucking, still working his cock up into your messy cunt. Before you could even start to come down from your high, you were moving, and the frigid steel of the floor met your back, rapidly heating from contact with your skin. One of his hands gripped at your leg, tucking beneath your knee and holding it up, and then he was driving forwards, hips slapping against yours as he filled you once more.

He paused, shaken by the intensity of the sensation, before his head pitched forward, breath heavy, and he was thrusting again with a renewed vigor, nails digging into your flesh. 

His name was the only thing on your tongue as he fucked you, so good it made you feel like your head was emptying itself out. His mouth found yours as he leaned forward, supporting his weight on his forearm, laid beside your head, giving him more freedom to do what he pleased with his hips. The base of his dick was rubbing against your clit once again, and you whined, squirming beneath him, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Wriothesley,” you gasped, head fuzzy, completely cock drunk as he broke the kiss to mouth at your neck, “deeper.”

He groaned, low and indulgent, and when his hips snapped forward, filling you completely, your back arched against his chest.

“Deeper?” he repeated, the baritone timbre of his voice lowered to an uneven bass, “you want it deeper? That what you want, gorgeous?”

“Please,” you sobbed, “please, give it to me.”

A low, rough chuckle was the only warning you got before he was thrusting forward, hips flush against yours, and he repeated the action, again, and again, and again, making you bite your lip to keep from wailing at the intensity of it all.

“Oh, fuck,” you heard him gasp, stricken, indulgent, “fuck, yeah, that’s it.”

It felt so good you could hardly think, and when you babbled his name, lust drunk and fucked dumb, he pressed soft kisses along the column of your throat, almost like a reward, a thank you for letting him do this to you. 

His pace was growing sloppy, but he showed no signs of letting up, and in the back of your mind, you figured was probably just going to keep on going, even if he came. It was rapidly beginning to become far too much for you, and you moaned, high and breathy, when he rammed himself all the way in, grinding his hips before pulling out less than a quarter of the way, then thrusting back in. He was so deep, and you writhed under him, fingernails scraping against the floor before you were clinging to him. He was moaning, low and breathless, the way he was moving causing you to helplessly spasm around him, forcing you violently over the edge when the base of him rubbed just right against your aching clit. 

You could feel tears, beading at your lashline as the sensitivity became maddening, but he wasn’t letting up, even as you arched and bucked and wailed beneath him, the intensity of your climax rendering you incoherent. He knew exactly what he was doing, just how to push every button he needed to, and you were halfway between deliriously begging for more or sobbing at the sensitivity. 

A string of curses left his lips as he came, gushing hot and thick inside of you, but he wasn’t even pausing, even as his groans tapered into breathy moans from the way he was overstimulating himself. You could feel him, throbbing, pulsing inside of you as he filled you, uncaring of the way his cum  dripped out of you. The sound of it, combined with the slap of skin against skin, was unbelievably lewd, but you hardly had the wherewithal to even think, let alone be any kind of embarrassed. If anything, it only drove you higher. 

“Fuck,” Wrothesley cursed, low and broken, “I need it again, please, again– fuck!”

He shifted back, grabbing at your legs and pressing them down beside you, and you thanked the Archons you were flexible as he continued, leaning forward once he had you in the position he liked and taking your body with abandon. He was hardly bothering to hold back his strength as he hammered into you, and your head fell back against the floor with a soft thud, eyes rolling back. 

You’d never felt like this before in your life. Your legs were growing sore, and your back was going to be stiff from the way he was fucking you into the floor, but you didn’t care, not as you got to listen to the way he was saying your name like a prayer, how he was caressing and kissing your body like it was sacred. Exhaustion was a heavy weight against the blurred edges of your mind, and all you could do was lay there and take it as he chased after what he so desperately needed.

It didn’t take long for him to grow close again, and he whispered your name as his end quickly approached. You yanked him into a kiss, which he returned with a groan of ecstasy, and then, with a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he was cumming. The force of it made his entire body tremble, and the sound he made was one of satiated, relieved bliss as he emptied himself out inside of you, the heat of him almost suffocating, burning you from the inside out.

His hips jerked with unconscious movements and spasms as he drifted down from the staggering height of his climax, his breath heavy, and he slumped, weakened, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. His mouth pressed lazy kisses against your skin, and you lifted a hand to run it through his hair as he finally, finally began to grow soft inside of you.

The two of you lay there, still joined, for what felt like hours, bathing in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of it all. His breath fanned across your skin, feather soft as he lifted his head to join your lips together, before he slowly pulled out, rolling off of you, dazed. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice hoarse, and you arched your back, flexing your body. You winced at the soreness. You were undoubtedly going to have bruises from how hard he had been gripping you. 

“I’m fine,” you said, “are you–”

He snorted. 

“Yeah,” he said, “that uh… that did the trick.”

You laughed, a little breathlessly. You didn’t know how you’d be able to stand after that, genuinely. Your legs felt like jelly, and a deep, all consuming exhaustion was settling over your senses.

“You think it’s gone?” You asked, “the drug, I mean.”

He looked at you sidelong. “I don’t feel uncontrollably horny anymore, so I’d say so.”

Wriothesley sat up, flexing his shoulders. He tucked himself back into his pants, and then he was gathering you into his arms, rising to his feet.

“What are you doing?” You asked, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

“Taking you to the bath,” he said, “I have a bathtub, in my living quarters.”

You relaxed, settling into his arms. “Oh.”

His living quarters were attached to the office, through a door you’d somehow never noticed before. You were far too tired to take in any of the details of it, instead opting to close your eyes and rest your head on the nearest comfortable spot on Wriothesley’s chest, which he didn’t seem to mind at all. 

He set you in the tub, and after the water was run, you were surprised to see him climbing in along with you. It wasn’t unwelcome, and seeing him completely bare was hardly a bad thing, and you were pleasantly happy when he began to gently wash you, and once he was finished, he tugged you back, settling you against his chest.

The bathroom was silent, save for the musical sound of running water, and you allowed yourself to close your eyes, settling into the comfortable atmosphere. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” Wriothesley said, and you opened your eyes to look up at him.

“What?” You asked.

“About being fond of you,” he said, “you’re… an amazing woman. I want–”

You leaned up, kissing him, and effectively giving him an answer to his thoughts. He sighed into the kiss, content, one large hand rising to cup your face, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone.

“I guess Siegwinne succeeded,” you said, and Wriothesley smiled, amused.

“I guess she did.”

You stayed in the bath much longer than you expected, until the water became cold, and once that happened, Wriothesley whisked you off to the bed, tucking you under the covers after supplying you with one of his shirts to wear. You smiled when he joined you, now dressed in a pair of sweats, chest left bare, and curled up beside you, tucking you close to his chest. 

Sleep came quickly after the lights were switched off, the exhaustion from before spreading over you like wildfire. 

And, when he thought you were asleep, you felt him, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his body relaxing against yours.

BONUS:

You were agonizingly sore. Your stiff muscles had stiff muscles, and while Wriothesley was sheepish, and apologetic, and promised he’d treat you to dinner to make it up (which you would be taking him up on), it made walking back to the infirmary the next morning a little difficult. 

What was even worse was the look on Siegwinne’s face when you entered, ruby red eyes knowing as she watched you approach.

“How’s the duke?” She asked, and you handed her the accursed thermos without saying anything.

“Fine,” you said, slumping down into your chair with a sigh. 

She smiled. “Good. Are you seeing him again tonight?”

You turned, brows furrowed. “How did you know about that?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Someone saw you leaving his office this morning. I suppose what I put in the tea worked a little too well.”

You stared at her. “Siegwinne, you put an aphrodisiac in his tea.”

She paused, concerned. “No I didn’t. I put a supplement to further enhance his desire for you. If we’re being frank, it’s closer to a love potion. Just to get rid of any inhibitions. It’s medicine. But it isn’t meant to cause anything like–”

You rolled back your sore shoulders. “Yeah, well, it did.”

Her face went pale, but she briefly covered it up. “I… suppose I miscalculated.”

You laughed, then. Really laughed. It startled Siegwinne, who stared at you with growing concern.

“It’s fine,” you said, “whatever, Siegwinne. At least you don’t have to keep going with trying to set us up. Focus your energy on making ‘love potions’ that aren’t aphrodisiacs in humans, okay?”

She flushed, quiet, then nodded, once, her eyes taking on a determined look. You were beginning to regret saying anything. 

With a smile, and a good natured nod, she put her hands on her hips, ever the dutiful nurse.

“I’ll get right on that.”

Fin.

[ramen8008]

Tony having a list of habits of the avengers that annoy him yet also altering the entirety of the compound to meet those habits.

Tony: You realize how annoying it is to have you in my vents?? Just let me breathe my 5 million dollar air in peace

Also Tony installing a proper scanner which doesn't ring any alarms if Barton is in the vents but instead just makes in a video compilation of each time he falls.

Tony: Thor I swear to the Gods. If you take one more Pop tart from me I wil-

Also Tony bulge buying Pop tarts for every time Thor visits.

Tony: Cap how do you not kn- No being frozen for 80 years is no excuse. This is vital part of history, No I don't care that it's "just a show" this changed lives

Also Tony installing a "Cap is confused again" Protocol on FRIDAY for each time there's anything Steve doesn't understand which might be basic knowledge to everyone else so FRIDAY can give him a summary of it all.

Tony: Nat you need to stop hiding weapons everywhere. I can't be going around finding machetes in the compound!

Also Tony providing her as much space she needs for her weapons in each room if that's what she needs to feel safe.

Tony: No! No magic. Wanda you go through my head again and I swear you'll regret it. My therapist quit, you think you can handle it? Nuh uh this is a magic free household young lady.

Also Tony installing a whole new simulation based training room so she can practice her magic properly.

Tony: Bucky, I know I'm rich but can you please stop crushing my equipment and cups

Also Tony very gently talking to Bucky about everything he is doing step by step as he checks up Bucky's arm. Giving him his own room with open windows so he doesn't feel trapped with every bit of little hobby he might pick up from knitting to painting to playing the piano. A bookshelf with the entire limited edition of The Hobbit and every 40s music he might like. And some more recent songs in case he decides to "stop being old".

Tony: Strange I need you to stop doing that shit. I understand you're a wizard but don't they have rules for that? Like no magic outside of Hogwarts until you're 17? None of that weird stuff in the tower... ever.

Also Tony creating a special meditating room for Stephen with Pink Floyd playing where he can just calm down for a while in the tower and somehow a room in the mirror dimension when he really wants peace and quiet.

Tony: Vision I know you're an AI who is very interested in human nature and I am flattered but I swear if I hear one more explosion because you tried to learn knitting or the piano I will find an off switch whether or not you have one.

Also Tony making every single hobby Vision wants to pick up possible in the best way. Providing him his own kitchen to getting him a piano teacher because he wanted to experience "learning by being taught"

Tony: Banner I get that you have everything under control which is great but my lab is not big enough for The Hulk

Also Tony making his lab big enough. Getting him his own lab. Making sure he had everything he needed to calm down when he couldn't control the Hulk. Labeling him as the "strongest avenger". Getting him a therapist. Making sure he never feels alone yet always has peace

Tony: Rhodey you need to understand that when I say I'm fine I'm fine. You act like such a party pooper you know that?

Also Tony who trusts Rhodey with his life and everything. Making sure Rhodey never feels lesser than. Who couldn't be more grateful that Rhodey stuck by him throughout everything and always stayed. Tony always turning to him for advice and no matter how much he acts like Rhodey is being a bummer always takes his words to heart.

Tony: Peter.... Don't walk on the ceiling! Oh my God don't die! What the hell kid please don't explode your homework again! Your aunt is going to KILL me! You mess with the suit again and I- No , you can't borrow my suit what do you mean? I told you to stay back, tell me what you interpreted that as? No the adults are talking.

Also Tony doing everything that kid wants no matter what. Making sure his suit is so safe that he might as well be immortal. Buying him everything he even remotely suggests to liking. He has his own room in the tower cause of all the time he spends in the labs.

"You want to test out this new thing with your webs but it requires this extremely expensive and toxic chemical? As long as you wear proper protection!"

"you said you had to write about a famous place you went to but since you haven't travelled much you were gonna write about the Stark exhibition or times square.....So I got you these world tour tickets. I think they hit every landmark , just message me the ones they don't and I'll handle it. And don't worry there are two so your aunt can go with you"

[immortalmrwavell]

BetterShirts

(Original story posted August 21st 2023) This story has been Updated!

“Holy crap! Your tits are even bigger than before!” Matty exclaimed as he reached out and grabbed one of Sarah’s huge new pecs. He couldn’t help giving it a firm squeeze. He adored how soft the muscle felt while knowing damn well those pecs could become hard as rock with a single flex.

“They must’ve given me one of the men’s shirts by mistake.” Sarah huffed, looking down at her new muscle bound body. Her gay best friend was obviously enthralled by her strong masculine form. “I’m surprised my leggings haven’t ripped yet with how big my thighs are…” She added, glancing down at the tight fabric that now strained across her muscular legs. Not to mention how they struggled to contain her hefty new bulge.

Sarah had been going to BetterGym for just over a month now. It was an expensive place but well worth the money because when you arrive they give you what they like to call a ‘BetterShirt’ that shifts your body into whatever shape you’re striving for. They have multiple fits for both men and women. Men’s bodybuilder, Men’s toned, Women’s lean, Women’s powerlifter and so many more! For example men that wore the men’s bodybuilder shirt would immediately hulk out into giant muscle beasts. It’s said that working out while using these body morphing shirts can help train your body to remember that physique and grow into it naturally at a much quicker pace when you’re not wearing the shirt. Until finally you don’t even need the shirts to look like that anymore! So many men and women had used these gym shirts to reach their dream bodies many times faster than they would’ve normally. Seeing results that would usually take years becoming attainable in only a few months of consistency.

Today Sarah decided to bring one of her best friends Matty with her as a guest. Unfortunately he couldn’t get a shirt without being a full member but he still got to see what it was all about as Sarah asked for her usual Women’s Aesthetic shirt. The staff who provided BetterShirt’s quickly grabbed one and presented it to the young women who gave a swift thank you before heading into a changing stall. Little did Sarah realise, she probably should’ve checked the tag on the shirt before slipping it on…

Usually what would happen is her body would become slimmer in some places and curvier in others to give her that perfectly balanced female form. But this time something was different. Instead of her body simply reshaping itself, it began growing from every angle! Arms and legs bulging with thick muscle as her height shot up rapidly. “What the fuuuck… is happeninnggggghhh…” She groaned in a voice that got noticeably deeper with every grunt. Her back and shoulders widened. Her breasts flattened only to make way for a pair of giant pecs that grew in their place moments later. Even her ass lost its feminine shape in favour of a tighter looking but still rather thick man butt. Her voice really dropped a couple octaves however when a hug pair of testicles formed between her legs followed by a fat juicy cock that replaced her former genitalia. Her entire body continued to pulse and grow as her face changed, losing its soft gentle features in return for rugged manly ones accompanied by some stubble and a shorter haircut.

Moments later a total hunk burst out of the stall, giving Matty quite the scare at first until Sarah explained what happened. She poked and prodded at her masculine body awkwardly for a moment, trying to wrap her head around what the hell just happened. Squeezing her biceps, exploring her new shape, grabbing her own muscle ass a little. So much so that it encouraged Matty to reach out and do the same. How could he resist grabbing pecs as massive and juicy as those given the chance.

“Yep. The tag says Men’s Aesthetic. Not Women’s” Matty confirmed once Sarah asked him to check the collar for the shirt tag.

“Shit. Well I better go and swap this for the right one.” Sarah groaned in annoyance.

Just as the newly formed hunk was about to make his way back to the BetterShirt staff, Matty stopped her for a moment. “Hold on! What’s the rush? You look hot as fuck right now. You can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it’d be like to be a guy. All big and strong with a deep voice and powerful muscles.” He wiggled his eyebrows a little. “Come on. Just one gym session won’t hurt right? Think of all the heavy ass weights you’ll be able to lift now.”

Sarah glanced over at a wall mirror nearby and saw the man she’d become. An aesthetic male version of herself with broad shoulders, big pecs and a skinny waist. She had to admit Matty was right. She did look good. A little meathead-ish perhaps but still sexy nonetheless. And though she’d wouldn’t admit it out loud, the man she’d become was absolutely the type of man she would’ve envisioned when fingering herself. Just the thought of that made her new male anatomy start to chub up a little. The sensation of which was pretty bizarre.

“Fine. One session. But after that it’s back to the Women’s Aesthetic.” She claimed. Little did she know how deeply in love she’d fall for her manly new body over the next couple hours. Relishing in the explosive power her enormous muscles contained. Finding herself subtly groping her bulge when she thought nobody was looking until she had to excuse herself to the men’s bathroom so she could get a proper look at her new cock. It wasn’t long then until she realised how addicting the feeling of having a dick truly was. Especially after nutting for the first time before walking back out into the gym like nothing had happened. Though Matty had his suspicions judging by how long Sarah had spent back there.

Unfortunately shirts had to be returned at the end of every session. After she’d taken off the shirt and reverted back to normal she found herself feeling an intense wave of disappointment that she hadn’t expected to feel. A wave so intense that she couldn’t stop thinking about being a man and having a cock between her legs for the rest of the day. Needless to say Sarah was back at BetterGym the very next day and this time she actually requested a Men’s Aesthetic shirt! It was too intoxicating to resist. Before long it became one of the only BetterShirts she wore.

It’d been over a month now since that initial mix up and she was still wearing the men’s shirts. Still turning into a hunky man almost every day. Still sneaking off to the bathroom to jerk off her thick temporary cock between workouts. And now she’d started hoping that one day, if she continued to wear the men’s shirts for long enough, that one day she wouldn’t revert back. That eventually she’d be able to walk out of that gym a man… forever.

[cheriladycl01]

Could you do fic for Toto Wolff with wife reader? He wants nothing more than to be in bed with you all morning long after everything goes on during the races. Bonus: they had a son, Jack. Just something fluff and cute. Maybe a little suggestive 🫣 Thanks!! :))

Stay, just a little longer - Toto x Wife! Reader

Plot: your husband just wants to stay in bed for as long as possible

A/N: When it comes to these toto fics I never like using the name Jack. It just doesn’t feel right to me, and I hope you guys can understand this. I still will write with a child, just unnamed and most of the time genderless! Thank you all!

You woke up to the sun just rising, your natural work body clock waking you up only a few minutes before your alarm.

The sun leaked through the soft curtains draping across the wide bay windows in the room, making it that as you turned over you could see the hue across your husbands back.

He was laying on his stomach arms tucked around the pillow his head lay on and light snores coming from him. The morning light, no matter how low or high it was when the pair of you woke up always managed to make him look like he’d been carved by the gods.

You check the time on your phone seeing you still had 10 minutes before you alarm is due to go off so you cuddle into your husband who rolls over in his sleep pulling you closer to him.

You drift back off into a dozy sort of sleep, still able to hear the world start to move as the working day came to an open and people started to get along with their day, while remaining completely in the bliss of being cozy in bed with Toto.

However that faded in those short 10 minutes when your alarm sounded waking the pair of you up. A groan came from the hulk of a man next to you, pulling you closer into him and dipping his head into the crevice of your neck.

“Toto, come on. Alarm time means we have to get up” you coo at him, as your play with the end strands of his growing hair.

“Stay” he groans, “Just a little longer”

“Nope, come on! We need to make our little monsters breakfast” you smile at him and his eyes open, squinting as they attempt to adjust to the growing light in the room.

“Arghhhh please?! Does he even need school? He can just be an uneducated driver! Like Lando, or Max!” Toto says his sleepy morning voice taking over.

“Toto!! Our children need schooling at least at this age. If they want to pursue karting that’s fine but right now they stay in school!” You exclaim, outraged at the thought of pulling your children out of education early.

“But I just want to stay here with you. And show you how much I love you!” He says, eyes fully opening and a smirk coming into his face, suggestion all over his tone.

“We’re all going to be late, come on! You’re the worst” you laugh, pulling the covers off the pair of you.

“Argh fine. I’ll get breakfast ready while you get ready for work” he offers, placing a kiss on your forehead before taking his glasses and sitting up right on the bed. You get out as well heading into the en-suite.

You have an uninterrupted shower, managing to wash your hair too. You step out drying yourself off hair included with the hairdryer in your dresser before choosing which suit you’d wear to the office today.

You sit at your vanity turning the light on, staring to do your less invasive skincare that didn’t need the sink.

A shuffling noise is behind you, making you eye the surrounding in the mirror seeing your daughter at the door.

“Morning mumma” your daughter says, coming closer to you, still in her pyjamas and blanket clutched in her little fist.

“Hi darling! You wanna come sit while mummy gets ready?” You ask her as you spin round on the chair to look at her so she knows you’re focused on her. She nods sleepily trotting over to you.

She was a quiet little girl, and so when it came to her sitting on your lap, watching you place on your skincare and makeup before moving onto your hair she didn’t cause any interruptions. Just curiously looked through your makeup, placing items carefully back where they belong.

It was way different when you did this with your son, who would fidget and try to look at what you had in the draws but putting it on his own skin. He’d put it down to wanting to ‘match with mummy’ which you always found endearing.

“Now … how do you want your hair?” You ask locking eyes with your daughter in the mirror. A thoughtful look on her face appears making you giggle before she motions for pigtails.

“And what are they called?” You asked knowing exactly what she would say.

“BIGTAILS!” She squeals happily making you laugh and start in her hair.

10 minutes later your daughter has her hair done and is back in her room, while you help her and your son put their school uniform on.

“You did your own shoes? Well done sweetie” you smile at your son, seeing her already put his shoes on the correct feet and done up the Velcro straps.

“I wanna do my own shoes too!” Your daughter says running into her wardrobe to grab them.

“Woah, both of you are becoming so grown up!” You exclaims however see your daughter begin to struggle to get her foot in the shoe.

You help her out and she hugs you as a thanks.

“Breakfast is ready!” You hear come from downstairs and you pick your daughter up knowing your son would want to do the stairs like normal. You stand in front of him, making sure he wouldn’t trip.

You meet Toto at the bottom of the stairs who’s acquired his dressing gown, a chill to the unused bottom floor of the home.

You get them set up on the table while Toto dishes out breakfast. A light kiss is placed on his cheek as you lean up to get it.

“Life couldn’t be better” you sigh sitting next to him and taking a sip of Orange Juice.

“You’re right, it couldn’t be” he smiles at you. God he wished you could stay in bed all day, but he also loved moments like this.

Domestic and Pure.

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw (poly 141 x afab!reader, female pronouns)

Calling this anon, HBD and I hope you enjoy this.

“Woke you up, sweetheart?”

Your eyes flutter open when you feel a hand caressing your face briefly, the sunlight seep through the seam of the curtain, basking the bedroom in a scrim of orange as your mind process who’s beside you when you meet a pair of tender brown eyes.

“Kyle…” Stretching out your limbs then roll out from underneath the duvet, you rest your head on his lap before answering him “Not really, was about to get up after all.”

A click from the door turns both of your attentions towards the direction, the door’s not even open fully, but Johnny’s voice pops up from behind already.

“Who got the lassie out of her beauty sleep already?” He closes the door behind, and the mattress dips when he joins you and Kyle on the bed. “Ye know you can nap a bit more, eh? A perk of being a birthday girl.”

“Before Simon and John come back from picking up the cake?” You snicker when Johnny’s eyes widens a bit at your words, but a scoff of laughter quickly replaces the surprise, follow with Kyle’s chuckles ringing from the top of you.

“Already said that she’ll find out one day, Soap.” He reaches his arms out again, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“Not that hard to figure it out when you both started convincing me to have a nap every year around afternoon?”

“aye,” another pair of hands tracing circles on your calf, and you shift your gaze to meet Johnny’s again. “Forgot about we got a smart one for us.”

A shudder leaves you when Kyle gently maneuvers you to sit up, your head rest against his chest while Johnny scoots closer to you on the bed, and you huff out a laughter, feeling Kyle’s warmth seeping through his shirt with Johnny’s breath fanning on the nape of your neck. “So this is why they’re the one getting the birthday cake, and you two are the one staying home with me?”

“We’re more entertaining than those old men.” Kyle eyes meets Johnny’s for a brief moment, as if seeking his approval. Yet nothing speaks louder than Johnny’s hand traveling upwards, stopping at your inner thighs and palming the supple flesh in a sensual manner.

Your hazy mind’s clouded with pleasure, Johnny’s face burying between your legs, lapping like a starving dog through your wet folds, make sure every spots are taken care of and changes between sucking the swollen nub and teasing your entrance with little swirl of the tip of his tongue. He groans obscenely whenever you squeeze your thighs around his head, chasing each drop of your essence with the same passion of a bloodhound, no way he’s going to waste any drop of those precious juices. Leaning back on Kyle’s body, his hands slipping past the hem of your shirt, his lips pressing against yours hungrily, drinking all your moans elicited by his fingers flicking and pinching your hardened nipples down with his tongue leading you in a deep kiss. It’s until your back arch upwards, thighs trembling and riding through your orgasm with Johnny’s lips giving little sucklings to your twitching clit, resting your cheeks on Kyle’s shoulder and recovering from the release, that you finally notice the two hulking forms lurking at the open bedroom door.

“Told you muppets to keep her entertained, not wearing her out before she has her birthday cake.” John chides them with his gruff voice, but the amusement in his tone is obvious, not to say the smirk on his lips when you look at him with glazed eyes.

“ 'm just having my cake first” Giving a peck to your pussy lips, Johnny unabashedly smirks back to the captain.

“You’re not even the one whose birthday’s today, Johnny.” Simon sets down the cake on the nightstand, rolling his eyes before looking down at you, gaze soften a bit at the view of your blissed out face. “But the princess looks happy enough, guess Gaz and you had take good care of her, huh?”

“Can always count on us, Ghost.” You hum softly as agreement to Kyle words, which gets a snort from Simon, but he sure does approve his statement.

You eyes land on the cake, exquisite decorations with just your favorite flavor, they always spoil you even more when it’s your birthday, from refusing you to do any chores and ushering you to lounging around in the house, to gifts and cake that always make you confuse how these hotheads know that you’ve been storing those products in your basket for months but always close the app after staring at the ‘buy’ button and hesitating whether you should buy them or not.

“Thank you.” Your eyes shift from the cake and the presents, to meet each of theirs. Each of them distinct, convey their love to you in their own unique fashion, yet share the same affection and devotion to you.

“Does the birthday girl want her cake first…” John scoops a bit of the whipped cream from the cake, letting you have a taste of the creamy sweetness, then his chest rumbles with laughter when he spots the eagerness in your eyes, thumb slide past your lips and allow you to lick the cream clean from it. “Or she wants her ‘birthday gift’ from us first?”

You’re suddenly aware of how they surrounded you in a circle, John sitting in front of you between your spread thighs, his bulge restrained by his trousers nudging your puffy pussy—still wet from Johnny eating you out and you’re sure it’s dripping juices and staining the bedsheets now, body heating with desires of all your men drowning you in their scents— and Kyle’s cock already poking at the fat of your ass, his arms circling around your waist as he waits for your response.

“Doubt she’s able to enjoy the cake when she just wants us now.” Ghost tilts your head, tossing his gloves aside before sneaking a kiss from your lips, tasting the remnants of the whipped cream from devouring you in a prolonged kiss. You don’t have to give his crotch a glance to know he’s probably rock-hard too from watching your little show earlier.

“Cannae wait to get yer pretty cunny filled with our cum, eh?” and Johnny…the shameless bastard’s already stroking his dick through his sweat pants while teasing you.

“Well…Can’t say you’re wrong…” Giggling at them, you admit your wish without hesitation, before getting pulled into a kiss again, relaxing entirely under their touches and indulging in all four men’s pampering.

Because birthday girl deserves all the attention from her lovers, yeah?

[nomie-11]

Piltover's Princess - Part 2

masterlist! | part 1

synopsis: vi is a little bit less of a blushing mess now that she's got piltover's princess on her territory

pairings: vi x reader

The first time Vi had gotten you alone, she was unreasonably happy. Everytime the two of you had been together before this it had been on your turf, under your circumstances, with your people surrounding you, and Caitlyn had always tagged along. 

You had even let Vi play dress up—something that you never did, not even for your sweetheart of a mother—and let her pick out some casual clothing for you to wear. And she thought you looked absolutely adorable in the plain brown leather jacket and black pants she had picked for you, even if you shifted uncomfortably in the plain clothes. 

“Vi, I feel like I’m wearing a costume,” You said flatly, tugging at your sleeve as you stood in front of her, the fancy decor of your bedroom suddenly feeling foreign and unfamiliar in your new attire. “I look ridiculous.” 

“You look adorable, princess,” she corrected, a wide grin on her face. “Ready to conquer Zaun?” 

With a sharp, yet endearingly deep breath, you nodded, stealing your expression. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

—------------------------------

You were not ready. 

Zaun was an entirely different world from Piltover. The air was thicker, darker, and the streets were damp and uneven as you dutifully walked next to Vi. Even the way you walked made you stick out like a sore thumb, your strides too long, your head held too high. You looked every bit the royalty you were painted to be, even when you wanted nothing more than to become Vi’s shadow. 

“There’s so much I have to show you,” Vi rambled, her eyes bright with excitement as you turned another corner. “You have to try my favorite food ever—oh, you’re going to love Zaun style street food! And I have to take you to The Last Drop—you need to meet Powder and Ekko! And then we need to watch the skyline after the sun goes down from the rooftops, there’s firelights everywhere, and Piltover looks beautiful from Zaun’s rooftops! And–”

You stumbled on a loose cobblestone, the toe of your worn boots catching on the edge of the stone before you could resituate yourself, and you felt yourself falling with a small yelp. 

Vi reacted instantly, her reflexes sharp as ever. Before you could hit the ground, her strong arms were around you, steadying you effortlessly. 

“Whoa, easy there, princess,” Vi said, her voice filled with concern, but her ears pink. “You okay?”

You looked up at her, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… not used to these streets.” You straightened yourself, brushing imaginary dust off your pants, trying to calm the blush that covered your face. 

Vi laughed, a warm and genuine sound that made your heart flutter. “Guess we gotta get you some Zaun-proof boots next time, huh?”

You gave her a small smile, grateful for her attempt to lighten the moment. “Maybe. Or you could just catch me every time I fall.”

For a second, Vi wished she dragged Caitlyn along as well, because now there was no one to cover for her as she stumbled over her words—her mouth caught somewhere between “of course I’ll catch you,” and “please marry me.”

————————————

The stand that Vi brought you to for food was… interesting, to say the least. 

“We need to have the seafood skewers. Oh! And we need the tentacle stew—and you have to try grilled Zaun-style fish heads!” She rambled as you approached a stand with a huge blue fish-man behind the counter. 

The vendor, a hulking figure with vibrant scales and a grin that revealed jagged teeth, greeted Vi with a hearty laugh. 

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Vi! Who’s the fancy friend?” He teased, his eyes flickering to you. 

You swallowed nervously, feeling like you were out of your depth—quite literally. 

“This is Y/n,” Vi said proudly, nudging you forward. “Piltover’s finest—and she’s here to try real Zaun food.” 

The vendor laughed again. “Piltover royalty, huh? You sure you can handle our flavors, princess?” 

You straightened your shoulders, determined not to let the teasing get to you. “I can handle it,” you said with as much confidence as you could muster. 

Vi smirked, clearly amused by your defiance. “We’ll take two skewers, a bowl of stew, and—uh—one fish head.” She grinned at your flushing face. “Start small.” 

As you waited for your food, Vi leaned against the counter, casually talking to the vendor about Zaun gossip. You listened, marveling at how comfortable she was in this world that felt so chaotic to you.

When the food arrived, the smell was… overwhelming. The skewers glistened with an oily sauce, and the stew was bubbling with chunks of blue fish meat. Then there was the fish head, its glassy eyes staring right at you. 

“Ready to dig in?” Vi asked with a grin, holding out a skewer. 

You hesitated, staring at the fish head like it might come back to life. “Do I… eat the eyes?” 

Vi burst out laughing, nearly doubling over as a light blush covered your cheeks. “Only if you’re brave enough!”

You shot her a mock glare, grabbing a skewer instead. You took a cautious bite—and to your surprise, it was delicious. Smoky, salty, with a tangy kick that lingered on your tongue. It was incredible. 

“That’s… amazing!” You beamed, your eyes lighting up as you eagerly went for another bite. 

Vi froze for a moment, staring at you with a mixture of disbelief and adoration. “You… think so?” she asked, her voice unusually soft. 

You nodded enthusiastically, savoring the flavors. “I’ve never tasted anything like this before. It’s so different—but in a good way!”

Vi’s heart did a little flip at your excitement. The way your eyes sparkled, the way your lips curved into that radiant smile, the way you hummed in delight at every bite—it was too much for her to handle. You were too much. 

“Y-you’ve got, uh, sauce on your cheek,” Vi stammered, her usual confidence crumbling as she gestured vaguely at your face. 

You blinked, then tried to wipe it away, missing the splotch entirely. “Here?” 

“No, uh, lower… wait, here, let me—” Vi reached out with a napkin, gently brushing it against your cheek. She was so close now, her face inches from yours, and she could feel her ears heating up as her eyes locked onto yours. 

Your cheeks flushed as you felt the warmth of her hand so near, her punk hair catching the dim light of the streetlamps. You weren’t sure if it was the slightly spicy food or Vi’s proximity, but your heart was racing. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. 

Vi quickly stepped back, the napkin crumpled in her hand as she tried to collect herself. “N-no problem. Just—uh—looking out for you, princess,” she said, her tone uneven. 

You couldn’t help but smile at her flustered state. “You’re adorable when you’re nervous, Vi,” you teased, leaning slightly closer. 

Vi’s brain fumbled for a moment. Her tough exterior cracked completely as she stumbled over her words, her face growing redder by the second. “I’m not—! I mean, you’re—! Ugh, why are you like this?” she groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment before peeking out with a sheepish grin. 

You laughed, the sound ringing clear and light in the crowded streets of Zaun. “Maybe I just like seeing you flustered,” you said with a playful wink, savoring the familiar sight of pink dusting Vi’s cheeks. 

Vi shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible, princess.”

—-------------------------------------------------

After the meal, Vi led you further into Zaun, the streets bustling with a lively energy that seemed to pulse through every corner. The closer you got to The Last Drop, the more you noticed how the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t chaotic or oppressive like you had feared; instead, there was an undeniable sense of community. Neon signs blinked overhead, casting colorful glows on the groups of people gathered around makeshift stalls and street performers. Children darted through the sparse crowd, their laughter echoing off the dark brick walls. 

“You’re going to love this place,” Vi said, glancing back at you with a grin. “It’s basically my home. Vander and Silco turned it into something really special—a real hub for the Lanes.” 

You could see the pride in her expression as you approached the large, well-worn building. The Last Drop’s sign hung prominently, now accompanied by a glowing neon art that gave it an almost welcoming feel. The faint hum of music and laughter spilled into the streets, and you felt your earlier nervousness start to melt away. 

Vi pushed the door open, the scent of aged wood and spiced drinks greeting you. Inside, the place was alive. Tables were filled with Zaunites of all ages, sharing food, playing games, or simply chatting. A small stage in the corner featured a group of musicians, their melodies blending seamlessly with the clinking of glasses and friendly chatter. 

“Vi!” an unfamiliar voice called out, and you turned to see a young woman with bright blue hair bounding toward you. Her grin wide and sparkling eyes were impossible to miss. She had the cutest twin buns in her hair, and a streak of pink contrasting beautifully with the almost neon blue of the rest of her hair. 

“Hey, Pow!” Vi replied, catching her in a quick hug before gesturing toward you. “This is Y/n.” 

Powder’s eyes lit up as she gave you a quick one over. “So you’re the fancy Piltover princess. Vi’s been talking about you nonstop. Welcome to our world!”

You felt your cheeks warm at Powder’s words, glancing at Vi, who was suddenly avoiding your gaze with a sheepish grin. “It’s nice to meet you,” you said, offering a small smile. 

Powder grabbed your hand, practically dragging you deeper into the room. “Come on, you’ve got to meet Vander—oh! And Ekko! You have so many people to meet!”

Vi trailed behind, chuckling at Powder’s enthusiasm. “Easy, Powder, let her breathe.” 

But there was no stopping her. Before you knew it, you were standing in front of Vander, the man who seemed to exude both strength and kindness. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression softened when he saw you. 

“So you’re the one Vi’s been sneaking off to Piltover for,” Vander said, his voice deep but warm. “Welcome to Zaun. You must be something special to get her to bring you here. Vi’s always talking about how she and Caitlyn are always running into you, it’s nice to know she has more than one friend.” 

Your cheeks burned as you glanced at Vi, whose ears had turned a bright shade of pink. She scratched the back of her neck, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. 

“Uh, yeah. Cait and I have run into her a few times,” Vi mumbled, avoiding eye contact with Vander. 

Vander smirked knowingly, but didn’t press further. “Well, any ‘friend’ of Vi’s is welcome here. Make yourself at home.” 

Before you could respond, Powder grabbed your hand again, tugging you toward a smaller table in the corner where a boy a few years younger than you with bright, curious eyes sat hunched over a complex-looking device. 

“Ekko! Look who Vi brought!” Powder exclaimed, plopping down beside him and resting her head on his arm, before gesturing toward you with a flourish. “This is Y/n Talis. She’s from Piltover, and she’s super fancy!”

Ekko looked up, his face lighting up with a mix of excitement and curiosity. “Talis? As in Jayce Talis? What brings you down to Zaun?” 

You hesitated for a moment, still adjusting to the whirlwind pace of the evening. “Vi’s been telling me a lot about Zaun. I wanted to see it for myself—and meet the people who make it so special.” You gestured toward the intricate device on the table. “And from the looks of it, you’re one of those people.” 

Ekko’s grin widened, and he turned the device toward you. “This? It’s a prototype I’m working on. Powder’s been helping me with the mechanics. We’re going to enter it in the Youth Innovator’s Competition in a few weeks.” 

Your eyes widened in recognition. “I know that competition! I mean, you obviously know my brother, but he and his partner won it a few years ago! Their invention changed everything for Piltoverr—if you’re entering, I’m sure your invention will be just as amazing.”

Powder’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “What were their inventions like up close? Are they cool? Do they glow?” 

You smiled, the memories flooding back. “Super cool. Watching them work was inspiring—they poured their hearts into it. And you should do the same. Keep going, even when it feels impossible. I know you’ll create something amazing.” 

Ekko and Powder exchanged a glance, their excitement palpable. “Thanks, Y/n,” Ekko said earnestly. “That means a lot.”

Vi, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar, watched the scene unfold with a soft, almost awestruck expression. The way you spoke, so encouraging and genuine, made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite put into words. 

“Okay, that’s it,” she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms. “I’m marrying her.” 

Powder, who had somehow overheard, turned to Vi with a mischievous grin. “What was that, Vi?”

Vi’s eyes widened, her face turning beet red. “Nothing! Mind your business, Powder!” she snapped, though there was no real heat in her voice. 

Powder cackled, leaning over to whisper something to Ekko, who grinned and gave Vi a knowing look. 

Vi just sighed, burying her face in her hands, wishing she could both disappear and live in this moment forever. 

—-------------------------------------------------

By the time the night was winding down, you found yourself walking alongside Vi through the quieter streets of Zaun. The energy of The Last Drop had been exhilarating but exhausting, and now the world seemed softer, the glowing lights casting a warm glow on the damp cobblestones. 

Vi had insisted on showing you the skyline from the rooftop of The Last Drop before the evening ended. You’d hesitated, looking up at the daunting climb, but her enthusiasm was infectious, and you reluctantly agreed. 

“Come on, princess,” she teased, holding her hand out to you. “I’ll be your guide. Trust me.” 

“I do trust you,” you said softly, slipping your hand into hers. 

The climb was not a s graceful as you might’ve hoped. Vi scrambled up effortlessly, her movements fluid and confident. You, on the other hand, struggled to find footing, your amrs trembling as you pulled yourself up the uneven surfaces. 

“Y/n, you good back there?” Vi called, peeking over the edge of the ledge she’d just scaled. 

“Do I look like I’m good?” you huffed, glaring up at her. 

Vi chuckled, her grin wide as she reached down to offer her hand. “Come on. I’ve got you.” 

With her help, you managed the last stretch, panting slightly as you collapsed onto the rooftop. “How do you do this so easily?” 

“Practice,” she replied, sitting beside you and brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You’re not so bad for a first-timer, though.” 

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Glad I didn’t embarrass myself completely.” 

“You could never embarrass yourself,” Vi said, her voice softer now. 

You turned to respond but stopped when you caught the look in her eyes—something tender and unguarded. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly glanced away, focusing on the skyline instead. 

And what a view it was. 

Piltover stretched out before you, its golden lights shimmering like stars against the dark sky. The faint glow of Zaun’s neon signs framed the edges of the scene, creating a contrast that was both striking and beautiful. 

“Wow,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s so beautiful.” 

“Yeah,” Vi murmured, her gaze fixed not on the skyline but on you. 

The weight of her stare made you glance back at her. “You’re not even looking at the view,” you pointed out with a small, nervous laugh. 

Vi blinked, startled, and quickly turned her head. “I was—uh, I mean, I am! It’s great! Amazing view! Totally worth the climb!”

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. Her usual confidence was gone, replaced by an awkwardness that you found utterly endearing. She rubbed the back of her neck, her ears tinged pink, and you realized just how close you were sitting. 

The space between you felt charged, electric. 

“Vi,” you said softly, drawing her attention back to you.

“Y-yeah?” 

“Kiss me.” 

Before she could overthink it, she leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that was tentative but undeniably warm. For a moment, Vi froze completely, her mind blanking, but then she leaned into the kiss, her hand coming up to cradle your cheek gently. 

When you finally pulled back, her wide eyes met yours, her lips parted in disbelief. “I—uh—wow. I didn’t see that coming,” she admitted, her voice unsteady. 

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You talk a lot, you know that?” 

“Yeah. Sorry, I just—”

You leaned in again, cutting her off with another kiss, this one deeper and more confident. Her arms circled around you instinctively, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. 

When you finally broke apart, Vi rested her forehead against yours, a dazed smile on her face. “So, did Piltover’s princess like Zaun?” 

“Oh, she loved it.”

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

asked to be tagged: @lipglosskxsses

[chaoscreaturewrites]

Call of duty, ghost, neighbor, comfort

Ghost x nurse neighbor

Summary:imon comes home after a rough mission and his neighbor takes care of him

WC:1.6k

Part 2 link

She's never interacted much with her neighbor, he seems more like the solitary type who greets you in passing out of politeness, but she doesn't mind. That's better than an annoying neighbor or a creep. 

She often takes time in the morning to just stand at the hall railing and get some fresh air, it helps clear her head. 

Today she watches what she's seen time and time again, her big neighbor getting home from wherever he disappears too for weeks at a time. 

As soon as his hulking firm steps out of the car she knows some things are different, some things wrong. She watches, studies him as he makes his way up, her eyes running rapid diagnostics on him.

It's not just his slightly slumping posture, or the bandages that give away how much he's hurting, it's his eyes. 

They have never been the brightest, not the kind that sparkle with wonder of a pure soul. His eyes have always shown her a stoic strong man, one carrying a weight he won't put on others. 

So when she sees into his eyes today, she panics for a split second, because his walls are down. She can see right through him, too, his center, he's being pinned beneath the weight he carries.  

She acts immediately and goes right up to him and holds out her hand.

“ Asking for help is one of the fucking hardest things to do, admitting it out loud even to ones self can feel impossible. So if you need help, if you need someone to take care of you, someone to take charge so you can rest, so you can put all the weight you carry down, take my hand. You don't have to say a word about it, just take my hand if you need it.”

He acted instantly without thinking, her offer being exactly what his soul craved but he could never ask for. He places his large rough hand on hers. He's surprised to feel calluses and wonders about her.

He knows barely anything about her other than she likes to just stand at the railing, even when it's raining she will be out there. He knows what car she drives and how she has such a friendly smile but nothing more, he doesn't even know her name. 

But that doesn't matter, he goes along after her as she leads him through her apartment, they end up in her bathroom.

“ I don't know where you've been or what you've been doing but you've brought it home with you and a good wash is in order”

“ I can't get my stitches wet”

“ Well aren't you in luck Mr, as a nurse one of my many skills is washing injured people I barely know. So give me your keys and strip, I'll grab you some fresh clothes”

No question, not even a choice about it. She's telling him exactly what's happening and he finds a wonderful sense of relief in that. Is not in charge of anything, doesn't have the weight of responsibilities, all he has to do is what he's told. So he hands over his keys and gets to stripping, it's a bit of a struggle with his injuries but he doesn't feel the pressure to rush like he usually does.

She comes back quickly, placing down a stack of his own clothes on the counter. She turns to him, he's still in the process of removing his clothes. But enough of him is visible in his tank top and boxers so she appraises his state, solely focused on his injuries and not physique, that can wait. 

She gets the set up ready; setting up the shower stool, getting a fresh scrub glove, her least scented soap, sugar scrub, and first Aid kit. 

She's locked into work mode, so seeing his naked form doesn't phase her. Her gaze passes over his ripped hulking physique and goes to the poorly tapped on bandages, bruises, and jagged scares. 

He feels a bit silly sitting on the shower stool but the way she's focusing makes him think twice about interjecting. So he just watches her as she whirls around him preparing things, washing her hands and snapping on a pair of gloves. 

She feels back the first bandage and lets out a huff and string of whispered curses.

“ where did you get this done, did they take a course in how to do Frankenstein stitches” 

He can't help the deep rumbling laugh that escapes him. She's spot on, he's had lots of make it work patch jobs but this last gig, he'd never gotten worse care In a place calling itself a hospital. 

“ Do you want me to redo these?”

“ No need, all my scars are crooked”

“ okay then”

The crinkle of her nose tells him she would have liked to redo the stitches, how the half asses worked patching together his flesh offended her, how cute. 

The stitches would just have to be as they are, half passed but they were gonna get some of her best bandaging. She cleaned, ointmented, and applied water replant bandages. Once satisfied she stood back, admired her work then moved on to phase 2, the washing.

He couldn't help but find her huffing and muttering adorable, as she gave him some of the best medical attention he's received in ages. She keeps throwing him curve balls, the way she just acts boldly, her creative cursing, the way she commands, and now she's stripping. Well not fully but she takes off her top layers revealing a tank top and boxers.

She catches him staring, which earns him a sassy hands on the hips pose as she lists to him the benefits and comforts of boxers. He can't help but smirk, he holds no judgements for what kinda underwear someone wants to wear, just finds her look adorably and her list of benefits definitely sold him. 

“ this isn't my normal attire for washing patients, but I usually don't wash then in my home so this is a special case” 

He's never been so pampered, he doesn't even recognize a majority of the products she uses on him, just knows they smell great and are removing a lot of gunk. The water runoff started cloudy, sand colored but as she worked it turned clear. He could have sworn at one point she rubbed sugar on him, but that couldn't be right, right?. 

She did it all, scalp massage, dead skin removal, working the knots out of his shoulders getting in there with her elbow. She got in every nook and crank; in between his toes, behind his ears, under his balls and even his ass crack, she washed it all. He feels a bit bad about that as he remembers how sweaty he got, but she seemed completely unphased, but with her job that does make sense. 

Now after making him squeaky clean she drys, dresses and sends him to the couch.

“ I'll be out in a minute” 

He's never felt such an absence of tension before, she has worked a miracle on him. He now understands why she has calloused hands, she works hard, even on the smallest things she focuses her intent. 

He melts into the couch, barely away from his surroundings as he enjoys his new scent. It's nothing like the bar of Irish spring he uses, that makes him smell clean but nothing like this. He smells like spring, he feels like spring. Like he's felt his body, transported to some soft grassy flower meadow, with birds singing overhead and the faint sound of streams somewhere. 

He starts to wonder if that bath was magical, if none of this happened and he passed out on his couch having the best dream of his life, or maybe she slipped him something. He's happy with any truth other than this being a dream. 

She comes out in fresh clothes, hair smoothed back into a braid swaying behind her. She looks him over and nods with approval at his relaxed state, then heads into the kitchen. 

He's grateful for the open floor plan, he watches her slip on an apron and checks the large pot on the stove. He thought he smelled great but oh boy, she's the maker of delightful scents. The apartment is filled with the mouth watering scent of pot roast, that makes him believe he's been living next to some magical being who's by the best turn of fate ever has graciously welcomed him into her care.

She comes over to him holding out a drink, he's not sure what It is, nor does he really care. He trusts her. He trusts that he is secure in her care. He gladly takes the drink. 

“ It's iced tea, I know you prefer a hot cup, but this is loaded with vitamins that should rehabilitate you from whatever you've been doing. It does taste a bit like lawn clippings but bit it's good for you”

Yup that's it she's magical, magical touch,magical bath, magical pot roast, magical tea. It does taste a bit like grass but he's had much more grass tasting drinks so he doesn't mind. He takes a big sip to make sure she knows he appreciates it.

She gives him a nod in return and settles on the couch beside him, turning on one of her shows. 

He appreciates the nonverbal communication, takes the pressure off him to try and sort out his words to reciprocate. She settles next to him like it's the most natural thing, like she's completely unfazed by bathing him, seeing him naked, and having him in her home. He likes the causal, domestic feeling, it's something he didn't think he'd find, but today he did and oh he'll do anything not to lose this, lose her.

[ospookio]

Bob/Sentry/Void facts to spur ideas for fics!

I've been reading quite a few Sentry comics after Thunderbolts came out and I just wanted to share a bunch of things that happen that might give you guys some ideas for your own stories!

The list is below the cut!

Bob has a superpowered Corgi named Normie

Although the breed of the dog is pretty vague in the original 616 universe, it's much more clear in other iterations that Normie is a Corgi! Normie is superpowered just like Bob and even has his own superhero name, Watchdog.

Out of the three, Sentry is the most affectionate

It's very clear in Sentry's 2005 run that Sentry is the most affectionate of the three. Although Bob does love his wife (and the Void has very complicated feelings about her), the Sentry is the one seen being the most confident in expressing his love for her.

The Void taunts Bob... a LOT

This is an obvious one, but the Void oftentimes tries to dig deep into Bob's skin, especially about his wife and mentality. Despite this, the Void seems to be the side of Bob that can see things for what they truly are and is not as easily manipulated as Bob is.

Another thing to note is that in the 2005 run, Bob has his own room where he can seemingly talk to the void face-to-face without needing to unleash him.

The Void has a... complicated relationship with Bob's wife

Like said before, the Void often taunts Bob about his wife, Lindy. In later comics he even wants her dead. Despite this, when under a Skrull invasion, the Void is the one to save Lindy, saying that "Bob couldn't handle it and ran away" as Sentry left the earth thinking that the invasion was his fault. Unfortunately it's not touched on again, but it definitely hints that despite his taunts, he still cares for Lindy just as Bob does.

Bob's weakness isn't just the Void, it's his love

As one of the very few superheroes with a wife, many villains often try to take advantage of this fact to hurt him. Both times that Lindy has died (which I will get to that later) it was done in order to trigger an extreme response from Bob in order to further their plans and make him suffer. One such times Bob had grown so enraged that he had ripped Ares, the god of war, in half. In the other Ms. Marvel had to knock him out before he had killed Ultron.

Another thing to note is that despite all the problems that him and his wife undergo, and even despite her betrayals and fear of him, Bob still can't shake his love for her.

The Sentry has the power to revive those that he touches

After Lindy's first death, Sentry had unknowingly revived Lindy at just his touch. When she awoke, she had no recollection of her death, believing to have only been asleep the entire night.

Bob tends to lean more towards being the Sentry rather than himself

Bob unfortunately doesn't feel as needed as his superpowered persona and unfortunately tends to lean towards being him in most situations. Although it causes more risks with the Void, it still makes him feel needed and important.

The Hulk is one of the very few that Sentry can both call a friend and go toe-to-toe with

The Hulk was one of the very few heroes that remembered Sentry after the world forgot about him, resulting in both being good friends. After Hulk goes on a worldwide rampage during World War Hulk, it is Sentry's job to stop him, and the two fight for so long that they eventually revert back to their original personas.

The Void has the ability to possess people

During a fight between Loki and Dr. Strange, the Void takes over Strange and eventually possesses him after Strange releases him in fear of Loki winning.

Aaaaand that's all i could think of! If you have any more random facts, feel free to leave them in the comments!

[hamilton-here]

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.3

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is part 3 of Accidentally Yours. I am working on the next part as quick as I can. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: reader is approved by the group chat over a silly question. Later on, she overthinks and finally accepts the invite to Monaco. Though her anxiety gets to the best of her three nights prior.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mimisweetz @mits-vi @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5, Pt6, Pt7, Pt8, Pt9

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t reply to Hammertime that night.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you reread the messages more times than you’d admit. His words sat heavy in your chest, not in a bad way but in the kind of way that made you feel.

Something about the way he messaged you, like he was saying more than what was written. As if there were things hiding between the lines he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Not yet.

The next morning, the group chat was back to its usual chaos. Someone had changed the group name to “GridGremlins 🛠️”, SmoothOperator was sending filtered selfies with too many sparkles, Baguetteboi was sharing his hatred of being called French and HoneyBadger had dropped a poll asking who would die first in a zombie apocalypse (Pastry was leading).

Still, your eyes drifted toward his name. Always his.

No private message. No follow up.

But then, like he knew you were looking -

Hammertime: Don’t worry, I survived another night with these lunatics. Barely.

Also newbie, zombie votes don’t count unless you tell us your apocalypse weapon of choice.

You smiled despite yourself. A soft flutter again. You replied in the group chat this time.

User (You): Cast iron skillet. Multipurpose. Classic. Heavy.

Pastry: Oh she’s good.

SmootherOperator: Marry me.

Baguetteboi: you won

Hulk: Please don’t encourage him.

You waited, just a little longer and then it came -

Hammertime: Good choice. I approve.

The day moved on. Classes, errands, life. But around lunch your phone buzzed again.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Was it too much? What I said last night.

Your breath got caught.

User (You): No. Just, honest. And maybe a bit scary.

Hammertime: Scary how?

User (You): Because I meant what I said too. And that kind of thing isn’t something I let myself believe in.

There was a pause.

Hammertime: I don’t usually either. But then you got added. And suddenly I’m thinking about it way more than I should.

You stared at the message.

Not flirtatious. Not bold. Just raw honesty typed out quietly like a secret.

You replied, this time without hesitation.

User (You): So what do we do with this?

Hammertime: Keep talking. For now, I like talking to you.

You smiled down at your phone, heart thumping.

Still no name. Still no face.

But somehow, this felt more real than most people you’d met in person.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The conversation didn’t stop.

Days passed like that - quick check ins, long stretches of silence filled with real life, then sudden bursts of messages that felt like stolen moments. It became a rhythm, one you hadn’t expected to crave.

Sometimes he messaged you first.

Sometimes you beat him to it.

Always, it felt like the highlight of your day.

Tonight was one of those slower evenings. Rain pattered softly against your window as you curled up with your phone, absently watching unread emails pile up. But one notification broke through the noise.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Ever feel like people know of you but don’t really know you?

You blinked. It was more serious than usual. No jokes. No chaos.

User (You): Yeah. All the time. Especially when I walk into a room and people already have an idea of who I’m supposed to be.

Three little dots appeared. Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Hammertime: Same. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to start over somewhere. As just, me. Not the version people project.

User (You): You kind of did that with me. I don’t know who you are. Just who you’ve shown me.

And I like that version.

Quiet. Thoughtful. Funny.

Kind.

You sent it before you could overthink it. Then, heart hammering, you watched the typing bubbles appear.

Hammertime: That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.

You hesitated. Then typed -

User (You): Want to tell me something real?

Just, one thing. About you.

The pause stretched longer this time.

Hammertime: I hate crowds. Everyone thinks I thrive in them.

But most days I’d give anything just to be somewhere quiet, no expectations, no cameras.

Just real.

You could feel your breath catch. Whoever he was, his words felt like they came with a weight he’d been carrying for a long time.

User (You): I’d sit next to you in that quiet.

Another pause. This one felt like a heartbeat.

Hammertime:That’s the second-nicest thing anyone’s said to me. You’re dangerous, you know that?

User (You): Only to people who like cast iron skillets.

Hammertime: That’s it. We’re definitely apocalypse partners now.

You laughed out loud.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

That night your eyes were bloodshot starring at the Monaco invitation from a few days ago. You couldn’t decide if you should go or not.

You didn’t reply.

Not at first.

But you read his message again. Then again.

Your screen dimmed and lit up with the motion of your fingers tapping it back to life, like you couldn’t bear to let it go dark while his name sat there.

Hammertime: If you come to Monaco…Make sure it’s for you.

Your chest was tight, full of something you didn’t have the language for yet.

You typed a response.

User (You): Idon’t even know what I want yet.

You stared at it. Deleted it.

User (You): I’m not good at this.

Delete.

User (You): I saw the invite.

Too bland.

User (You): Why does it feel like something’s going to change if I go?

Your finger hovered.

Then you erased that too.

The typing bubble popped up on his end. Then vanished. Then reappeared.

You hadn’t even sent anything.

And still he was waiting.

You finally gave in, your fingers trembling as you typed something imperfect but real.

User (You): Are you always like this?

The bubble appeared again, almost instantly this time.

Hammertime: Like what?

User (You): Careful, kind, hard to stop thinking about.

Three dots.

Longer this time.

Then -

Hammertime: Only with people I don’t want to lose.

Your heart thudded.

You wanted to reply.

To say something sharp or smart or honest. But your hands had gone still.

You locked your phone, holding it to your chest.

Let yourself breathe.

You didn’t answer the invite.

Not yet.

But now -

You were starting to think about what dress you might pack.

Just in case.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t sleep much.

Not from stress, exactly.

It was more the feeling of standing at the edge of something high, toes curled against the drop. The quiet hum of maybe. Of almost.

Of what if.

Your finger hovered over the invite again sometime around 2 a.m.

Open.

It bloomed across the screen, white and gold and obnoxiously beautiful.

"MONACO."

Everyone knew what it meant in the group, expect you to be exact.

Glitz. Heat. A thousand eyes. And him.

You didn’t realise you’d clicked "Yes" until the screen updated.

Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

Because now it was real.

Your heart did this strange, stuttering thing. Not panic. Not quite.

But definitely not peace.

You switched back to the private chat. He hadn’t messaged again.

Good.

You weren’t sure you could take it.

Your fingers moved, traitorous and too honest.

User (You): I said yes.

Sent.

Three dots. Fast.

Hammertime: Yeah?

You could almost hear his voice in that one word. Low, warm, cautious hope wrapped inside it.

User (You): Don’t make it a thing.

Hammertime: Too late.

You closed your eyes.

Imagined the impossible. What it would feel like to see him and know, really know that it was him.

Not a username.

Not a maybe.

Not a what if.

But a person. Standing in front of you.

Breathing the same air.

Looking at you like he already knew every word you hadn’t said yet.

You typed again.

User (You): What happens now?

There was a pause.

Long enough to wonder if you’d said too much.

He then replied -

Hammertime: Now we wait. And see if you still feel everything when you’re standing right in front of me.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was stupid, how packing a suitcase could feel like preparing for emotional warfare.

You weren’t even leaving yet. The flight wasn’t for three more days, but your room already looked like a storm had passed through it. Clothes everywhere. Shoes you hadn’t worn in months lined up like soldiers. Three failed outfit attempts on the floor and counting.

You’d packed for trips before. Exams. Interviews. A funeral once. But never something like this.

Because how do you pack for someone who’s only ever known you in fragments?

How do you pick the version of yourself you want them to meet?

Your chest felt tight. Like something was pressing against it from the inside.

Later that night, lying in bed, your thoughts ran endless laps.

What if he wasn’t what you imagined?

What if you weren’t what he imagined?

What if all the texts and late night chats and electric not quite flirting didn’t survive the sunlight?

Or worse! What if it was real?

So real it unraveled everything else.

You rolled over and checked your phone again.

Still no new messages from him.

Just his name in your inbox.

Sitting there.

Quiet.

Waiting.

[kabr0ztrousers]

A top heavy fem reader finds out her family is in deep trouble with a loan shark (a literal sharkman). He makes her strip to see what she's got. As he's groping her he tells her the options to pay him back like becoming a stripper, p0rn actress, escort, etc. Then he says he can clear the debt if she will be his.

Kabr0z Writes Episode 158: Loan Shark

Also entitled: How much dialogue? 🥲

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

Ao3!

CWs: dubcon, moving to enthusiastic consent; biting; oral sex; financial coercion; intimidation;

A/N: I'm trying to do more dialogue-heavy stories recently because I've done loads without much. So you'll get plenty of stories where all the characters have basically the same voice 🤣

###########################################

You hadn't meant to borrow that much, but you know how it is; one bad month leaves you with not quite enough to make ends meet, so you borrow a little. The next month, you've paid that back, but now you're a little further, then a little further. It's not long before the repayments outstripped what you could pay, and you turned to... Less than scrupulous help. Bruce was fine, to begin with. He didn't ask for more than you could afford for the first few months, you almost started letting yourself feel like you were on the way to getting things back to normal.

Until, of course, your phone rang.

“Hey, come to my office. We need to talk” Bruce sounded annoyed.

Cold dread gripped you. You checked your phone on the bus into the city. You hadn’t missed a payment, every month on the first, chipping away at your debt little by little. You couldn’t stop your heart from racing, cold sweat running down your back.

The office, such as it was, was a garage on the rougher part of town. A large lupine in a biker jacket leaned smoking on the door, before moving to one side and waving you in.

“Bruce is waiting. Looks pretty pissed. Don’t try nothin’”

You looked him in the eye as you passed. He returned your gaze, impassive, watching you enter before stepping back in front of the door behind you. The metal door creaked slightly on its hinges under his weight. No getting out that way.

Bruce’s desk looked tiny in front of him. A tiny piece of faux wood supporting a laptop and cheap printer, all positioned before a veritable mountain of hulking shark-man.

“Good. You're here.” He grinned, revealing row upon row of serrated triangular teeth “Time to pay up.”

“I- I paid this month, see?” You held out your phone to him “On the first, same as always”

“Interest's gone up. You’re gonna pay the whole lot. Today. Now. Or you're not leaving this office.”

Your face paled. Cold water flowed down your spine “I can't afford it… I’ll never be able to do that”

Bruce's grin widened “There's more than one way to skin a cat.” He motioned with his hands “Take off your clothes. Let's see what we're dealing with”

You blushed, turning to leave. The huge lupine was standing on this side of the door now, staring you down

“What’d I say? Don't try nothin'”

You wanted to take your chances, get him away from the door and run for the police. Your legs had other ideas. His stare transfixed you, pinning you in place.

“Good choice. Now, turn around and face the boss when he's talking to ya”

Bruce had stepped around his desk and was now sat on it, the cheap surface bowing under his bulk “Now. Take off your clothes, and turn around. Let's see what we're dealing with”

You stripped obediently, blushing as more and more skin was exposed to the two men. The lupine didn't seem interested, as stoic and unflappable as ever. Bruce, however, was positively drooling.

“Now that's what I'm talking about!” He laughed “Look at you!”

He grabbed one of the folds of your belly “Damn, ever thought about doing porn? I know a guy, we could make that happen…” Next he cupped one of your tits “Or perhaps just sell your body directly… Classy, like, no street corners for you”

He was drooling now, lost in his fantasies as he prodded and poked at you.

“Is there not another way?” You weren't keen on selling yourself, despite his enthusiasm. “I don't want to be a prostitute”

Bruce stopped for a moment. Still holding one of your breasts, your protestation bouncing around in his head. “Well, there is… one thing” he was suddenly bashful “Maybe if you’d give me a try? We could see where it goes, and I'll forgive your debt”

You stared at him. His expressionless black eyes wide. Suddenly the intimidating loanshark was just a terrified schoolboy, terrified at owning up to his crush. “Ok, we’ll give it a shot. One date, no obligations, and no more loan” was this really working? You, stark naked, with an apex predator wrapped around your finger, his legbreaker flicking a lighter in the corner of the room

Bruce let go of your tit and grabbed your hand, whisking you off to a back room you hadn't noticed. Up a flight of stairs into a loft, roughly converted into a studio flat

“My gaff, it's not much, but it's home” was he blushing?

You let him guide you to the bed, a rickety spring mattress on a steel frame. He laid you down, the springs protesting at your generous frame.

“One second, just gotta-” and just like that the shark was as naked as you, clothes abandoned on the floor

When you said a date, this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but when he stood there, wearing not a stitch, you couldn't help but get into the rhythm of things. You sat up for him, the muscular humanoid in front of you barely daring to touch you now. Forcing his hands to your hair did the trick, especially when you started planting kisses on his cock.

Fingers weaved through your hair, not quite holding you, but it was good enough for now. You'll train him better for next time. The head of his cock was enough to make you have to open wide. You kissed the tip and licked the underside, flicking his frenulum with the tip of your tongue, hearing him groan and sigh as he started to leak onto your tongue.

It tasted too good, you could've kept going like this and got your reward, but the heat in your crotch made you pull away, rolling backwards on the squealing mattress, presenting yourself to him

“Well? Don't you want me?”

He did. The bedsprings protested at his settling on top of you, pressing his cock against your hole and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Come on, give it to me”

You gasped as the head slipped inside. Bruce's hips set a brisk rhythm, his hips slapping against yours, balls swinging into your ass with every thrust. He was wrapped around you, arms holding your body tight to his as his legs worked you into the squeaking springs under you.

Slopping wet sounds mingled with the squeaking bedframe and springs as you drew close, every thrust sending butterflies through your stomach. You still needed more

“Bite me”

“Mmph?” His face was still stuck in the plush flesh of your shoulder

“Just a little, bite me”

You felt Bruce open his mouth, nibbling at your collarbone. The hundreds of razor-sharp teeth leaving marks on your body as you groaned

“Just like that, right there, right there, right-”

Your words turned into a long, sustained whine. He kept going, the ribbed head of his cock sliding through you. Every inch filled you with wriggling ecstasy, your hips bucking into his as he panted into you.

You wrapped your legs around the shark-man’s hips “Don't you dare pull out. Don't you fucking dare”

He couldn't, even without your legs. You felt him throb, heard him whimper, then his hips slammed into yours. Again and again, he shakily thrust, rolling you slightly to reach as deep as he could as he filled you.

You both lay, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing breath as you panted, forehead to forehead.

“Next time we do this” you kissed him “you're buying me dinner first.”