#properly....dissipate | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xaviever · 2 months ago

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ଓ overstim with him!

including. xavier, zayne, sylus, & caleb.

summary. scenarios where one or both of you are overstimulated during sex. ˃𖥦˂

cw. (afab!reader) 🔞 mdni. softdom!zayne. kinda sub!sylus. patheticdom?caleb. overstimulation, obvi. breeding (xav & caleb), dumbification (zayne), xavier says ily in it. use of baby, sweetheart, princess, & dear.

ᢉ𐭩 xavier!

this is nothing new. xavier is often overwhelmed by his need for you. his impressive stamina and unbridled desire are a wicked combo, leaving you in for long, long nights when his restraint snaps. he’s had you against the door when you first arrived home, on the couch, kitchen counter, in the shower; now, finally, in bed on your side, slowly and deeply kissing each corner of your insides like some lecherous love letter.

“xav- baby, s’too much,” your voice sounds scratchy and foreign from the amount of strain over the last few hours. in response, your thigh is hiked up further, flush against his sweaty chest for a better angle. "fuckfuck, my god, xavier!"

“made to take me…” his lips find their way to your ear, sucking on the lobe as he rambles, unbelievably pussydrunk and obsessed with the repeated slosh your combined releases have created. he keeps his voice as steady and soft as he can while not losing his pace, fucking as deep inside you as your body allows.

“you’re molded to me, baby. mmf, made to be pumped f-full of my cum. you were made for me.”

all of your senses feel on fire, completely overloaded from your evening of being folded into impossible positions again and again. xavier is nothing if not insatiable when it comes to claiming you, his hunger for you, your presence, your attention, your sweet cunt taking him to the hilt like it was destined for his cock.

he's as sensitive as you are now, gasping each thrust, almost whimpering, "just one more, p-please. aah, you can do it. i feel you, mmfuck. i know you're close..."

you nod dopily, consumed by the way your numbness dissipates, body buzzing as you somehow find the will to cum again. your arm moves back to cage his head against yours, and he fucks you both through the haziness, his moans and your broken cries a symphony in the night. he cums hard, and so much, an insane amount after emptying himself inside you all night. the two of you lay entangled in one another, both too sore and thoughtless to even fathom moving.

"i love you so much. so much..." xavier professes into your shoulder, pressing clammy kisses to every part of your neck he can reach in silent worship before drifting off in your aftershocks together.

ᢉ𐭩 zayne!

you can't even speak. zayne’s fingers and tongue have been working you skillfully for so long, too long. he's memorized everything about your body. how you like your clit sucked, when and how to point and flatten his tongue. he knows all your sweet spots, the exact angle, pace, intensity needed for you to cum the hardest, see stars and make you dumb the easiest. of course, he'd never degrade you and call you such, though there's something so riveting about having you brainless under him, entirely overcome by his expertise in your pleasure.

you're cumming all over his hand for nth time with a weak cry, shivering as he holds your hip down to the bed so he can properly fuck you through the waves, not stopping until he feels you've given him every last drop once more. big tears roll down the sides of your cheeks, which he immediately responds to, bringing the hand holding you down up your body to your face and sweetly caressing.

"you've been so good for me. i'm proud of you, my perfect girl."

his pruny fingers slip from you with no resistance. zayne coos at you hearing your tired whines, softly maneuvering you while he shushes and mutters reflexive praises. you’re okay, safe, he’s going to take care of you. he always does. before you can register it your legs are spread widely apart, zayne’s practiced caution evident in how delicately he handles you.

"i believe you can take a bit more for me, no?" he strokes himself unhurriedly, all while thumbing your clit, keeping you stimulated still. he still appears relatively composed above you, one of his only giveaways being the stuttering of his breath, barely controlled lust seeping through him.

zayne enters you steadily, always being gracious enough to let you adjust to his girth. "hah... she's been waiting for me. i can tell." your messy cunt welcomes him warmly, his heavy tip opening you up in a way his fingers could not. it has you reanimating, thighs shooting up to clench around his hips. you spasm, the ghost of an orgasm making you seize around him and ripping the air from both of your lungs.

he sighs out at the feeling of his full length bottomed out inside you, admiring you pliant and glowing under him. “i... ha-have to hear you, dear.” the same fingers that were previously stretching your cunt softly push past your pouty lips. he splays them all over your tongue, forcing the sounds you'd been too delirious to let out escape while he begins fucking into you like a promise.

“mmh, say my name. i know you can.”

ᢉ𐭩 sylus!

you just wanted sylus to feel good, like he so often makes you feel. ...and if you maybe got a little power hungry and ended up addicted to the way he falls apart, holding him down, coaxing him into letting you make him cum over and over, on your seventh "one more" of the night... well, that is not a crime.

in all actuality, though, sylus does not need much convincing. he's not one to oppose you, naturally. however, the second you got commanding, a small switch flipped in his brain and he couldn't save face, couldn't stay above his innate call to submit to you. he's unsure why he'd ever fight it now. sylus is enraptured by your hedonism tonight, reduced from his usual weighty presence to something only you can unlock within him. something yours.

"you know you've got such a pretty dick, baby," you purr, flicking your wrist as you jerk him off with a casual pace, one that's become less bearable after multiple releases. "so big, pink and drippy for me. for me, right, sy?"

the prettiest moans fall from his lips when his head lolls against his headboard, barely deciphering what you've said but knowing to agree, anyway. he nods lazily, peering down at you through clouded, low eyes. his brows are knit in the most desperate expression you've ever seen from him, zeroed in on you. sylus gasps in a big breath after you squeeze him at the base, trying to get more of those beautiful sounds from him.

"yes. yes, sweetheart, y-youu, ffuuck-" he drawls, feeling on the precipice of cumming once more with every slight movement of yours. "yours. aagh! haah, fuck, a-all of me. everything."

his words go straight to your pussy, pulsing from your neglect. having him fill you to the brim sounds amazing, hearing him be this submissive under you? you moan a little at your own imagination. sylus continues to whine, grounding you here as you conclude before you satiate your need, you have to hear him cum one more time. just one more. he can take it.

your hand speeds up wordlessly, already knowing how close he is from the way he twitches, so beautiful and sensitive. "kitten, please." he sounds so sultry begging for you, his voice pitching with need, a frequency only for your ears. you're addicted to this side of him. "i want...w-want to cum for you again."

ᢉ𐭩 caleb!

“sh-shit, you- aangh, p-” caleb’s head feels impossibly heavy as he allows it to fall back against the couch cushion. any attempt at a plea falls shorter with each rhythmic bounce of your hips.

you'd jumped him as soon as he settled into your home from his visit, taking initiative and sinking yourself down on him at the first opportunity. he should've known he was in for it with how easily he slipped inside you, like you prepped without him. this was premeditated. the drag of your walls around him, hot and wet and unrelenting, you were fucking him like he owed you something.

“pips! princeeess, ffuck, please. you’re milkin’ me for all i’m worth, haah-” he’s cut off by his own breathy moan. you don’t stop, not even for a second. if caleb really couldn’t take it he’d safeword or lift you with his evol, yet he only has the brainpower to hiccup and whine under you as you use his dick to your heart’s content.

his hands squeeze your hips for relief, kneading your soft skin for any kind of purchase. you lean down, your fucked out moans vibrate against his neck as you nestle your mouth there. you instinctively sink your teeth into him, pulling something lewd, broken from his throat that even he was a little appalled by.

he doesn't think he's ever cum this much in succession. caleb is already very easy, often fighting hard to not cum from the smallest of your intimacies. you can imagine how hard it is to stay lucid when he has no choice but to cum for you over and over again.

the two of you sound like a couple of pornstars, producing some of the most depraved noises you've ever heard come out of each other, and the constant plap! plap! plap! resounding in your living room.

"need you. cum- nghh, cum in me again," you moan a little animalistically as you rise, facing caleb again to speak. you grab his face, smushing it to make him focus, wanting him to hear your words. "want all of you, c-caleb. pleease."

pitiful as he is, caleb whines at your words, the noise jarbled from your grip on his face. he's throbbing painfully at the admission of your need, hands getting rougher, faster, gathering his remaining coherence to make you scream and chase this release as much as you were. your hands fall, gripping his chest for stability, and caleb groans, dipping his forehead down to rest against yours.

"fuck, baby. got me shootin' blanks and you still want 'em. filthy girl."

— authors note. just couldn’t stop thinking abt this one sub!sylus fic i read… all this came from that lolol. rbs are appreciated!

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xjulixred45x · 3 months ago

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That's a good question @donanimee !

When the Baby of Yuu is Born

• If we're talking about the birth itself, I think it would have happened sometime between books 6 and 7. I already mentioned that when Yuu arrived in Twisted Wonderland, she was already a month or two pregnant, so by the time those events occurred, Yuu should have been around 8 months at most. Besides, with the stress of the situation, the baby probably came out prematurely.

• Obviously, I don't think Yuu would have participated in the same way in book 6 because of the pregnancy, but let's just say that once they reached dry land, her water broke, to everyone's horror and concern.

• Riddle was the only one who more or less kept his composure and sent the others to get things for Yuu while he and Adeuce took her to Ramshakle (and Grim brought Crewel, the closest thing they had to a doctor). Ace, being Ace, had Crowley give Yuu his hand so she could squeeze it with all her might (it was cathartic and extremely necessary, thanks Ace), and the other students were calling doctors, bringing things like healing potions in case things went wrong, etc.

• It was chaos in short. The labor lasted approximately 8 hours (with luck, it could be less or MORE hours), and Yuu ends up giving birth to a beautiful baby girl.

• All the panic finally dissipates when the students hear the baby cry for the first time—a loud cry of a healthy baby :,)

• Of course, as soon as everything calms down, Crewel and Trein kick everyone out of the dorm so Yuu can have a few quality days alone with her baby (the only one who can stay is Grim).

• The first few days of motherhood are quite pleasant, fortunately. The baby is healthy and strong, she doesn't wake up much at night, and when she does, the ghosts try to entertain her so Yuu can sleep (unless she has to be fed).

• Yuu also doesn't have to worry about bringing food; several students leave things at Ramshakle's door so as not to bother her with visitors (food, blankets, clothes, etc.).

• Grim is definitely quieter than usual when the baby is born. He's partly afraid that Yuu won't love him anymore or considers him dangerous to have around the baby. But when she offers to say hello and introduces him as a BIG BROTHER... yeah, you can bet Grim cried in Yuu's arms and the baby for a looooong time.

• Riddle is one of the first allowed to visit, and he brings a ton of gifts from the Heartslabyul students (Cater, Trey, and Adeuce). He's the most tense when it comes to interacting with the baby at first. Even though he's taken all the necessary sanitary measures, he's so afraid of doing something wrong. But when Yuu helps him carry her properly and the baby sits comfortably in his arms, he melts.

• He invites Yuu over for tea more often (either to catch up on studies or because he sees that Yuu is really stressed), with the baby, of course! The students in the dorm are happy to take turns watching her so Yuu can have some quiet time. I'd say Riddle still sees Yuu as a sort of maternal/older sister figure, only now his protective instincts also extend to the baby.

• Leona is probably the last one to realistically meet the baby. He doesn't have a good relationship with the children (he can barely stand Cheka), and even if he doesn't say it out loud, he doesn't want to feel left out now that the baby is finally born (mainly because he knows it's a shitty feeling for a shitty reason). Leona only gets to meet Yuu's baby when he stumbles upon her by chance at the botanical garden (not because Yuu was looking for him and Ruggie ratted him out, not at all).

• Leona isn't very patient, but he definitely makes sure the baby is in good hands if Yuu can't watch her for a couple of hours (probably making Ruggie do all the work), preventing the baby from doing stupid things once she starts crawling and putting things in her mouth (no herbivore, don't eat dirt—or toys! You almost look like Ruggie). he acts like he doesn't care, but he'll jump out of his seat if he sees the baby with something in her mouth that shouldn't be there.

• Azul, along with the twins, have probably never seen a human baby up close—they're so small! Floyd is probably one of the first people to visit Yuu and her baby—even Jade mentions it to him when they go to Monster Lounge—and they’re surprisingly careful with the baby, especially Azul, who holds her like she’s made of glass.

• I imagine that when the baby starts walking, Yuu gets so stressed out from taking care of her AND being Crowley’s errand girl that she forgets to eat. To solve this, Azul implements something new at Monster Lounge: a baby menu! The catch is that Yuu also has to order something to eat FOR HERSELF ;) no shrimp will go hungry in their watch.

• KALIM ABSOLUTELY LOVES THE BABY! Although sadly, he couldn't take her to Scarabia because she cried so loudly during the festivities. Kalim is an EXPERT at putting babies to sleep (again, this guy has 30 younger siblings) and can play with her for HOURS. Meanwhile, Yuu and Jamil get a much-needed break from their two hyperactive children.

• I'll just say that Yuu will be lucky if her baby doesn't have a whole festival dedicated to her birthday thanks to Kalim. That, and now her food stash is stocked to the brim thanks to Jamil and Kalim (and probably some money, but shhhhh). Kalim just wants to help in any way he can.

• I like the headcanon that Vil is good with kids; by extension, I think he finds Yuu's baby absolutely adorable. Sure, he keeps a certain distance from the baby and himself because of his clothes (and also because he doesn't know what effects makeup could have on such a young baby), but he's definitely not above bringing a few things for Yuu and the baby with Rook and Epel.

• Another great one is providing a space for Yuu to care for him, especially when the baby is already a few months old or if Yuu is dealing with any consequences of childbirth. I honestly don't think Vil brings up the topic of losing baby weight right away because I think it's common sense that it's a pretty sensitive topic for women; instead, he focuses on Yuu feeling good about herself.

• Ortho was probably one of the few students allowed to come to Ramshakle every day to check on the baby's health with his scanners. Thanks to that, Idia is probably the one who is most attentive to the health of both the baby and Yuu. He almost seems like a mother hen. Is Yuu eating things with iron? Is it beneficial for pregnant women? Or maybe he should send her food with vitamin D? Is he being too creepy by monitoring this kind of things?

• Idia definitely freezes every time the baby climbs on him, just accepting his fate of being this creature's new favorite fluorescent toy (Ortho has videos of this that he shows the first years).

• Malleus, OH MY GOD, MALLEUS, remember how I told you the baby was born shortly before his Overblot? You can bet everyone was super tense with him around Yuu and the baby after that, almost like a Protection Squad.

• Then again, Malleus had no idea how human birth worked, so he definitely got really distressed when he heard Ramshakle's screams of pain, or when they told him that if they didn't act quickly either Yuu or the baby could DIE. It was like a reminder that, even giving birth to another human being, they are very fragile. Malleus was so relieved when he learned that Yuu and her daughter were okay, but the scare never fade.

• He definitely acts like some kind of weird uncle. He even talks to the baby as if she were an adult, and they have full conversations. The baby just babbles or says random words, and Malleus nods as if he understands and makes up a conversation, much to Yuu's amusement and everyone's confusion. At least Malleus can still have his nightly chats with Yuu, given how little sleep babies get.

• Ace and Deuce try to be as careful as possible with the baby, almost seeming like other people due to the kindness they show the baby in contrast to their normal selves. Although of course, they still have their tricks. Ace especially wants to teach the baby how to say his name, and when that doesn't work, he makes her learn funny nicknames for the others (like calling Riddle "red dwarf," knowing he'd never get mad at the baby).

• Deuce tries to prevent this, but it's in vain. When Yuu and they go out on campus, the baby is usually carried on one of their shoulders (they constantly fight over who is the "favorite uncle," unaware that that position already belongs to Grim).

• BONUS: THE STAFF

• Crowley definitely gives Yuu more work now because she's "no longer incapacitated," but he doesn't give her maternity leave. That is, until a mob of angry teenagers comes to his office to complain about his lack of basic human decency, and he decides to give her a month off. Every time Crowley is near the baby, she cries, but not a normal cry, no, a HYSTERICAL cry. Yuu thinks the problem might be the mask, but you can see how the baby makes faces at Crowley's voice.

• Sam always has things in stock that the baby might like, things like toys, bibs, clothes, etc. While Yuu is shopping, the baby likes to play with Sam's shadow. He thinks it's very interesting that the baby isn't afraid of them and tells Yuu that her baby has a very unique personality.

• Vargas remains essentially the same, a stereotypical gentleman who makes his students also be proper gentlemen to the ladies. If Yuu wants to join the class but has to bring the baby with her, Vargas will happily carry her while yelling at the students to move, occasionally tickling the baby, or passing her some candy.

• Trein is the ultimate babysitter. Not only does he have the experience, but the baby automatically trusts him without hesitation; he's the opposite of Crowley. Trein and Yuu remain close friends (I'd say Trein sees a lot of his daughters in Yuu), and he's willing to lend a hand if she has trouble with the baby. He's also the best source of baby-related advice at the school.

• Crewel's first reaction when the baby was able to leave school was to go shopping for clothes with Yuu, mostly matching clothes—he thinks they're the cutest thing ever! He's definitely bought her Dalmatian onesies. He definitely takes every opportunity he gets when he visits Yuu for tea to see the baby (it's like that "move bitch" meme).

• Overall, a big, dysfunctional, happy family was formed.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

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satoblue · 4 months ago

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MDNI, f!reader, ghost husband satoru (he is dead after shinjuku but is stuck between worlds and haunts you), a little angsty at first then smutty, masturbation (satoru ofc sigh he is a freak even when deceased), cumming on your face. | not proofread, will likely play around with this idea more in the future, dividers made by me

ghost husband satoru . . . if there is one thing that hasn’t changed about him even though he is without a corporeal form — it is that he is capable of turning any situation sexual. though, his freakiness proves rather helpful this time as it confirms that maybe you can sense him at times. it first happens when you’re asleep one night, and like usual, your husband is watching over you.

all he feels - and all you feel these past couple of days - is nothing but grief and heartbreak. both of you were mourning (though he was the only one who was technically dead) the loss of each other and how you’d no longer be able to hold one another. to kiss, to caress, to feel your heartbeats against your chests. he often finds himself lost in thought, gazing at something distant and out of his reach, sights strictly stuck on your form. you toss and turn — and satoru, he would always complain about your icy feet and how he’d wake up in the middle of the night to your foot on his cheek. but now, he wishes more than anything in the world to feel the chill of your skin than that of death.

with each passing night, you only grow more restless as satoru’s scent seems to dissipate from the sheets and from the air of your home. you feel even colder than normal, the bed no longer warm and inviting. there was no comforting presence alongside you, no loud snores and breaths right beside your ear as a certain someone invades your space. for once and for forever, you have the bed all to yourself — and you hate it.

eventually, at some point, you end up on your back, lightly snoring as you finally manage to shut your eyes. satoru lets out a breath of relief. at least you’d have a couple hours of sleep to properly function the next day. as he continues to stare, however, his eyes don’t fail to roam over you — attention shifting from your face to your heaving chest. he can tell you weren’t wearing a bra like usual — your nipples poking through the thin fabric of your shirt.

seconds pass as he looks, and the harder he does . . . the harder he gets down below. satoru’s head whips down in shock, a bit flustered at the way his cock twitches to (ironically) life. how could he still do that? this paranormal stuff is weird — his paranormal penis is weird. out of all the times to get an erection . . . your husband shoots his gaze towards you, where you lay all sprawled out, covers kicked off from your wrestle with an imaginary creature in your dreams (at least, that is what he picked up on from your sleepy mumbles).

could he even…… cum? — like this, he means. he didn’t even know he could get a boner in this state so it wouldn’t exactly hurt to try. satoru crawls atop the bed slowly — and it doesn’t shift or dip as if he’s lighter than a feather, like he doesn’t even exist. yet, he still does so quietly and carefully, as if scared to wake you even though he knows it isn’t possible. he makes his way on top of you, straddling you. and as he lingers above, looking down at the sight of your slightly parted lips in your slumber, spying a bit of drool at the corner — he can’t help but throb in his pants with interest. you look so innocent and peaceful, and yet, your filthy (dead) husband can’t help but be a freak at a moment like this by getting off to it.

after a bit of (no) contemplating, he tugs down the front of his pants, enough to free his cock just a bit. he hisses slightly as his tip meets the abnormally icy air and with a sigh, he starts stroking himself — right above your face. unbelievably, heat creeps up onto his face and spreads throughout his entire body. this was wrong, but . . . you wouldn’t mind right? it’s not as though you knew your husband whom you’ve been crying over for the past few weeks is jerking off on you while you sleep . . . as a ghost.

the hand stroking him works faster, and if he could, he’d probably be sweating by now. letting out a string of groans and whines, his tip leaks and dribbles a bit onto your shirt, but it doesn’t bleed through and soak it. with that, he feels a little bolder, more confident and assured in his depravity and runs his mushroom tip over your lips only to feel a mixture of irritation and disappointment as it does nothing for him. all it serves is sending a weird sensation down his spine at the contact.

regardless of that, satoru imagines himself cumming straight into your open mouth, the familiar coil in his stomach building and he starts strokes himself even quicker, breathless gasps permeating the air while his hips rut desperately into his own hand. and before he can stop himself — his cock explodes, sending rope after rope of his semen on your face.

with a flinch, your eyes shoot wide open. satoru yelps, jolting back in surprise, almost stumbling back but catching himself with a hand on the bedding.

you blink up at the ceiling, startled like a lamb, before your hand reaches up slowly. and if his heart could beat, it’d be thundering in his chest right about now. he swallows, watching closely as you feel around your face for whatever just hit you …….. only to find nothing.

huh?

the evidence of his transparent orgasm doesn’t budge the slightest bit as your fingers trace around the perimeter of your face. that is, until you sit up and he shuffles back a bit, making room for you even though he technically doesn’t have to (it’s more out of instinct). and right then, his seed starts dripping down, unable to defy gravity. but you can no longer sense it now, as if the odd sensation suddenly vanished.

but, you felt it. you felt the phantom feeling of him blowing his load all over your face. out of all the things he’s done so far to get you to acknowledge that he is here, that he’s touching you — that’s the first bit of contact you recognize?

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stellamarielu · 5 months ago

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new territory

joel miller x female reader

summary: when joel returns home with an injury you’re quick to help him, but his wound isn’t the only thing being taken care of.

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, cursing, mentions of blood, poorly written medical practices, descriptions of applying stitches, slightly submissive joel, oral m!recieving, a hint of ball worship [that old man needs his balls licked idc], soft jackson joel, p in v sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink!!!, mentions of pregnancy, it’s baby makin time fr, creampie, cum play, multiple orgasms

author’s note: what started as a submissive joel fic turned into nasty breeding kink smut and i’m not even sorry about it. ALSO i just realized this is the second time i’ve written smut about joel miller fucking the reader on a countertop… says a lot about me i think

Turning over in bed, a dim light had you stirring from your slumber. Your eyes blinked open just enough to survey the room, noticing that the stream of light on your face was caused by a crack in the bathroom door.

You buried your head deeper into your pillow; your frustration dissipating into ease at the realization that Joel was home safe and sound.

He always tried to sneak in when he got home from his patrol shift. It was so late he never wanted to wake you, and normally he didn’t, but tonight— tonight he’d left the door open haphazardly, and you could hear him rustling around in the bathroom. The squeak of the medicine cabinet opening was unmistakable, and your stomach instantly turned. The medicine cabinet was reserved for one thing: a very unorganized and mostly expired assortment of first aid supplies.

Despite the temptation of sleep, you sat up, brushing the covers from your body as your feet padded toward the bathroom door. You pushed it open to find Joel leaning over the sink watching himself in the mirror as he attempted to clean a wound just below his collarbone.

“Joel.” You whispered, sleep still staining your voice as you stepped closer to him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” His head turned in your direction, a wince evident on his face as his eyebrows pulled together from the pain of his injury.

“You should’ve woken me up Joel. Jesus that looks bad.”

The worry in your voice was all too familiar. Your concern for Joel’s well-being was second nature, a constant theme in the narrative of your relationship.

“Let me see.” You were placing a hand on his back, signaling him to turn your direction so you could assess the cut just below his shoulder.

He didn’t even try to protest, shocking you with his obedience. Usually, the two of you would go back and forth while he tried to convince you it was “just a scratch that needs time to heal” brushing off your persistent hands. But this time he surrendered, turning around to face you; his unclothed torso marked with blood.

“What the hell happened.” You were questioning in a hushed tone as your fingers carefully ran over his body.

“Had to take care of some raiders at the wall. Got a little too close for comfort.”

It was rare for something like this to happen, but it did. And every time Joel somehow managed to be in the middle of it.

You didn’t respond, instead you took your time looking at the wound stretching from his chest to his shoulder. It was deep, far deeper than time and bandages would heal, and you both knew it.

“Sit.” You were motioning to the toilet beside him. It was the only spot in the cramped space for Joel to take a seat, and you needed the florescent lighting of the bathroom to fix him up properly.

He knew better than to argue with you, sitting down without a word, the porcelain lid of the toilet slightly clanking under his weight.

“Gonna have to stitch it up, it’s deep.” The words were a mumble as you searched the medicine cabinet above his head, fishing out the collection of first aid materials and setting the box down on the counter.

You were rummaging through it, looking for the needle and thread you kept for moments like this. They’d only been used a handful of times in the last few years; and almost every occasion it was Joel who sat on the other end of your amateur sowing job.

“I’m sure it’ll be-.” He began trying to make an excuse until you cut him off.

“Joel.” His name was all you said as you continued riffling through bandages and bottles of medication.

Joel was a tough man. He could handle getting injured all day long, but he hated sutures. You remembered how hard it was to hold back your laugh the first time you had to give him three stitches in his hand. He was writhing away from your touch and almost begging you to stop. His childish trepidation would’ve been cute, had you not been lacing a needle through his skin.

“Well if ya can’t find it we’ll have to just-“ He was grumbling from his spot next to you.

“Ah-ha! Found it.” You were pulling the thread from the box with a victorious grin on your face.

You looked over to Joel and your smile immediately faded upon seeing his apprehensive expression.

“I’ll be fast I promise.” You offered him a small smile as you nudged his knees apart, positioning yourself between them.

He was sat with his legs spread, you standing in front of him. He watched you prepare to fix his wound, and even covered in blood with his body aching in pain, Joel couldn’t help but appreciate your compassion. It was sweet really, how you always took such good care of him. He liked having someone to come home to and although he’d never admit it; he enjoyed the way you tended to him like this. You were always so attentive— a true nurturing soul.

He watched as you used whatever antiseptic solution was left from your stash and a washcloth to clean the area surrounding his clavicle. Your face was contorted in concentration as you took in the wound, mentally preparing yourself for the next step.

“Ready?” The question was rhetorical as it left your lips, your hands swapping the washcloth for the thread and needle as you leaned in closer to Joel.

“As I’ll ever be.” He was answering in a mumble as he closed his eyes, working himself up for the inevitable sting.

You began, and the sharp hiss that escaped him made your chest feel heavy. You followed through with your word, your movements quick and precise as you worked to close the wound on his chest, in and out in a continuous pattern as you tried not to let Joel’s shaky exhales interrupt your concentration.

“You’re doing so good.” You whispered down to him as your hands continued to work.

Your compliment was delivered with pure intentions. You knew Joel’s eyes were screwed shut in pain and you felt like he could use a little bit of encouragement. What you didn’t know, was the way your softly spoken words had Joel’s entire body heating up.

The pain at his chest instantly faded into warmth as he let your praise sink into his body like honey— sweet and sticky.

His eyes peeled open to look at you, gazing upwards and watching as your brows furrowed in deliberation at the thread moving through his skin. He was suddenly becoming aware of your soft body pressed up against his crotch as you leaned into him. The only clothing covering you was a t-shirt and your underwear, the bare skin of your thighs rubbing against the thick denim of his jeans.

You were so fixated on following the pattern of your movements that you hadn’t even noticed Joel staring at you. In fact, you were almost finished when you felt the familiar push of his erection against your uncovered thigh.

You looked down between sutures ready to make a joke about him getting turned on right now until you were met with his big brown eyes on yours. He was looking up at you with undeniable defenselessness, tempting you with his vulnerability. The out of character switch in power dynamics had a calculated smirk forming on your lips.

“Such a good boy for me.” You made sure your voice was low and persuasive as you spoke down to him.

Your words sent an undisclosed craving throughout his body and his hands found the back of your thighs, grabbing gently, careful not to disrupt your intricate work on his shoulder.

He wanted to pull you down onto him; to put his hands all over your body and show you he was in charge. He didn’t want to let you get away with making him feel inferior, but he couldn’t move— not while you were stitching him up like this.

You thought Joel might playfully tell you to shut up or be quiet, but he didn’t. He just kept his eyes trained on yours, careful and compliant.

This was not your usual dynamic. Not in your relationship and definitely not in the bedroom.

Joel was always the one in control.

It quickly became an unspoken agreement between you that he called the shots and made the decisions. You figured it was from a place of fear— of wanting to protect you. But now with him sat beneath you all bruised and battered, you got to be the one protecting him. It felt like you were stepping into new territory standing between his legs in the middle of your little bathroom at this ungodly hour.

You finished in silence, setting your tools back on the countertop. Joel’s hands stayed on your thighs, his fingers splayed over your skin and his grip a little tighter than before.

You brought your hands up to run over his chest, your fingertips tracing around his tended wound, admiring your work.

“Not so bad huh?” You were sing-songing sweetly as you peered down at the man beneath you. It wasn’t often that you got to see Joel like this; docile and preening under your touch.

“No, not bad.” The words were fumbling from his mouth as he gazed at you.

“Think you deserve a reward for doing so good.” You were trailing your hands further up, fingertips finding the nape of his neck, your voice quiet and innocent.

“What do you think? Need a little something for being such a good boy?” one of your hands intertwined in his hair, grabbing gently and pulling so that his head tilted up to meet your gaze.

You caught the way his head moved in a subtle nod at your words.

You smiled at him and the look exchanged between you was eager before you sank to the floor hitting the cool tile as you kneeled before him.

The two of you worked simultaneously to pull his jeans down just enough to free his erection from the restraining denim. You were desperate to get him in your mouth, only letting his jeans make it halfway down his thighs before stopping him and leaning forward.

You hadn’t even touched him yet and he was already excruciatingly hard, his member resting against his belly as he sat patiently waiting to feel you on him.

He was expecting to feel your hand wrap around the base of his cock, or maybe your tongue licking a long stripe up his length; but what he wasn’t anticipating, was the warmth of your lips against the sensitive space sitting underneath his aching member. You placed a gentle kiss on his balls and his head instinctually fell back, a raspy groan melting from his lips as you gently kissed and licked.

“Fuck.” It was a breathless groan— long and drawn-out pouring from his throat as you sloppily worked at the underside of his cock. You hummed at the satisfaction of having him at your disposal, sat in front of you and pathetically whimpering from just a few simple kisses.

The vibration of your hum purring against him had his hands finding your hair, fingers cautiously digging into your scalp.

You drew your tongue up his length stopping once you reached the head and placing a gentle kiss there before taking just the tip of him between your lips.

His hold on your hair tightened, causing you to swirl your tongue around him as you took your time sucking and listening to the muffled moans fighting against his lips.

You deepened your movement, dipping your head lower as you let him fill you even further, the warmth of your mouth enveloping him almost completely. The pitiful noises seeping from him had one of your hands sprawling up his thigh until your fingertips were ghosting his balls.

You were caressing the delicate weight between his legs, gently toying with them in your hand while your mouth continued welcoming him deeper toward your throat.

“Shit Darlin’.”

His words were a hushed sigh of relief as your eyes fluttered up to meet his.

His sinful gaze sent your thighs clenching together as you continued bobbing your head.

You brought a hand to the base of his cock, using it in tandem with your mouth to illicit more of those sweet sounds form his throat. His groans and grunts were sinking down to meet your ears causing your own arousal to pool between your legs.

You continued your actions, setting a steady pace, knowing it wouldn’t be long until you tasted his sweet release on your tongue.

“Baby, baby, baby.” He was chanting down to you— a breathless warning cry.

You hummed in response, prepared to take everything he could give you as he reached his climax. Only, he was using his hold in your hair to pull your mouth from him, caressing your cheek while he caught his breath, watching as you kneeled before him with watery eyes and puffy lips.

Joel had one hand on your face the other loosely grabbing a handful of your hair as he leaned down to meet your line of sight.

“Wanna cum in here.”

He was bringing the fingers at your cheek down between your legs. Parting them slightly with his touch and cupping your heat in the palm of his hand.

“That okay honey?”

The warmth of his palm through the thin material of your panties had you nodding pathetically at his words.

His fand flew back to your face as he captured your lips in a lazy kiss.

You knew the embrace of his lips well. The familiar dance of his mouth on yours ensued as he stood, bringing you with him and pushing your body against the bathroom sink.

His hands trailed down to your waist, grabbing hold and beginning to lift until you stopped him, pushing his hold away from your body. You knew if he picked you up it would strain the stitches in his shoulder.

“Nuh-uh Joel you have to be careful. I don’t want you breaking your stitches open.” You were breaking the kiss with a gasp of breath, motioning to the extensive wound spanning from his chest to shoulder.

“Okay baby, I’ll be real gentle.” His southern drawl was undeniable as he murmured the words to you with a condescending smile.

You lifted yourself up to sit on the cool surface of the bathroom counter as Joel moved himself between your legs, pressing his lips on yours once again. His kiss trailed down your jaw as he pulled your thighs apart. Both of his hands running up the inside of your legs, causing goosebumps to raise on your skin. He reached your underwear, his motions stopping once he felt the way the wet cotton clung to your core.

“Love when you get this worked up just from suckin’ me off.” He was groaning into your neck as he ran a single digit up and down your slit through your ruined panties.

“Missed you today.�� More mumbles into your skin as he slowly rubbed circles over your covered clit.

“I missed you too.” The words were a moan as you wrapped your arms around him, hands spread over his back as you pulled him closer.

“Thought about you a lot.” His tone was casual as he kept the conversation going; and while you loved the man, you needed him to get on with it. You needed him bad.

Leave it to Joel to start swapping stories about your day with his dick dangerously hard and inches away from pushing into you.

“Thought about the other day when you were talkin’ bout babies.” He brought his face back just enough to gage your expression as he spoke.

You weren’t expecting this to come up now.

Days ago Joel caught you watching the young family that lived across the street. They just had a baby and it was impossible to miss the way you ogled at them when they sat on their front porch rocking their newest addition.

He brought the obvious gawking to your attention, partly as a joke, but it lit something in him as soon as he saw the way you got all fidgety and flustered about it.

You were quick to defend your increased interest in your neighbors, “They’re just a sweet couple that’s all. And their baby is just so damn cute.”

“Yeah, he is pretty cute isn’t he.” You were both staring out the window, his hand finding the small of your waist as he stood behind you.

“Most newborn babies are ugly but that’s a good one.” Joel was cracking a joke that had you shoving your elbow back into his torso.

“Oh, shut up.” You were trying to hide the giggle in your words as you kept your eyes trained on the little family across the street. Shamelessly wondering what it would be like to have that with Joel.

“I happen to have a soft spot for babies.” You were muttering as you gazed out the window.

“That right?” Joel’s voice was tender and low as you turned to look at him. Your eyes locking in a moment of pure interest and understanding before you eventually broke the stare, choosing to start dinner and leave the conversation frozen in time.

But now he was bringing it up, in the middle of the night with fresh stitches adorning his chest and his body wedged between your legs.

“See the way you look at them.” He was referring to your neighbors, his voice quiet and kind.

“You want that?” His gaze was affectionate as he kept his eyes on yours, watching carefully. His finger still circling the bundle of nerves at your center; his crude movements a complete juxtaposition to the way he was sweetly looking at you.

“Want a baby? A little family?” There was a slight smile on his lips as he mumbled the words.

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Your response was simple, his eyes still watching as you answered.

“With you.”

One of his eyebrows innocently cocked at your follow up statement.

“I want that with you Joel.” You meant it.

Although you’d be lying if you said the words weren’t also fueled by the way his pointer finger was slowly and deliberately stroking your clit through your panties.

“Do you ever think about it?” Your eyes were peering at him naively, your bottom lip caught in your teeth as you bit down trying to keep yourself from moaning in pleasure at his soft touch.

“Having a baby with me?”

The words were a sweet murmur on your tongue and Joel had to keep himself from groaning at your question.

Of course he wanted it. He thought about it every time he caught you staring out the window at the kid across the street.

He couldn’t shake the constant reminder ringing in his head that he was older than you, and a man his age shouldn’t be starting a family. He knew people would have a lot to say about it and he didn’t want you to be the topic of town gossip. But hearing you say the words to him right now— telling him how much you wanted to have his baby. It was maddening.

Every last insecurity was shoved to the side as he looked into your eyes so precious and kind, full of longing and anticipation.

“All the time sweetheart.” He let the truth flood the space between your lips and the way your face lit up was all he needed to keep confessing.

“Nothin’ I want more than a family with you.”

A squeak of a moan pushed past your lips both from his declaration and the increased pressure he was applying to your clit as he continued his lazy circles on your panties.

“Then what’s stopping us?”

You were bucking your hips into his hand and your soft smile was replaced by a convincing grin.

His facial expression quickly matched yours as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down your thighs with his eyes still on yours.

“Gonna give me a baby Miller?”

He was pulling you closer to the edge of the countertop, angling himself at your entrance.

While he would normally stretch you out with a few strokes of his fingers before pushing his cock into you, tonight he was impatient and greedy. He knew you were already ready for him from your ruined panties that were now somewhere on the floor.

“That what you want huh? Wanna be a mama?” The tone behind his questioning was sadistic as he let his tip nudge into you.

“Take such good care of me sweetheart, know you’d be so good with our babies.”

He leaned in, his forehead finding yours as he watched your eyelids flutter with each inch he pushed into you.

“Joel…” Your mind was beginning to go blank, and his name was the only thing you could get out in an attempt to ask for more.

“Gonna fill you up real good darlin’, give you a baby.” He was trying his best to keep his composure, but Joel’s words were filled with the threat of a moan as he bottomed out inside you.

“God yes- Please Joel.” You didn’t even attempt to hide the sigh of relief that flew from your mouth at the feeling of him filling you.

He moved slowly at first, wanting to give in to the intimacy of your exchanged words. Then he felt you desperately clenching around him, rendering him powerless against his most primal desires.

His hips began snapping into yours; hands gripping the flesh of your thighs pulling them even further apart in his grasp. With each thrust he challenged you to take him deeper, rubbing the sweetest spot along your walls as your fingers dug into the muscles of his back.

You were a muddle of whines and whimpers as Joel continued to drive into you, paying close attention to the spongey place deep inside that had your whole body tensing up.

“Want it so bad, don’t ya baby?” His question held a certain level of arrogance, but you didn’t even notice it with the way his hips were grinding against yours every time he drove into you.

You simply nodded, your head bumping against his.

“Know ya do.” He watched as pitiable little noises fell from your parted lips.

“Can feel it.” He was groaning as he felt your walls squeezing around him signifying your inevitable release.

You couldn’t remember a time when you came this fast; but the way he was speaking mixed with the thrill of a new desire being shared between you had your abdomen straining and your head buzzing.

“Fuck I’m gonna-“

“I know sweetheart let it out.”

His reassurance was coupled with heavy thrusts that sent moans spilling from the deepest part of your chest.

Your fingernails were sure to leave marks as you gripped his back. The pressure in your core bursting as your release washed over you.

The pleasure was nearly blinding as your body heaved underneath Joel’s movements. It didn’t stop. The overwhelming feeling of relief continued to course through your veins as Joel kept a steady pace thrusting in and out of you.

“Tell me how bad you want it.” His voice was breathless as it fanned over your face.

His grip on your thighs had migrated up to your face as he held your jaw in his hands, keeping your forehead pressed against his.

“Need it Joel.” You were mewling between gasps, as he plunged into you.

“Need your cum.”

His hold on your face forced your eyes to meet his and while you could barely keep them open; you were mesmerized by the way he was staring at you, his jaw slack and his eyes dark and focused.

“Wanna feel you.”

With each of your words, you could feel his thrusts growing eager and sloppy.

“Want you to give me a baby Joel.”

The whining in your voice had Joel’s hips stuttering and his body going rigid as he pushed into you with one final thrust.

You felt his warmth spitting and spreading through you; your walls soft and swollen, inviting every last drop.

His groans were guttural as his forehead pushed against yours, his eyes squeezing shut in pure bliss.

Joel’s breath was heavy and elongated as he let himself melt into your touch. Giving himself just a few seconds to regain his self-control.

Wordlessly, he pulled away to take in the features of your face. Looking intently for any sign of regret or sudden realization but instead, he was just met with your comforting smile.

“My sweet girl.” His voice was a gentle whisper as he kept his dick buried deep inside of you.

“Gonna look so pretty all pregnant with our baby.”

His hands were at your belly tracing delicate little patterns in your warm skin.

He slowly began to pull out of you, both of your heads falling to watch the way he dripped out from between your legs.

You expected him to grab a towel, taking his time to clean you up like he normally did after making a mess of you; but this time he veered from his usual aftercare habit. The towel hanging next to you stayed in its place as you watched Joel trail two fingers down your abdomen until he was gathering his spend leaking from your core and pushing it back into you.

You were whining his name in protest, already overstimulated and messy from him fucking you through your orgasm.

“C’mon honey, can’t let it go to waste.” His eyes bore into yours with a serious intensity as his fingers hooked into you, knuckles deep.

His name was falling like a chant from your lips. You were already pulsing around his digits, the feeling of his warm slicked fingers sending your body into overdrive.

“Thought you wanted a baby?”

You nodded and whispered a pathetic “I do” at his words. His hand pulled out from between your legs just enough for him to watch his cum coated fingers dip back into you again.

“Gotta take all of it then sweetheart.”

You kept nodding, the repetition of your head bobbing up and down making a victorious grin spread across Joel’s face.

“Good job baby.” His praise was coupled by the obscenely wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you, curling with each thrust.

“Joel-“ You choked out his name as he used his fingers to expertly bring you to your release. You were so close you could taste it.

“Gonna make such a pretty baby sweetheart.” He was in a trance as he looked down between your bodies, you were so messy, sucking him in with each push of his fingers.

Profanities twirled off your tongue as you felt another wave of pleasure chase through your body.

Joel worked you through it, his fingers moving continually as you writhed under his touch.

The culmination of wetness at your core a sloppy mess of devotion and passion. Your body trembled as you came down from your high and Joel’s fingers carefully retreated, finding a place to rest on your bare thigh.

Neither of you moved. The two of you staying in one place soaking in each other’s warmth.

You brought a hand up to trace his collarbone, surveying his wound that was thankfully still in tact.

“Think it worked?” You were wondering aloud, referring to your spontaneous decision to make a baby on your bathroom counter.

“Eh, we can always keep tryin’.” Joel was toying with your hair, his body pressed against yours as he stood between your legs.

“You know… for good measure.” He smiled through his words at the idea of getting to do that over and over again.

my masterlist

#soft jackson joel is my religion #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character smut #pedro pascal

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moonstruckme · 6 months ago

Note

omg as a diabetic i've not really seen many fics about this but your fic was lovely!!! what about a diabetic read with the marauders )any ship or person) where they had a slightly nasty argument and she's not feeling well (sugar levels or whatever u decide) and she doesn't tell them because of the fight and comfort with sprinkles of angst ensue? it was just a thought, if you're up for it! <3

Thank you lovely <3

cw: reader has diabetes, dizziness/lightheadedness, brief mention of blood, for anyone unfamiliar with diabetes the “meter” here refers to a blood glucose meter which reports blood sugar levels

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.7k words

You seem to have inadvertently laid claim to the sitting room. Sirius stalked off into the kitchen and hasn’t come back, and Remus is down the hall avoiding the pair of you, as he’s taken to doing whenever you and Sirius argue. He might come talk sense into you if it were really serious, but Remus has had his own share of domestic squabbles with both of you; he leaves you to sort this one out by yourselves.

A few minutes ago, through the smog of your anger, you recognized a feeling of wrongness. The timing is uncanny. Sirius had only just gone into the kitchen when you realized you needed to be there yourself. Now, even if you could brave the iciness of your boyfriend’s rancor, you don’t think you could stand to get what you need in front of him.

The second you reach for one of your glucose-boosting shakes, Sirius will know your blood sugar is low, and then you’ll be a victim to him.

Or not a victim, necessarily, but someone in need of care. Someone he has to look after, and who he can’t be angry at, and that’s not fair to him. Even if you do want to stop fighting, you don’t want to win that way.

But a few more minutes of doing nothing and you aren’t sure you’ll be able to stand properly from this couch.

Remus peeks into the living room. Finding only you, he comes over.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, sitting beside you. He means your argument; Remus is perceptive, but he’s not that good.

“Yeah.” You loose a breath. “He’s so stubborn.”

“So are you,” he says, not without fondness.

“But I’m right.”

Remus hums and kisses the side of your head. You try not to melt too obviously; your head is starting to ache from the drop in blood sugar, and you really are beginning to feel somewhat pitiful. “If I tell you something,” he murmurs, “you have to keep it a secret.”

You look at him, intrigued. “What?”

Remus’ lips give a slight tug. “I agree with you.”

You grin, smug and extremely vindicated. Remus holds up a hand.

“But,” he goes on, “I think you should apologize to him.”

Just like that, your smile dissipates. Your headache feels like it’s getting worse. “Why?”

The look Remus gives you is kind, but tinged with bemusement. “You were harsh with him, sweetheart. I understand being upset, but you didn’t need to lay into him the way you did. It was only a small thing.” He lowers his voice. “I think he might not have dug his heels in quite so deeply if you’d only asked him nicely.”

You frown, guilt and irritation warring within you. “He’s always stubborn. It doesn’t matter what I say.”

“It matters,” says Remus. “Listen, I can’t know for sure, but I think if you apologized to him, he’d apologize back. And maybe then you could find an agreement about the whole thing.”

You sigh, letting your weight sag into Remus’ side. Your hands are starting to tremble in your lap. “I’d rather just tell him you think I’m right,” you say.

You hear the smile in Remus’ voice as he kisses your head again. “I know.”

You manage to stand without teetering. Remus waits in the sitting room while you go to the kitchen, where you find your boyfriend eating frosting broodily out of a tin. He spares you hardly a glance as you come in, sucking his spoon clean.

“I didn’t mean to be harsh,” you say softly.

Sirius scoffs. “Didn’t stop you.”

“I didn’t realize I was being so harsh,” you amend. Even as you do, it’s hard to keep the bite from your tone. You know that you’re particularly irritable when your blood sugar is low; however, knowing that doesn’t actually make you feel any less irritated. “I’m sorry.”

Sirius shakes his head. He’s still looking at the cabinets rather than at you. “Just because I don’t do things the way you want me to doesn’t make me completely incompetent.”

This apology might take longer than you bargained for. You set a hand on the counter as a wave of dizziness passes over you. Maybe you can drink your shake while apologizing? But Sirius is standing between you and the fridge.

“I wasn’t trying to call you incompetent,” you say through the fog that’s descending over your consciousness.

“That’s sure what it sounded like,” Sirius bites out.

“Well, I don’t think you are. I just…I think I’m in a mood, and I’m saying things I don’t mean. I’m sorry.”

It’s a rare enough admittance from you that Sirius looks over. One of his dark brows is half quirked, intrigue palpable.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really.” It feels like a weight off your shoulders; you think you physically slump. “I still think I’m right, but I shouldn’t have been so mean. Not,” you add, unable to help yourself, “that you were very nice to me either. But I started it.”

A corner of Sirius’ mouth kicks up. “You did start it,” he agrees, softening. “I’m sorry, too. For not being very nice.”

“It’s okay.” You try to smile back at him, eyeing the fridge. “Um, could I…I need the fridge.”

He laughs, stepping aside. “Awe, that’s my darling girl. She’s feigned an apology because she’s hungry for lunch.”

“Ha ha,” you reply drolly.

As you step around him, Sirius palms the back of your neck, pulling you in for a brief kiss. You wish you could appreciate it better. You’re starting to feel rather unsteady, your lips tingling without the warmth.

“Hey,” he says.

You open the fridge, pushing condiments aside and reaching towards the back. Sirius sets a hand to your lower back.

“Baby. You’re sweating.”

“I’m okay,” you tell him, closing the fridge. You see him register the bottle in your hand, and you try to affect an expression of insouciance as you screw off the cap. “Just a little low.”

“You’re low? For how long?” Sirius is gripping you with both hands now, one on your waist and the other at your elbow. He seems afraid you’ll keel over; you wish it were a less founded fear. “What’s your blood sugar at?”

“Not sure,” you admit quietly. Your meter is in here, too, just behind where Sirius is standing. You sip your shake, nearly draining the small bottle. “It doesn’t matter, I’ll be good soon.”

“Sweetheart.” Sirius’ brows bend, worry and bafflement warring in his expression. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Because it’s fine.” You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t want us to stop fighting just because of that. You were angry with me for valid reasons.”

“I’m still angry with you,” he says, making you look at him in surprise, “but now for completely different reasons. What were you thinking?”

His raised voice attracts Remus, come now to keep the peace.

“It wasn’t a big problem,” you try to reassure Sirius. “I had it handled.”

“Staying away from what you need just because I’m upset is not handling it, baby.”

“What’s going on?” Remus asks, looking between the two of you bemusedly. It’s not like Sirius to use sweet names when he’s angry, or like you to be so defensive after you’ve agreed to patch things up. “Have you managed to start another row already?”

“Her blood sugar is low, and she wasn’t going to do anything about it because she thought I was angry with her,” Sirius tells him.

“You were angry with me,” you say.

Remus looks at you, his eyes skimming you over quickly. “How low?” he asks.

Sirius crosses his arms. “She doesn’t know.”

You let out a breath, starting to feel teary. Another argument, on top of your headache and dizziness and the general weariness of your physical form at the moment, is too much.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “I knew I was low, I was already handling it.”

“Of course it matters, lovely,” Remus replies, disappointment permeating the usual kindness in his tone.

He finds your meter behind Sirius, opening your small kit and putting in a new test strip before taking out the lancet. You let him prick your finger, throwing your empty shake bottle in the trash. Your meter beeps when it gets the reading.

“Oh,” Remus sighs. “Alright. That’ll come up now you’ve had your drink.”

“I know it will,” you mutter.

“Hey.” Sirius all but traps you in a hug, his arms pushing underneath yours and squeezing you harshly. “Don’t do that. Okay? Please.”

You feel yourself soften. One of your hands comes up to stroke the ends of his hair where it falls between his shoulder blades. “You don’t need to worry,” you say.

“Oh, piss off. Try and stop me.”

“I saw you shaking,” Remus admits, his voice soft. You look at him, surprised, but he meets your guilty expression with a half smile. “I only thought it was because you were upset. It’s an odd thing to keep secret from us, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t keeping it a secret.” You tuck your chin into Sirius’ shoulder. He gives your back a couple of firm rubs before pulling away. “I just didn’t want you to feel like…like you needed to look after me.”

“Too bad,” Sirius says, stubbornly. “We’re going to look after you anyways. Shocked you wouldn’t know that already.”

Remus smiles. He sets a hand to your back, soothing it back and forth between your shoulder blades. “He’s right,” he says. “No matter who’s upset, please don’t hide these things from us. It’s important that we know.”

“Okay,” you mumble, chastised. “Sorry.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Two apologies in one afternoon. Christ, you really must be feeling poorly.”

Remus chuckles. “Should we sit for a while? Give you time to come up.”

“Sure.” That sounds amazing, actually. Even with the glucose working its way into your system, you’re still finding it difficult to stay on your feet. You start back towards the sitting room. “Thanks.”

“Oh, my poor baby.” Sirius wraps his arms around you from behind, forcing you to take small steps to accommodate him. “You’re still shaking, sweet girl.”

“This,” you say, “is exactly what I didn’t want.”

Sirius laughs. He lets you go so you can sit before flopping down beside you, planting a kiss on your cheek. “Maybe next time,” he suggests, “you can be honest with us from the beginning, and I’ll let you be a bit choosier about what reaction you get.”

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sheepispink · 7 months ago

Text

thinking about sleeping next to simon thanks to @thatsamericasass24

“What’re you doing up this late?” His gruff voice rang out, empty bottle in hand coming to fill it in the sink here, but all rationality seemed to run to waste when he saw your state.

For some reason, you cant sleep in your bed tonight whether that’s because of a giant spider, a nightmare scaring you or your bed entirely breaking mid sleep. Either way, you’re shaking in the common room, hands wrapped around a warm mug as you recount the previous events like a broken tape playing the same part.

With that, he had ushered you into his bedroom, knowing he couldnt just leave you to tremble any longer on that couch. He never planned to sleep beside you, no, he would only lay next to you, make sure that shiver stopped. He settles in the bed first, making sure to be on the edge before patting the space next to him in the dark room, only the small lamplight glowing up the untouched sheets.

You let out a soft breath of relief as you shuffle beneath the covers beside him, only to tense up immediately when your leg collides with his. “Sorry!” You squeak out, shuffling forward only to meet your tipping point, your hand gripping the bedframe to stop you from completely falling off the mattress. You were seconds away from falling off altogether but you couldn’t fathom complaining so you just lay there, squashed into yourself to avoid touching him once more— your hands still holding on desperately so you dont fall off the bed altogether.

His teeth grit as he watches the situation unfold, clearly having underestimated just how large he was. Of course his own bed was more than sufficient for himself— he didnt really think twice when his arm fell off the bed in the mornings. so he figured the same would apply to you. Now he could only watch as you lay stiffly, trying your best not to be ungrateful for his help but it was a little difficult when you felt more on edge than before. Literally.

He taps your shoulder and motions for you to face him, which you do, rolling over when your shoulder brushes his arm once more, a flush on your cheek.. Looking down between you two, there’s only an inch of space at best, and even so, he’s not even in a comfortable position. “Sorry— i’ll just go back to mine-“ You begin but he shakes his head, settling himself properly in the bed until his arms bump yours.

“Hold onto me.” You blink in surprise and instinctively follow his instructions, reaching an arm out before he guides your hand to settle over the expanse his chest. He would’ve wrapped you up tightly with his own arms, keeping you safe in his strong grip. However, the last thing he’d want is to scare you off by being his usually rough self. This way you could choose what you wanted to do, without feeling pressured to comply.

And you do, your hand snug over his chest as your body slowly pushes more against his, right in the crook of him. “I think my arm is too short.” He loves the way your lips quirk up into a nervous grin, afraid yet still finding entertainment in the silliness of this situation. He shuffles onto his side instead, every inch of him pressing against your body as he moves. “You gonna keep being cheeky or can i hold you properly?” He knew what you were implying but it was best to be sure, especially from how shaken up you were earlier. “The latter, please.”

You let out a soft squeal as he wraps his large arm around you, his forearm pressing against your back as he tucks your head into his neck. “ ‘m not gonna let you fall off. Close yer eyes.” He squeezes you a little, forcing the breath you’ve been holding in the corner of your lungs for hours now to finally release. Your eyes flitter, the warm skin of his neck bringing colour back to your cheeks. The panic from before dissipates now, sleepy eyes drifting close as your hand reaches around, only landing on his side at best. “Night, Si.” You squeeze him just as tight, your nose nudging his neck and he chuckles, never having thought he’d ever be able to hold you like this.

“Night, sweetheart.”

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peascribbles · 2 months ago

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𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓

It's been a long, long day. soft!sylus x gn!reader, getting carried from his car into bed, fluff & comfort, sfw; 600wc.

The interior of the car is dappled with the passing streetlights, his features illuminated by strange, ever-shifting fluorescent hues that you muse on drowsily, leaning against the headrest. Invisible weights seem to be tied on your eyelids, and you're fighting a losing battle to keep them open.

Work was exhausting today, plagued by delays and complications, taking you a long way from home. You hadn't even questioned his inexplicable presence this time, given he was the only reason you were able to finish up by midnight.

You fail to stifle a yawn. He glances at you, and the corner of his eyes crinkle when he notices your hopeless plight to stay conscious.

That single look steals a breath from you. The night always seems to wrap around him like a second skin, welcoming him into its fold without hesitation. He wears it so well. Fits in this car, all sleek leather and unadulterated power, like a perfect picture. At ease with one hand on the wheel, in complete control. And he's got that damned jacket on.

Gods, he's a sight for sore eyes.

"Said that out loud, sweetie. You're really tired, huh?"

Whoops. "Don't know what you're talking about," you mumble through another yawn.

He chuckles at that, and you relish its warmth, eyes falling shut to savour the sound. You can't seem to open them again. The seat is impossibly comfortable, more than it has any right to be. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers, the classical music playing low through the aux, the restrained hum of the engine, all work in tandem to pull you under.

You're so close to letting it take you. A passing thought, just a twinge, creeps at the edges of your mind—is he doing this on purpose?—but it drifts away as swiftly as it came when he speaks again.

"Sleep. I'll wake you when we're nearly home," he promises.

His voice must be a black market sedative, because it's the only push you need to succumb at last, into a deep, dreamless slumber.

—

It's a lie.

How could he bring himself to wake you up when you were finally letting yourself rest? You weren't even aware of the tension that's worn you thin the whole day, undoubtedly forming knots in your shoulders—which he'll gladly offer to massage out of you later—and having it dissipate now that you're fast asleep is a relief.

He gets out and walks to the passenger side, opening the door quietly to not disturb you. Scoops you up in his arms and carries you through the expansive underground garage, through the darkened hallways of the base, to the master bedroom where he lays you down with care.

It's too early for him to sleep, so he simply tucks you in, pulling a blanket over you and ensuring your head is properly supported. But when he goes to leave for the office, there's a tug on his sleeve.

He turns back to find that you've somehow held on to him while still knocked out. Catches the faintest whisper under your breath.

"Don't go."

What a demanding kitten he has. He tuts, though there's not a shred of real irritation behind it—and he's already halfway through shedding his jacket. Peels off his gloves, then his shoes.

Moving with unnerving grace for his size, he slips under the blanket with you, the mattress barely dipping under the new weight with how carefully he lowers himself onto it. Conforms his body to yours, two puzzle pieces slotting together.

The moment he wraps an arm around your waist, you snuggle up to him like a heat-seeking missile. You bury your head in his chest, slinging a leg over him, and a hum of utter contentment escapes you. He has to suppress the laugh that wells up inside him, shaking you both with the effort. You've stuck yourself to him like velcro—a perfect, tender trap. There's nowhere else he'd rather be.

#love and deepspace #sylus x reader #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x you #sylus fluff #pea.snax #hope there's no glaring errors I am too frazzled and bleary eyed to proofread properly

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halovians · 2 months ago

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࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞. — 𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒙𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒔. ˒ ⊹

syn. where professor anaxagoras teaches you how to touch yourself properly. (3.1k)

cw. fem reader / shameless porn w absolutely no plot 2 be found / teacher x student dynamic (but its only briefly referenced tbh) / vaginal fingering / oral sex (f!receiving) / overstimulation / pet names used; good girl, starlight, my dear

love, oak! HELLOOOOOO we are so freaking back omg. what started out as what was supposed to be a wee little drabble ended up a monstrosity a little over 3k words (which like isn't much tbh but it's alot for ME!!!). i fear i'm a little rusty so i apologize if the writing is rough around the edges, but i just had to get this out of my freaking head. i listened to death by glamour on loop while editing this. also crossposted to ao3 here!

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI. NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

“So you’re coming to me for help with such a thing?”

Anaxa’s sharp gaze meets yours, pinning you in place. Your shoulders hunch slightly on instinct. Even with only one good eye, his stare is incredibly intimidating.

“Well— yes?” Your voice wavers with uncertainty.

Anaxa clicks his tongue, unsatisfied with your answer.

“If you’re so unsure, then I’m not quite convinced you truly need my assistance with anything at all.”

Anaxa’s office is quiet. Private, which is good for a conversation of this nature. Various candles flicker amongst shelves of books and side tables cluttered with research papers. Outside the window, the incessant night sky glimmers, stars winking down upon the Grove.

Silence sinks between you as his words register.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you shake your head and cast your gaze towards the floor. Your voice escapes you in almost a desperate plea, “No, no— That isn’t it, I just-!”

“Look at me.”

Anaxa’s inflection is stern, but not cold, as he cuts you off. The command in his tone forces your eyes back up, clashing with the pale blue and magenta of his. The gold detailing on his eyepatch glints in the soft glow of the candlelight.

A pause. This time, when he speaks, it is gentle—uncharacteristically so for him. “What is it that you need?”

(You’ve always known the professor had a soft-spot for you, but it always takes you by surprise when it properly manifests. When it becomes something so glaringly obvious.

You suck in a breath. Your heart thumps traitorously beneath your ribs.)

Anaxa’s unusually soft tone causes your shoulders to slump, tension seeping out of your bones in a slow wave. There’s a beat of silence as you manage to steel your nerve. Repeating your request feels humiliating in a way, but at this point, you’re a little desperate.

“I need your help. With... with climaxing. I can’t on my own, and I’m so frustrated.”

The words fall past your lips before you can properly rethink it. Your face flushes with heat—with embarrassment—

Anaxa leans forward, arms folding on his desk. His soft chuckle stirs you from your whirling thoughts.

“And why, pray tell, are you seeking me of all people out for this?”

His question takes you by surprise. You glance away briefly, shame curling low in your stomach like smoke, but the sound of fabric rustling and a chair creaking draws your attention back to him. Anaxa stands slowly, a calculating look about him as he stares down upon you. He doesn’t say anything—he simply waits patiently for you to find the words you wish to speak. Your hands clasp together in your lap, and you find your resolve buried deep within you. The smoke dissipates.

“I trust you, professor,” you finally say. You mentally curse the way your voice warbles faintly. “You are the only one I’d ever think to go to with this sort of… issue.”

Anaxa makes a contemplative noise—something between a hum and a sigh. Slowly, he steps around his desk, fingertips dancing along the wooden edge.

“Just me?” A pause. “Not even Phainon? I know the two of you are.. particularly close.”

The mention of your best friend makes your spine stiffen. His head angles just slightly as the silence settles like dust. You carefully consider his question; then, you shake your head. Your voice comes out breathless, but unwavering: “No— just you.”

And there’s only truth there in your statement. With Phainon… you’re sure he’d be eager. He always is, when it comes to lending a helping hand. But this isn’t the sort of problem you plague best friends with. Maybe in another universe, another cycle— but not this one.

No. In this one, it is you and Anaxa. He is the one you crave the most.

A hint of a smile pulls at his lips—barely there, fleeting as a daydream. He beckons you with a finger. “Come. Sit on the desk.”

The night sky’s light filters through thin white curtains, bathing everything untouched by candle in a soft silvery glow. It casts Anaxa in a sort of ethereal halo, silver gleam and gold candlelight flickering against each other; it’s a sight you have a hard time tearing your gaze away from as you rise to your feet. But he waits, patiently, as you situate yourself on the cool wood of his work desk.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you have to shove a few papers and pens out of the way. Something clatters to the floor suddenly and you flinch, but Anaxa isn’t even bothered. His attention remains solely on you.

You swallow slowly, begging your nerves to settle down. Something like anticipation buzzes like static beneath your skin. Your eyes squeeze shut.

When you open them next, Anaxa is there in front of you.

Close. So, so very close.

You squeak despite yourself.

“Nervous, are we?” He observes.

“A little,” you reply.

Your candor draws an amused chuckle from Anaxa. Your heart flutters again— utterly traitorous.

“You have no need to be,” he says quietly. “It’s just you and me.”

He studies you for a beat, his eye drinking in your form. Slowly, so achingly slow, he reaches a hand out, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, across your cheek. He’s gotten so close now, his breath mingles with yours. His scent wraps around you, like parchment and sandalwood and something deeper— a hint of something citrusy, maybe. You feel lightheaded.

You shiver. Anaxa smiles.

“First,” He starts softly, as if trying not to startle a deer. “I’d like you to show me how you touch yourself.”

Your lips part slightly in surprise. Anaxa’s smile does not waver—in fact, it grows a little wider. Smug, almost.

His head tilts just slightly, pale green hair shifting with the movement. Your fingers twitch as you tamp down the urge to brush the stray strands out of his face.

“Right now—?” You stammer.

“When else, my dear? You’ve oh so bravely made your request—now it’s time to follow through.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow thickly. He’s right—if you were brave enough to ask, then you are brave enough to listen.

So, you don’t verbally respond. Instead, with trembling fingers, you slowly brush the fabric of your dress up your thighs, exposing the skin to him under the soft candle glow.

Anaxa’s tongue darts out briefly to wet his lips. Your gaze meets his, but his gaze is on the slow reveal of your flesh. Without warning, he places a hand on each knee, urging you to spread your legs. His hand is cool against your heated skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he lets them drift further up your thigh.

He doesn’t go much higher, though— he’s very intent on seeing how you pleasure yourself first.

Then he’ll think about touching you. If only to satisfy his own selfish cravings.

Your breath hitches as the silken fabric of your panties is revealed—already damp, soaked with the proof of your desire. There’s a satisfied gleam in Anaxa’s eye as you peer up at him.

His thumb brushes across your inner thigh, gentle sweeps meant to ground you in his presence. But really, it just makes the ache between your legs worse. You squirm a little.

“Don’t be shy, starlight. Go on.” Anaxa murmurs. No— he rasps. The anticipation is killing him, and if your eyes were to drift lower, you would see the way his cock strains against his pants— aching, wanting. All for you.

Alas, your attention is on something else entirely:

Starlight. The pet name shoots straight through your beating heart, a cupids arrow tipped in a sweet poison. And the way he sighs it, stars above; it’s like the blasphemer has finally found his faith, and he finds the truth nestled in the space between your ribs.

Your lips part, a little dumbfounded. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Anaxa shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Yet here you are, thighs slick with want, face flushed with heat.

He’s going to be the death of you.

Confidence bolstered by the way Anaxa seems to drink you up like the sweetest of wines, your fingers dip into the waistband of your panties. You toy with the elastic, teasingly, before peeling the fabric away.

(And Anaxa so kindly helps—you can’t stop the way your heart leaps into your throat as his hands settle on the curve of your hips, lifting you just slightly to lessen the struggle of removing your underwear. You try not to think too hard about how smoothly he does so, or the warmth of his hands against your sensitive skin.)

Arousal makes you ache. Your pussy clenches around nothing as Anaxa guides your legs open once again, a steady anchor between your thighs. Even in the low lights, he is enamored by the sight of you. Glistening with desire. Pliant. Needy.

Your breath leaves you in a shudder as Anaxa’s hands makes themselves at home on your inner thighs. His head dips, lips brushing along the shell of your ear as he breathes, “Show me.”

He doesn’t have to say much more than that. Your hand brushes the hem of your dress out of the way as the other descends, slowly gliding against your wetness. You bite your lip to suppress the whimper that desperately wants to escape you.

Gathering slick along the pads of your fingers, you slowly circle your clit. Pleasure zips through your body, the pool of heat in your stomach slowly growing deeper with every movement.

“Good girl,” Anaxa breathes, attention raptly on you. “Keep going.”

You let out a strangled whimper, fingers clumsily rubbing faster. It’s good— it feels good, but it’s not quite enough, like there’s something missing…

Anaxa kneels, and the movement is so sudden it snaps you out of your pleasure-fueled haze. Your lips part as you stare down at him, watching as his hands brace on your thighs. His head tilts just slightly. You can’t find the words to say—how to ask him what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

Heat blooms across your cheeks. It feels far too intimate, far too much, the sight of Anaxa kneeling between your parted legs as your fingers twitch over your heat. You wonder if perhaps this was a mistake. But then he hums, pleasantly, and you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I didn’t say to stop,” he says, huskily. “Go on— resume.”

And obediently, you listen. Your fingers slip lower now, dipping into your wet heat, starting with one finger, and then two.

All while Anaxa watches.

He looks almost calculating—like he’s mentally taking notes as you tremble and whine in front of him. It shouldn’t turn you on this much. Really.

But it does. And you’re sure he’s taken note of that, too.

Your head tilts back, a low moan falling like honeyed sin from your lips as you finger yourself. And then: a foreign feeling. A brush of fingertips not belonging to you, ghosting over your clit.

“Ah—!?” You gasp, but Anaxa shushes you.

“You’re doing well, but I suppose I should do what you asked of me, hm?”

Typically, Anaxa is much more patient man—but with the sight of your wet heat in front of him for the first time, your little fingers thrusting sloppily, he feels his resolve cracking much quicker than he’d like. A hairline fissure in his foundation, fracturing further and further until he feels it crumbling away. And when it does, his hand wraps around yours, pulling your desire-slick fingers away from your cunt. He brings them to his mouth, and you watch with lust-blown pupils as his tongue darts out, tasting the wetness coating your digits.

“Anaxa—?”

“Anaxagoras,” he corrects, but there’s no real ire behind it. Like he doesn’t actually mind your use of a nickname he believed to have hated.

(He finds that he does not mind it as much if it comes from you.

He tucks this revelation of his away to contemplate later. Right now, his attention is on the pretty pussy dripping for him. His tongue swipes over his lips, savoring the remnants of your taste.)

You’re still reeling from the sensation of his mouth on your hands, but he doesn’t let you sit long in your shock, as his hands move quickly to replace yours. He starts with one finger—sliding it into your wet heat, humming appreciatively at the way your walls clench around him. You let out a weak moan.

“You’re singing so pretty for me, my starlight,” Anaxa murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Don’t worry. I believe it best to learn this sort of thing through experience. So I’ll show you how to cum—again, and again, and again.”

His fingers are longer than yours. Thicker. They reach the spots you’ve never been able to quite reach, and when his fingers brush against a particularly sensitive spot, you keen for him.

Anaxa lights up, as if making a discovery worth screaming to the world. “There it is.”

And he presses against it. Over, and over, and over, like he had promised. One finger turns into two as he slips another inside, and the stretch has you whining as his fingers pump into you. Something foreign in your belly coils tight. Anaxa is deliberate with his every movement, making sure to hit that sweet spot inside you with a cruel precision.

The tension crests to a head when he leans forward to wrap his lips around your clit.

“A—naxa!” you cry, fingers curling into the soft locks of his hair. You give it a tug, but he only groans into your pussy, tongue flicking over your clit in tandem with every thrust of his fingers.

The coil snaps.

Your back arches as you cum, hard, a soft cry falling from your lips as Anaxa chuckles between your legs. It zips through you like lightning, sudden and sharp, leaving you feeling absolutely molten in its’ wake. His fingers pump lazily, drawing you through your high.

Orgasming.. is fucking fantastic, you think. You’d like to experience it again, perhaps.. though the thought of attempting to do so without Anaxa’s assistance is a little daunting.

You curse softly, bringing a hand up to clutch your face as you pant softly. Your other hand remains entangled in his hair—you give him a soft tug.

But he.. doesn’t stop. In fact, his fingers slowly pick back up. What was once shallow, aimless thrusts meant to coast you along return to that vicious preciseness from when he was working you towards your release.

“What are you—”

You’re cut off by a your own gasp when his mouth attaches to your clit again. Your eyes widen as the sensation rips through you, sharp pleasure just bordering on the side of too much.

“I-I can’t!” You cry. “Fuck— s’too much!”

“You can. You will.”

His voice is tinged with obsession, an absolute need to tip you over the peak again. If he could, Anaxa could perhaps spend forever between your legs, playing you like an instrument to draw out the sweetest of melodies your voice could produce.

Your thighs attempt to press together, your hand pushing at him as he continues to lap at your far too sensitive clit—but Anaxa is sturdy, unmoving, positively devoted to his endeavor of making you cum as many times as you can physically manage. He simply uses his free hand to hold you open while the other continues to pump into your aching cunt.

His fingers curl inside you just right and somehow, some way, it happens.

You cum. Again. It almost hurts how good it feels.

You gush around his fingers, and Anaxa laughs, bordering on maniacal. The mere sensation of his breath ghosting over your clit makes your hips jerk, and this time he lets you push his head away. He’s satisfied—for the moment, at least.

Anaxa withdraws his fingers, studying the way your essence coats his hand. He rises to his feet as you’re left to catch your breath. Tears line your lashes as you process the fact that Anaxa has brought you to orgasm not once, but twice, in quick succession. You didn’t even know your body was capable of doing that.

Dizzy, you look up at him, watching as he runs his tongue along his digits. When his eyes catch yours, all offers is, “I enjoy the way you taste.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you huff breathlessly, heat blooming across your cheeks.

Anaxa simply shrugs and turns to the side.

“Just observing.” He pauses. Then: “I’d like to study you more. Your body. The way you react. I find you fascinating.”

You blink at him—still feeling a little hazy from the brain-shattering orgasms he just inflicted upon you, it takes you a moment to realize that this is his way of asking if you’d let him do it again. If you’d let him continue to touch you in ways you’ve never let anyone else touch you before.

You slowly close your trembling legs, smoothing the hem of your dress back over them—where did your panties go?—and tilt your head as you process his statement.

You don’t think you’d mind baring yourself to the professor.

“Okay,” you say softly. At the sound of your voice, Anaxa turns back towards you. His face is carefully schooled into neutrality, but there in the depths of his eye, there’s a glimmer. Something warm. You fold your hands in your lap to prevent yourself from fidgeting. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Anaxa’s lips split into a smile, ecstatic at your agreeance. He approaches you again, the tops of his thighs brushing against your dangling legs as he looks down at you.

“Fantastic. Then— we shall continue to meet in here during the Parting Hour.”

You hum in agreement. Out of all things you had expected to occur this evening, establishing a routine of meeting with Anaxa for what was essentially nightly dick appointments was not one of them. You blink up at him curiously.

Suddenly feeling rather bold, you ask, “Will you kiss me?”

Anaxa blinks down at you— taken by surprise, you note none too smugly. There’s a pinkness that rises to his cheeks, faint, but against his pale skin it’s easy to notice. You smile.

“I suppose I can,” Anaxa finally murmurs, cupping your cheek with a hand. The way he caresses you is gentle. Perhaps a promise of things to come.

And with the stars as your only witness, Anaxa leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

#☆ oakie writes #anaxa x reader #anaxa smut #anaxagoras x reader #anaxagoras smut #hsr x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #anaxa x you #hsr x you #banners by cafekitsune

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mariasont · 2 months ago

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GLUE MYSELF SHUT

it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word wc: 1.6k request: here

The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.

For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.

He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.

You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.

He isn’t much different at this moment.

You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.

It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways.

Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again? Could you come from just a few well-placed touches?

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.

Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.

His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.

He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.

Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.

With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.

These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.

Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.

So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.

But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.

Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.

He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.

You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”

Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”

You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it.

Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion.

When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.

Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.

There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.

Shit.

“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.

“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”

Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”

Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.

“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”

“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.

It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.

Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.

“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”

You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.

All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places.

“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”

“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”

“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”

Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.

He wonders who has painted you in that light.

You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up?

And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?

Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.

He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often.

But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.

“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.

“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”

Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.

“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it.

Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.

One day he’ll show you.

shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!

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