#surprisingly enough: NOT thread end

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[dioslesbianwife]

hiii Can i request a headcanon on the phantom troupe (including hisoka) if you asked them to cuddle :3 pls and thank u (u dont have to do this if u dont want to!)

yess totally! hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting!

Phantom Troupe cuddle HCs

Chrollo

He’d give you a knowing little smile, clearly amused by the request.

If he agrees, he’d pull you into his arms in a way that makes it feel like you belong to him.

He enjoys resting his chin on top of your head or tracing patterns on your back absentmindedly while he reads.

Chrollo doesn’t outright refuse requests like this, but he does make them feel like they’re on his terms.

Hisoka

Hisoka’s reaction? A slow, lazy grin as he hums, “Oh~? Feeling needy, are we?”

He would make the whole thing suggestive before actually settling down, drawing it out just to see you squirm.

But once he’s in the mood, he’s surprisingly comfortable- leaning back and wrapping his arms around you like he’s got all the time in the world.

Loves running his fingers up and down your spine, enjoying any little reactions he can get out of you.

Feitan

Stares at you like you just said the weirdest thing in the world. “…Huh?”

Initially resists because he’s not exactly the cuddly type, but if you’re persistent enough (and he likes you), he’ll begrudgingly let you lean against him.

The kind of person to pretend he’s not cuddling you, even when he very much is.

His body is small but warm, and if you catch him in a tired mood, he won’t push you away.

Machi

She acts indifferent, but she doesn’t reject you. Just gives a small shrug and says, “Do whatever you want.”

If she’s busy, she’ll let you lay on her lap while she works on something with her threads.

Machi is naturally warm, so she’s very comfortable to cuddle with, even if she pretends not to care.

Will absentmindedly run her fingers through your hair if you fall asleep on her.

Shalnark

“Oh? You wanna cuddle? Sure!”

Out of everyone, he’s probably the most relaxed and open about it. He’ll pull you in with a big grin and get comfortable instantly.

He enjoys being the big spoon but doesn’t mind switching if you ask.

Will talk to you casually while you cuddle, completely unfazed by the intimacy of it.

Shizuku

Blinks at you a few times before tilting her head. “…Okay.”

She doesn’t see a reason to deny you, so she just goes along with it.

Completely content lying there in silence with you, not overthinking it.

Might fall asleep mid cuddle without warning, completely relaxed against you.

Franklin

Just gives you a soft smile and opens his arms without question.

Franklin is like a giant, warm pillow, he makes you feel safe just by existing.

You can lay on him, and he won’t budge, just letting you get comfortable however you like.

Probably pats your back occasionally in a slow, comforting rhythm.

Bonolenov

Raises an eyebrow at the request but ultimately shrugs and obliges.

Surprisingly chill about it, though he prefers looser cuddles rather than anything tight or restricting.

Hums quietly while holding you- his body has a natural rhythm to it, like a heartbeat.

You can feel the vibrations from his body, it’s oddly soothing.

Kortopi

Blinks at you like a confused cat. “Cuddle?”

He’s not opposed to it, but he’s kind of awkward about it at first.

Will let you lean against him, though, and eventually relaxes into it.

Very still and quiet, but somehow the silence is comfortable.

Phinks

Scoffs and acts like it’s dumb, but his ears turn a little red.

“Tch, fine. But don’t get used to it.”

Despite his gruff attitude, he’s actually really warm and solid- probably one of the best cuddlers.

Ends up holding you way longer than intended but pretends it’s no big deal.

Uvogin

Laughs at you. “What, you scared or something?”

Immediately picks you up like you weigh nothing and pulls you into his lap.

His body heat is ridiculous, and his arms feel unbreakable around you.

The kind of guy who falls asleep instantly while holding you, snoring against your hair.

Pakunoda

She gives you a knowing smirk, clearly finding the request endearing.

Doesn’t hesitate. If she likes you, she’ll pull you close without making a big deal about it.

She has a calm, steady presence that makes cuddling with her feel safe.

Likes to idly run her fingers through your hair or trace slow patterns on your back.

If you ask while she’s deep in thought, she’ll just hum in acknowledgment and let you settle against her without stopping what she’s doing.

[prosypepper]

“oral report” with keigo takami

this is part seven!! of my kinktober event :3

word count: 1.8k

warnings: nsfw, oral, cunnilingus, first time oral. (18+ mdni)

notes: going to write so much angst when i get done w these…

kinktober masterlist | masterlist

keigo takami, better known as the pro-hero hawks, had stunned the world when he announced that he was now dating you, and up-and-coming hero new to the big city scene. at the time, you had only made a few, yet impactful, public scenes; only recognized as one of hawks’ sidekicks. your relationship was raged over, how inappropriate it was for him to date someone that worked for him. keigo had decided all the ones who hated were more jealous than anything, and he was right.

of course, dating hawks had it’s own up and downs, but there was no question that keigo was the most devoted lover you had been with. no matter how busy, he always made sure to keep up with you, to check on you. lavish date nights were every weekend, friday night at 8 o’clock. the world didn’t need him for the few hours he was with you. flowers sat on your desk each morning, along with your favorite coffee order and something to eat. jealousy is normal for things like this, especially when it comes to one of the most recognizable faces in japan.

something else the world was completely engrossed in and jealous over?

your sex lives.

there was no doubt about it, keigo was an absolute prodigy in bed. he was a mind altering experience in the sheets. and although he came off cocky and self-absorbed, there was nothing that got keigo off more than your pleasure. he could just tell you hadn’t been with anyone as good as him, and your body language with him boosted his ego enough by itself. but when you couldn’t help but spew how amazing he made you feel, that pushed him over the edge more than anything. maybe it was all selfish in the end.

however, keigo never understood your hesitation to let him give you oral. he let you go down on him, more than he’d like to admit, but he had never gotten the chance to reciprocate that pleasure. and there was nothing on this earth keigo takami loved more than eating pussy. when he was younger and whored around more, it was his favorite thing to do to all the girls he slept with. and he wanted to eat you, so bad he could taste it.

he asked repeatedly for months, and you always said you didn’t like it, that it was uncomfy for you. but really, you’d never even had your pussy eaten, and you only didn’t want to because you didn’t want to be judged. your taste, whether or not keigo would like it, was all you worried about. keigo didn’t bother with it anymore.

that was, until he had one particularly fucked day when you were off. you hadn’t heard from him all day, but you had taken the day to take care of yourself, even having time to take an everything shower. you felt fresh and pristine awaiting your boyfriend’s arrival in his apartment, in the soft robe he kept for you at his place. your hero stumbled through the doors dramatically, eyes locking on you in an instant.

“hi, baby!” you chirp from the expensive couch, leisurely sitting with your legs crossed, phone open with some thread talking about your boyfriend. he stomps over to you, throwing his gloves off and pushing his glasses up on his head. by the way he’s acting, it’s obvious to you he had a rough day. before you can even offer him anything to relax, though, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you, wings lazily spread out to block most of your vision.

“i want to eat you out, baby. please,” keigo begs, pawing at your thighs and the robe that covered them. his request makes you tense up for a moment, you were used to fucking some nights when he’d walk through the door, or even give him head, but never this.

“why don’t i do something to make you feel better?” you suggest, leaning down to catch your boyfriend’s lips in a quick kiss. surprisingly, he shakes his head no, only continuing to feel his way around your legs.

“no, i wanna taste you.”

you move back on the couch, disconnecting your legs from his hands. keigo can tell you’re nervous, unsure about such an intimate act, but right now, he’d do anything just to get his tongue on the sweetness in between your legs.

“what if...i taste bad? what if you don’t like it?” you question, trying to stall and convince him that maybe he doesn’t actually want to eat you out—but there’s a fire in the back of his eyes that says he’d determined. he won’t go anywhere until he gets what he wants.

“trust me,” keigo begins, grabbing your hand to kiss the back of it, “i’m gonna love it, no matter what,” and he drops his head to rest it on your thigh, “and you will, too. please, let me.”

needless to say, you couldn’t say no to your boyfriend anymore. not when, within record time, he had you sprawled out on his huge bed, kissing your body as he works his way down to the place he’d wanted a taste of, forever. his wings shudder when he gets in between your thighs, able to smell the arousal off of you, off of your sweet pussy he’d wanted to have like this. you yelp when he kisses over the fabric of your panties, sloppily trailing his lips and tongue all over the slit hidden by cheap cotton.

“what did you do today?” keigo asks, leaning back for only a second to pull off the pesky garment separating you from his mouth.

“u—um,” you mutter, going silent when he hungrily spreads your thighs open, looking at your folds like he hadn’t seen food in 10 years.

“tell me,” he softly demands, looking up at you with those gorgeous golden eyes—you melt. he kisses up the sensitive flesh, outright teasing you until you begin to speak.

“um, i—i woke up, at like, 9:30,” you slowly begin, labored breaths puffing out of your lungs.

“yeah?” mwah, “what else?”

it’s sick the way he enjoys seeing you so ravished and nervous, all over a little pussy eating. but he’d be lying to himself if he said it was easy to hold back right now. keigo can see that you’re dripping arousal at the compromised situation, and how desperate you are for a little contact—even if it’s something you were inexperienced with.

“and then, i made breakfast���keigo—,” you whisper his name as his tongue comes to swipe, just once, over your sensitive bundle of nerves. it sends shockwaves down your spine from how sensitive and aroused you are—it’s intoxicating, and you want more.

“what’d you have, pretty?” his voice is teasing, and his head rests upon your inner thigh again, waiting for you to answer him.

“i made—mm,” a light moan bubbles from your throat when his tongue swipes again, “a smoothie, and—and eggs,” your words draw themselves out, shaky and slow, as you fight the urge to shut your thighs around keigo’s head. his tongue traces tight small circles right on the tip of your clit—tender and attentively—he knows how much better it feels to start off slow, tame.

keigo threatens to stop his movements, slowly pulling away from you. it’s a game to him, really, to see how much you can take before you’ll never want it to end. and to think you were so scared about it—but keigo’s getting off on it more than you. shakily sighing, you swallow and continue speaking.

“then, i cleaned—i cleaned my apartment, some.”

keigo could laugh at your stammering, but instead decides to indulge you more. he lays his tongue flat and wriggles side to side, covering the upper half on your cunt entirely, before taking a long lick up. your legs shiver, his wings perk up, he notices the reaction and whimper you give and he does it again, and again. you squeeze your eyes shut, getting lost in how heavenly it feels, but keigo stops, shattering your pleasured trance. you whine.

“after that, i came over here,” you pause for a second when keigo’s tongue begins to lap at you again, “and—baby,” you whimper out for him again, dragging out the ‘y’ and lulling your head to the side, “cleaned here, too.”

“how sweet,” keigo coos, pulling back entirely from your cunt, “trying to keep my apartment nice to come home to, hm?”

“mm—mhmm!” you hum, the simple sound stuttering out as keigo dips his tongue down into your sopping hole, fucking you with his tongue. his nose nudges against your clit at the same time, warm muscle constricting inside of you, sending stars into your vision. “then i—showered, and shaved—,” you’re trying so hard to not let the pleasure overcome you. keigo can tell. he’s too good at this type of thing.

your thighs mindlessly spread wider, inviting keigo in even more. your hips stutter and barely grind on his face. the little stubble he keeps is rightfully soaked now, dripping with the arousal he conjured up so easily. you can feel his tongue all over you, lapping up and down your wet folds, paying extra attention when he gets to around your clit. he flicks and circles the bud and wraps his lips around it to suck lightly.

sweaty fingers of yours thread through his hair, knocking his glasses off, you’re pushing his head into you because it’s all so good. keigo’s wings stutter and move around a little, finding pleasure in the way you’re pulling his hair, the way you’re now grinding all over his face, losing yourself in the feeling. and losing yourself you are, as that knot grows in your abdomen towards your release.

“keigo,” you moan, so sultry and like you hadn’t ever before, “i’m gonna cum!” your voice is slutty, needy, and your boyfriend can’t get enough of it.

keigo hums something, muffled by your cunt, the vibrations sending a shock through your core. you mewl out a choked moan, loud, and it lets keigo know to not stop, keep going to get you there. he continues to mumble words into your cunt, sliding his mouth and nose all through your folds, shaking his head side to side vigorously to literally drown in the pussy. yours is the only one he’d drown in, of course.

with a nasty moan, you topple over the edge, it’s almost too much for you. your orgasm is intense, toes curling and hips stuttering, trying so hard to ride yourself through it. keigo takes a few more long licks through your folds, stopping when your thighs begin to shake from the overstimulation. he draws his head back from your cunt, a long string of arousal connecting to his chin, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face. cocky bastard.

“see, told you i’d like it.”

[vatelixx]

Ton 618,

S3-S4ish Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Fluff (no angst… surprisingly). Autistic Spencer (present in all of my one shots bcos it’s canon to me).

──── domesticated time inbetween cases & blind adoration.

Warnings: literally none (who am i???), brief mention of past trauma (Hankel).

w.c: 1.5k

— They’re both nerds who are a little too invested in space. Light biblical imagery & Greek mythology references. My writing has been sufficiently domesticated (dw i’ll be back to angst soon, war is not over.)

Loosely inspired by:

a/n: just giving him what he deserved to have.

────────────

For the first time, in a long time, there is little residing in Spencer’s mind. Beyond warm hands, and soft skin, and the pulse of someone else’s body. Obsessed is one word for it, a textbook definition that can’t truly articulate the ache he derives from the thought of you. Obsessed, fatefully ruined, if this is the work of divine intervention, then consider him, once obstinate in his atheism, entirely, profusely devout.

He’s still thinking about you. What’s new? The memory of your lips pressed against his, the tattooed promise of more, more because it will never be enough. He wants, god when has he ever wanted? Life before appears bleak now, black and white. Academia, pursuits of knowledge, lonely nights and the transient fear of forever being stuck in a cyclical cycle of loneliness.

You think he’s pretty. He smiles on the way home from work, Morgan pressing him, because ‘kid you can’t be that happy for no reason.’ There is a reason, a monumental, life-altering one that waits for him at the door. He likes that, the domesticity. He’s never asked for much, content in his mishaps of intimacy, always baring the weight because he wants needs to be good. For the people around him, for the home he’s carved into his skin, for anything that starves off the decades of isolation.

When he threads his arms around your waist, leaning all of his weight into the contact, you both go stumbling back.

He’s soft. Of course he’s endured more than anyone should, the sharp edge of addiction, the stifling weight of a morbid job that has him fixated, hook line and sinker, compass pointing South every time he’s thrown into the field. But for all of that, he still obtains naive, blinding light.

He burns. Or more so, he warms.

“Hi, hi. Sorry— that wasn’t very eloquent. Can I try again?” He’s halfway out of the door; you have to lean forward, grip his wrist, tug him closer, “Okay.” He laughs, “I’ll take that as a no?”

He’s certain your name is imprinted onto his heart. Carved just for you alone. There is no one else. There could never be anyone else.

That night he falls asleep on your shoulder. Hands interlocked, body splayed out across stressed leather, abandoning his book for the soft drab of safety. There’s a tangled wire of headphones draped between you, knotted further when you pull him, half conscious to bed. He follows mindlessly.

You spend his allocated time off as recluses, abandoning civilisation. No sunlight, his apartment is permanently drenched in molten light. Scattered lamps, balancing off stacked books and messy surfaces. Every morning he’ll wake you with butterfly kisses and the promise of a breakfast he will consistently burn. He’s content, over the moon, to forget the world around him. For it to just be, just the two of you.

Today, as usual, you eat his charred attempt at food. He’s trying, he’s definitely trying, even if the end result is… a health risk. Still, you eat it regardless, without complaint, you eat it.. and then he’s just… kissing you senseless in the middle of his kitchen. Cold tiled floor, and mismatched socks. Fuck, he loves you, he’s never loved someone the way he loves you.

“I’ve been dreaming about falling into black holes recently,” he says when you cradle his face. Pretty features besotted with the sight of you. “Weird. Kinda cool. Please don’t eat anymore of my food.”

“No promises,” you grin, and he has the audacity to pout.

Because that’s not fair, burnt food can cause carcinogens to form, to obstruct digestion and metabolism. “My cooking is going to kill you. Your death will be on my hands. The grief will be immeasurable. I’ll become a hermit, never leave my apartment again. Don’t do that to me.” hands wrapped around your wrists, he preserves the contact. “Please don’t do that to me.”

“Well only because you said please—“

He sighs, audibly, ”You just died, you’re dead, and the only thing you can focus on is a word. A word I very generously repeat, at any given moment.” — he’s polite, he will use his manners, and he will unceremoniously echo please please please to obtain even a fraction of you.

He’s senseless. Too far gone.

You take his hand, press it against your heart. “Still alive. I think?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “For now.”

“You’re dramatic—“

He cuts you off, “Did you know one of the largest black holes ever recorded is 66 billion times the mass of the sun? Ton 618.” Pausing to kiss you (a vital necessity), his hands play aimlessly with your hair, strands sliding through the crevices of his fingers. “Imagine falling into that—“ kiss, “You would die obviously,” kiss, “But it would be a pretty cool death.” Kiss. 

Time dilation, worm holes, cosmic demise, you. Sigh— you.

“It would take over 10 billion years for its light to reach earth.” you say, and yeah. Okay. Just casually recite facts to him. That’s okay. He won’t melt, because he’s a rational, dignified, highly-cerebral adult.

Lie. You always know when to talk, sometimes, sometimes, he gets so lost in thought-loops and spirals of intellectual confusion that you have to draw him back to the present. He disintegrates. Every. Single. Time. One intelligent word and the threads of him are woven tightly around your finger.

”You’re stealing my job. And—and you’re doing it better than me. I’m taking a vow of silence. No more words. I’m becoming a monk. Except, maybe without the celibacy?”

“Whore—“

“For you? Always.” he says, knocking his shoulder into yours, “You’re missing the important aspect to this. Don’t discard my threat.”

“Spence, if you ever stop reciting random facts to me at..” you scramble to check the time, early morning, it’s hard to differentiate the hours when they all bleed into one convoluted mess of intimacy. “At 9AM, we will have serious issues. I might get HR involved.“

He’ll ramble about the laws of thermodynamics. Dedicating hours to the philosophical differences between determinism and free-will. You’ll call him a nerd, and he’ll laugh, muffling your protests with his mouth. It’s routine. Something to fall back onto.

 “Hey! Don’t drag HR into our domestic affairs! That’s—“ he interrupts himself to kiss you, again. Just because he can.

Once he’s satisfied that his lips will ache for the next millennium, he continues. “Anyway. I think we should get old together, and then, when we’re losing our minds, and we can’t tell the days apart, we just.. take a casual trip to space, travel through Ton 618. I’d be scared, so I’d hold your hand when we fall. Getting sucked into eternal darkness would be an acceptable way to go.”

He laughs, “You know, as long as you’re by my side, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” you repeat, before holding out your pinky. “Deal?”

He feeds his own through yours, “Deal.” 

Yeah, just promise eternal devotion to him. That wont have any lasting, fatal effects on his sanity. It’s not like he’ll cling to it for the remainder of his ephemeral existence.

Later that night, when you’re draped in limbs, skin pressed against skin, you sigh against the warm slope of his neck. “You’re reciting the periodic table in your sleep again..”

It’s a habit. A permanent, engrained idiosyncratic that he’s endured since adolescence. He stirs awake, turning to face you in the hazy light. Features swollen, sleep-soft and pretty. “Was I?” He murmurs, finding the audacity to ask, “What element was i on?”

Because that’s clearly essential.

“Osmium,” you say, tucking strands of tousled brown behind his ear. “Gonna continue?”

“Mhm— yeah. Iridium. One of my favourites, thank god you woke me up before I got to it.”

You humour his tendencies; you’re nothing if not a condoner of his weird quirks. “Discovered by Smithson Tennat in 1803.” is your response, “The name comes from Greek Mythology, Iris. Two stable Isotopes, 191 and 193.”

There you go again. Fracturing his mind, and stealing his information before it can fall from bruised lips.

He thinks you might be cut from the same cloth. He thinks he was probably just made for you. “I like the way you say Isotopes.” He mutters, “Like the way you kiss. You always take my top lip.”

There’s no epiphany. No sharp blade, dragging, penetrating, skin, forcing you to confront stifled feelings. They’ve always been there. Red string of fate, Plato’s Symposium: Aristophanes’ account of the ‘other half.’ Hero and Leander. It doesn’t matter. There’s only the here and now.

He does this thing. Often. Where he’ll moan into your open-mouth. Fingers sunk deep into your hair, keeping you impossibly tethered to him. You’re not sure what planet he fell from, but you’re glad they deported him, if only for your selfish benefit of circuiting around him.

“I’m in love with you,” the admittance is easy. Maybe the words have always been waiting for you to verbalise, bated breath, inexorably interlinked. Maybe they’re long overdue. Something pleading to be let out. But, maybe, it matters more to wait until this, when everything is soft and untouchable. Fresh, untainted. He’d like to live in your skin.

Here’s the thing, Spencer always thought he would be the first one to say it. Reciprocation was always a fantastical hypothetical, something he could only blindly hope for. But, to have his illimitable feelings, in their extensive capacity, matched? That’s— more than he ever thought he deserved.

He presses his forehead to yours, “Saying ‘i’m in love with you’ doesn’t measure up, doesn’t articulate even a fraction of what I feel for you.”

He’s pretty sure he could die right here, in this one fragile moment, and be happy with everything he’s accomplished.

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

+18 mdni! watch your mouth; a fic where bucky's your boss, and you're his secretary. he ends up getting himself into a lot of trouble with you.

cw: dom!m!reader, sub!bucky, rimming, cockwarming, missionary, multiple orgasms (3 times), use of 'sir', and 'baby', fingering, shower sex, cuteness at the end???

word count: >6.4k

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9.1] [9.2]

!! @swiftie-fault

a/n: okay maybe i'm a little obsessed .. i had a little too much fun with this. this is a continuation to [9.1] btw! this is the last part .. for now. there will be more trust!!!

-------------------------------------------------------

you watched bucky as he walked to your study, turning on your laptop. you lingered in the doorway for a moment, before you rested your arm against the back of the office chair he was sitting on.

he’s trying to focus, trying to resume being the boss, but your presence in the room makes it almost impossible.

“what are you up to?”

“have to review my meetings before i head back tomorrow.” he muttered, already settling on your surprisingly comfy office chair.

you only hummed in acknowledgement.

“you okay?”

“mhm.”

“still sore?” you asked as you traced the curve of his back.

“a little..”

“you look good there, all settled, focused.”

“trying to be.”

“then sit like you mean it.” you leaned in, and your breath brushing against his ear was almost unbearable.

bucky’s fingers pause over the keyboard.

you tapped him on the shoulder.

“i want your back straight, hands in your lap whenever you’re not typing.”

bucky glances up at you, curiously.

you offer a small smile.

“you want to work? fine, but you’ll do it properly.” you circled the chair slowly. “if you’re going to sit in my study, then you’ll carry, and hold yourself the way i want you to.”

there was a pause, before he obeys, adjusting his posture immediately.

you watched the shift, satisfied, then walked away like it was never a request at all.

bucky adjusted his shoulders again, trying to shake off the strange weight your words had left on him.

‘sit like you mean it.’

‘you’ll carry, and hold yourself the way i want you to.’

your voice echoed in his mind. there was no fucking way he could focus now.

bucky noticed the way you had lingered after, standing behind him just long enough to make the silence feel intentional, like you were watching to see if he would listen.

‘what the fuck am i doing?’ he cleared his throat to snap himself out of his thoughts.

bucky tried to focus on the screen, clicking into a new thread:

‘performance metrics: client engagement increased by 14.58% compared to-’

pause. he felt strangely aware of himself, and the surroundings, strangely aware of your presence, and the way his thighs pressed tightly together.

you were pretending to ignore him, sitting on the small loveseat by the windowsill of your study, thumbing through a book you didn’t seem to be paying attention to.

‘feedback summary: early feedback highlights strong approval of the-.’

his mind was a mess, and his body was so sore. the static in his head made it hard to focus. every time he shifted, he felt your gaze lift.

so why the fuck did that make his cock twitch?

eventually, bucky gave up trying to ignore it.

“why are you watching me like that?”

you looked up slowly, tilting your head at him.

“like what?”

“like you’re training me.”

a beat, your smile was quiet, but infuriating.

“i told you to sit properly. you didn’t seem to take it seriously earlier.”

“i am sitting properly.” he huffed.

“you’re the one who’s slouching in my chair like an intern trying not to get called on.” you shrugged.

no reply.

you stood up, eyes narrowing as you spoke.

“no, you’re performing it. that’s different.”

bucky blinked at you.

“what does that even mean-”

“stand up.” you ordered.

his breath hitched, confusion flickering behind his gaze, but there was no hesitation. before he could settle upright, your grip tightened around his waist, and you bent him over the edge of your study desk.

“what-”

“hands on the table.”

bucky didn’t fight, just did as you told. your control was too intoxicating to resist.

your hands slid down, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of the sweatpants you had borrowed him.

“relax.” you pressed a kiss to the base of his spine. you grabbed lube from your drawer, and squirted it all over your fingers. you slid a finger slowly around his rim, tracing a delicate circle.

“wa- wait what are we-”

“tell me if it hurts.” then, you pressed your finger inside, inch by inch, before adding a second, stretching him gently.

“fuck..”

“breathe through it.” you didn’t rush. he was already sensitive, already squirming from your fingers, hips shifting gently. you murmured something quiet, soothing, as you pressed a third finger in, curling them gently.

“you’re still so soft, taking me so easy.”

“mmh..” bucky let out a slow, shaky breath. he was hard again, leaking against your desk.

you didn’t touch him there though, didn’t let him grind, just kept your attention focused where you wanted, where he was warm, slick, and twitching around your fingers.

when you finally pulled away, he whined, just a little. you pulled your own sweats down, just enough for your cock to spring out. then, you sat on your office chair, and pulled him into your lap, guiding him down onto your cock with both hands steady at his hips.

“oh my god,” he mewled. “you’re.. fuck, have you always been this big?” his fingers clawed at the edge of the desk.

“poor thing, that was just the tip.”

“i can’t.. ever get used to it. it’s.. so much.” bucky choked on a moan, he already felt so full, before he was even halfway down.

it took a moment. his thighs trembled where they straddled yours. but when he was finally seated all the way, filled to the hilt, cock twitching untouched against his stomach, he just melted, leaning back to rest his head on your shoulder.

“i.. fuck.. i didn’t think it’d feel like this..”

“like what, buck?”

“like i’m.. full in a way i didn’t know i needed.” he blinked down at the desk, trying to not fall apart.

“you’re perfect, taking me so well.”

he let out a soft, helpless moan.

“good boy, come on, sit still.”

“but-”

“shh, don’t move. you wanted to check your emails, didn’t you?”

bucky nodded, while his fingers trembled over the screen as he opened a new thread.

‘bug resolution rate: 92.5% (37/40) bugs resolved before-’

it was impossible, his vision was hazy from the sheer fullness of you, the pulse of your cock finally in him.

you weren’t even moving, but the dull ache of the stretch, and the weight of it had him clenching every few seconds, making it almost impossible to think.

still, he tried, tried to reach through the updates, the queries, calendar changes, tried to type responses, all while you occasionally shifted under him, just enough to make him twitch.

‘security review: flagged 2 medium-risk items-’

you leaned in once, murmuring in his ear.

“you’re leaking all over me, baby. so messy already. want me to take care of you after this? hm?”

bucky wasn’t sure how long it had been since you first pushed into him.

time had gone by, and he felt split open, body trembling from the sheer fullness of your cock inside him. you had whispered to him the entire time, grounding him, coaxing him down inch by inch, until he had taken every last bit of you.

and you just stayed there, still, quiet, and deep inside him.

it was almost gentle, except for the way you kept moving, just enough to make it unbearable.

the first time, it was subtle. a barely-there shift of your hips beneath him, like you were adjusting your seat on the office chair.

bucky felt it though, felt your cock press deeper against the sensitive, untouched places inside him, places he hadn’t even known existed before you taught him. he gasped, shivering, and you still hadn’t said a word

‘don’t give in, he knows what he’s doing. just stick to the god damn emails.’ he reminded himself.

the second time, it was even smaller.

‘finalise integration testing plan by-’

it was just the drag of your cock as you exhaled. even though you didn’t do anything, it moved inside him, just a hair, and he whimpered.

“stop.” he whispered, but his voice was weak.

your hands stayed relaxed on his waist.

the third time, bucky finally realised you were doing it on purpose.

you stretched your legs out slowly, shifting under him like you weren’t thinking about it, but the roll of your hips had a rhythm to it. the angle changed, barely, and he could feel the head of your cock nudging against somewhere new, sending a hot rush of sensation up his spine.

his entire body tensed, back arching instinctively, and a startled moan escaped him.

“sir, please..” he choked out, humiliated from how ruined he sounded.

you only hummed in acknowledgement, letting your fingers trace a slow, absent-minded pattern on along his hipbone.

then, came the fourth shift, it was gentler, crueler. you stretched him again, this time with a quiet little sigh. he felt every inch of you grind inside, dragging against his inner walls with a devastatingly slow glide. it didn’t feel like a thrust, just pressure, like you knew exactly how to torture him without moving at all.

bucky whimpered, burying his face into his palms.

“god, it’s like you’re everywhere..” he breathed, broken, and shaky. “i can’t breathe- feels too full..”

you still hadn’t said a word, which made it worse, so much worse.

he was close to crying. not in a dramatic way, but in the way where everything was way too much, yet not enough. the reply draft was still half-done, he couldn’t think straight enough to complete it.

you were quiet behind him, staying as still as you possibly could, arms looped lazily around his waist. except for the way you breathed, the way you shifted, the occasional brush of your lips to his shoulder.

‘this is sick. he’s not even moving and i’m already falling apart.’

then, you did it again, just a little tilt of your hips, just enough to shift the angle of your cock inside him, so deep it felt like he was being stretched out all over again.

then it hit that spot, so deep inside of him it felt like it was in his lungs.

‘oh god. oh my god. he found it-’

‘he found it, and he’s just- fuck. he’s not even thrusting, he’s just nudging against it, and i’m gonna-’

bucky’s vision blurred, he was shaking, back arching instinctively as his body tried to process the overwhelming pleasure. he shuddered, a broken noise spilling out of his throat. his hand flew to your wrist immediately, not tugging, just holding, as if the warmth of your skin could ground him.

‘he did that on purpose, he knows exactly what gets me going. he’s using me like a cocksleeve-’

he whimpered, the sheer thought of you using him was pushing him so close to the edge.

‘it’s fucking working. i- fuck, i’m going to cum like this, from nothing, from being held open like this-’

“oh, did i move?” you asked, voice soft, and frustratingly innocent, like you hadn’t shifted for the fifth fucking time.

bucky made a wounded noise.

“i’m sorry.”

“no you’re n-not.” he huffed.

“you were working so hard, sweetheart. i thought a little adjustment could help you focus more.” your cock twitched inside of him as you said it. “you know i’d never interrupt your concentration on purpose.”

bucky let out a shaky exhale, he knew, and loved that tone. it was the one you always used when you were being cruel in the softest, most innocent way possible, the most condescending kind of sweetness. you treated him like he was fragile, and dumb. his head tipped backward, body sagging in your lap.

“i can’t..”

“you can, let me help.” you spoke, and tilted your hips once more.

he whimpered, shaking his head.

you leaned forward, brushing your mouth just below his ear.

“you’ve got such a soft spot for me when i’m being nice, don’t you?” you whispered. “gets you all soft, and obedient. makes you fall apart even easier.”

he swallowed around a desperate noise.

“mm,” you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, as if you weren’t fucking tormenting him right now. “you’re doing so good, just say soft, and warm for me. that’s all you need to do.”

he nodded, weak, and glassy-eyed.

---

bucky wasn’t sure how many emails he’d replied to. three? maybe four?

his fingers hovered uselessly above the keyboard as he tried not to move, tried not to let the thick, persistent ache of your cock deep inside him distract him.

even though you were acting so sweet, you didn’t make it easy for him afterwards, you never did.

at first, it was small things. a soft hum behind bucky’s ear, the slow drag of your palm down his sides, then another lazy roll of your hips, just enough motion to make him gasp, and clench, vision tunneling for half a second as he tried to focus.

then came the little sighs, breathless, exaggerated moans against his neck. as if you were the one being ruined, as if you had any right to be sounding like that.

“mmh, fuck.” you sighed, voice wet, sweet, and obscene right against his ear. “you feel so fucking good, buck.”

“stop faking it,” bucky hissed. “you’re doing this on purpose..” he could practically feel you smile against his skin. he stiffened, eyes darting back to the screen. he could still see his bullet points, too bad he couldn’t think straight anymore. his fingers hovered over the keys, then he blinked, forcing himself to finish the sentence on the screen.

‘revenue growth projections in a3 showed steady-’

that had always been the point, to get a reaction from him, to make him lose his composure.

“don’t even have to move..” you gasped, louder this time. “just feeling you on my cock, so full.. fuck..”

you were just teasing, just letting the sounds roll off your tongue. it was all for show, all for fun. you knew exactly what it did to him, when you tilted your hips slightly, and let out that breathy whimper like you couldn’t help it.

he inhaled sharply.

you liked the way he stiffened when you did it, the way he shifted, clenched, and swallowed hard. so you kept going, kept moaning, kept making those breathy little gasps, like something was building.

“you’re driving me insane.” you whined again, shamelessly. “just sitting there so good.. letting me stay buried inside you.”

“stop that-”

“i’m giving you a good show, so appreciate it.” you whimpered high, and desperate, as if bucky had rolled his hips on you, and made you feel everything all at once, even though there was nothing going on.

he clicked his tongue, blinking hard to snap himself out of it.

“please,” you whispered, in the most condescending tone ever. “please, baby, just shift a little. just once, please, i need-”

“keep faking it, see where that gets you.” he spat.

but you only whimpered again, quieter this time, like you were trying to hold it in, but it ended up slipping out anyway.

it felt good. god, it actually felt good.

you hadn’t meant for it to. you were just performing. but the pitch of your moan hit a little deeper, lower, realer.

“you’re- fuck, squeezing me. you don’t even know you’re doing it, but fuck, it’s like your body’s trying to take what it wants..”

bucky gritted his teeth, retyping a word that he had misspelled three times.

and then you moaned. this one sounded weirdly realistic. it was shaky, as if your breath had hitched on something.

“you’re.. such a tease. sitting so still, being so good.”

something had changed. your voice hitched, and your body jerked. it was just a tiny, involuntary flex of your thighs, but you made a sound that wasn’t performative anymore, it was raw. your mouth parted again, and the next sound slipped out. it scraped your throat a little, like it didn’t care if it sounded fake or not.

you hadn’t even realised your breath had changed, that you were panting now. you swallowed thickly, and tried to slow down, but your chest was rising too fast now. another moan slipped out, and this one was shaky.

bucky stilled.

“mm?”

you didn’t answer at first. your hands gripped around his hips tighter, and your breath caught again.

‘fuck.’ you thought.

you weren’t pretending anymore, you weren’t even doing anything, and somehow you felt it. you let out a shaky, desperate sound.

bucky was watching you, and you were supposed to be teasing, just playing, but now your body was convinced.

the moans came faster now, breathy, and wild, like your body was trying to catch up to the performance you were putting on, like it was determined to make it real. and it was fucking working.

you weren’t faking anymore. you were right there, and it was all because you wouldn’t stop teasing him with your moaning.

“oh shit- wait..” you panted. “wait, buck- i-i was just- mmh, i didn’t mean-”

he laid back against your shoulder. thank god he had gotten used to the feeling of you in him.

“didn’t mean what?”

you were close. you felt close.

“i was faking.” you gasped. “i was just.. making noise to fuck with you, and now i-” you let out a strangled moan, hips jerking once, before you caught yourself. “fuck, i think i actually might- buck, i might cum.. i’m not even-”

“you’re telling me you’re about to cum from your own bullshit?” he said, stunned. “from acting?”

you buried your face into his neck, breathing in his scent to ground yourself, humiliated, and clenching your fists into the fabric of his shirt.

“i tricked my brain- fuck, somehow.” you whined. “but you’re so warm, and you kept clenching, and i was just saying things but now my cock thinks it’s fucking real, and i-” you let out another whimper. “i’m just.. so close..”

bucky bit his lip, watching the cursor blink on the half-finished report. then he clenched again, intentionally this time.

you mewled, a noise that he had never heard before.

“i didn’t mean to- mmh, i was just acting, and now it’s like-”

“like your body believes it.” he continued your sentence for you.

you whimpered. your breath stuttered against his neck, every muscle in you was tense, straining to stay still. your cock throbbed inside him, helplessly.

bucky didn’t move, he didn’t need to. he sat up straighter, and slowly exhaled.

“so, what happens if i just.. stay like this?”

“don’t!” you croaked. “don’t, buck, please. don’t do this to me-”

“i thought you were faking it?”

“i was! swear on it! i was, until you started clenching, and- and breathing like that, i could feel everything, and now- fuck, i can’t tell the difference anymore..”

bucky smiled, then clenched, slightly, just enough for you to let out a sob.

“you’re going to cum like this, just from sitting still, just from the idea of it. who knew your endurance was worse than mine.”

“i-i’m not.” you said immediately, voice too high, too shaky. “i can- i can hold it..”

“oh baby,” he cooed. the fucking audacity this man had. “you can’t. you already think you’re cumming. your brain made it real.” then, he rolled his hips once, barely.

you choked on a moan, legs spasming.

“i-i’m going to.. buck, don’t.. don’t wanna cum like this, please..”

“then don’t.”

“but you’re squeezing me so good-”

“i’m not even moving, you’re doing this to yourself.”

“i know- fuck, i fucking know, just.. just don’t move, please..” your arms wrapped around his waist suddenly, holding him flush to your chest.

“what-”

“don’t move, just stay.” your grip tightened, as your whole body trembled underneath.

bucky could feel how badly you were trying to not thrust, could feel the frantic throb of your cock inside him.

“i-i’m so close, please. you can’t move, or i’ll fucking cum , i swear.” your voice cracked again. “i can’t, if i move, even once, i’m going to cum in you like a fucking idiot, and i don’t want to-”

“you sure you don’t want to?” he whispered. “sounds like that’s all you want right now.”

“i don’t- please, i need you to stay still.”

bucky stayed still, he could feel how hard you were shaking, how your arms locked tightly around him, your face buried into the crook of his neck, breath coming in ragged gasps, as if staying still took every single ounce of strength you had left.

you weren’t going to last. not like this. not with your cock fucking twitching inside of him. your brain was already convinced that you’d earned the orgasm. you clung harder onto him, nails digging into his sides.

“don’t let me cum, please..”

he tried to go back to typing, to take his mind off of this.

but you were shaking. every time you twitched, just a tiny, helpless jerk of your hips, he could feel it. he felt it deep, sharp, pressing into that spot inside him with perfect precision. and it was fucking constant.

the more you tried to stay still, the more your body betrayed you. your cock throbbed inside him like it had a mind of its own.

bucky’s breath stuttered. he shifted a little in your lap, trying to get comfortable, to breathe, but the second he did, you let out a broken whimper.

“d-don’t.. i’m holding on by a fucking thread, baby, please.” you sighed.

”i- fuck, i wasn’t trying to” he spat. one of his hands gripped the arm rest of the office chair, while the other hovered uselessly above the keyboard. his thighs trembled, and he clenched involuntarily.

“don’t squeeze me.. please, you’re going to make me- fuck..”

“i’m not trying to-” he snapped. “you’re the one twitching every ten seconds like a god damn vibrator!”

“i can’t stop it-” you groaned, pressing your forehead into his shoulder as if you could disappear into it. “i’m so close, and i’m just trying to not move.. but my cock isn’t fucking listening to me-”

bucky was leaking as well, desperately hard, and pinned still with your cock seated impossibly deep inside him. his eyes kept fluttering shut.

“fuck, i-”

“no, don’t you fucking dare.” you clamped your hands on his hips, and held him still. “you don’t get to cum if i don’t.”

he whimpered. he leaned forward on his desk, in hopes that he could focus again, like his cock wasn’t aching, like your cock wasn’t twitching inside of him.

“i can’t work like this.”

“i can’t move. this is like a fucking dead end.” you were breathing too fast, still holding him tight, still trying to hold back, but your body was doing its own thing now, hips twitching more insistently, cock throbbing with every tiny clench he couldn’t stop. you felt all of it, every single time.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

your first time.

not pinned to a desk with bucky trying to type through it, not silent moans, trembling limbs, and denial.

fuck no.

“this isn’t how i want it.” you rasped.

“w-what?”

“i don’t want the first time i fuck you to be something we barely remember. i want you writhing, i want to feel you fall apart.”

you should’ve taken a breath, should’ve fucking waited.

instead, you gathered him up carefully, and moved him onto your bed, onto his back.

bucky blinked up at you, flushed. he felt your hands under his thighs, lifting them.

you settled in between his thighs, as if you were made for this.

he stared, then narrowed his eyes.

“wait.. you’re putting me in missionary?”

you titled your head.

“yeah..?”

“oh my god.” he flopped his head back dramatically. “i spent a fucking week assuming you were going to fucking rail me by the end of it, and you pick this? are you going to hold my hand too?”

“what’s wrong with missionary? can’t i start with something nice?”

“this feels suspiciously like what a straight couple would do, boring.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

but when you rolled your hips, just enough to grind back into him? you lost the last of your self-control.

“fuck, okay, okay. i just- slow, i need to go slow.” you pulled out almost entirely, before you pushed back in with a deep aching grind.

“fuck..” bucky moaned instinctively, hands braced on the mattress as his back arched instinctively.

“fuck- say it again.. tell me.. mmh, this is boring.”

he couldn’t. he was too busy moaning, legs trembling as you started moving with slow, calculated thrusts, drawing back, and sliding in so deep each time that his back arched off the fucking bed.

your cock was hitting every spot inside him like you had mapped it out.

and bucky couldn’t do anything except take it.

“you’re.. still filthy..” he gasped. “god..”

“i’m fucking trying, i don’t want to cum yet, just.. just let me feel it.”

“can’t stay still- you’re hitting it- aah! every fucking time! you’re going to.. mmh..”

you groaned, biting back a whimper as he clenched around you again. your hips stuttered, still slow, still deep, but every motion made your eyes roll back.

“i’m going to cum..” you whispered. “going to fucking cum if i don’t stop-”

“then stop-”

“i can’t.. you feel too good, buck.. i-i can’t hold it..”

bucky’s orgasm hit him like a freight train. there was no warning, no build-up, just one deep grind, and he snapped, spilling all over his own stomach.

the clench made you cum instantly. you let out a strangled moan, loud, wrecked, and came deep, cock pulsing as you spilled inside of him.

“fucking- fuck! i told you, buck- i fucking told you..”

bucky was still panting, his body slack, and boneless. his thighs trembled with the aftershocks, his hole throbbed, wet, and gaping over your cock, which hadn’t softened at all.

“hey..” he warned.

you didn’t answer. you were quiet, still, but your hands weren’t. they smoothed up his sides, over his hips, and his waist, as if you couldn’t believe that you were allowed to touch him like this, as if you weren’t done.

“if you start moving, i swear to fucking god, i’m not-”

“i know.” you finally spoke. “you said you thought i was going to rail you.”

“yeah..?”

your breath ghosted over his neck as you murmured.

“so i will.”

bucky barely had time to react, before you drew back, just far enough to leave only the tip in, then snapped your hips forward with a sharp, wet thrust.

“shit-” his back arched, hands scrambling for something to hold onto, to ground himself. his whole body jolted, he was too sensitive, but you didn’t stop.

this time, it was different. there was no more slow teasing, no more self-control, just you fucking him like you meant it. it felt like you had been starving for this for months, like he was the only thing that could satisfy you. you gave him deep, strong thrusts, one after the other, bullying the spot that made him wail.

“fuck, baby.” you groaned. “you’re taking it so good, so- mmh, fucking good, i came, and i still need more.”

bucky couldn’t speak, he could barely breathe. the overstimulation was brutal. your cock was thick, filling him up just right, and now that he was already wrecked, already open, and full of your cum, every thrust felt like too much, but not enough to stop.

you fucked him so hard your cum was dripping out of him.

“please- i-i just came, i can’t..”

“you can, you said you wanted- ngh, filthy. this is what that means.” your grip was punishing, your thrusts got rougher, faster, but also sloppier. you leaned against him, kissing his collarbones, then bit him, just hard enough to leave a mark. “thought about this every night, every fucking time i punished you.”

“sir-”

“you’re mine now, let me have you.”

bucky moaned, loud, and broken, because he could feel it again, his second orgasm. it was all because you knew his body too well, knew how to hit the spot, how to keep him open, how to throw him over the edge repeatedly.

“i’m going to- sir, please- fuck!”

“do it,” you groaned, stuttering a little. “cum on my fucking cock right now, let me fucking feel it, let me feel you lose it.”

and he did. there wasn’t resistance, just a strangled cry.

you slated two more thrusts before you followed, voice cracking as you slowly rocked your hips through it, only stopping when the overstimulation hit.

the both of you didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stayed there, until bucky let out a broken laugh.

“not boring at all.”

you kissed his neck, smiling lazily.

“told you so.”

---

by the time the both of you could function again, the sun had set just enough to cast amber streaks across your bed.

bucky was trying to move, but his limbs felt like jelly.

“don’t.. ugh, don’t think i’m going to make it home without embarrassing myself.”

you laughed, helping him up.

“i told you we shouldn’t have went again.. you said one time.”

you raised a brow at him.

“no, you said one time. i didn’t say anything.”

bucky scowled.

“bastard.”

“you’re glowing.”

“shut up.”

you chuckled, and leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. then without a word, you bent down to hook one arm under his back, and the other beneath his knees, carrying him bridal-style.

“hey-”

“shower.” you said simply. “you’re not leaving covered in cum. you’d get arrested.”

“i was going to wipe myself down with a towel, and fucking hobble, but thank you anyway.”

the bathroom was warm. you sat bucky down slowly on the closed toilet lid, and started the water. steam bloomed almost instantly, and as soon as the water was warm, you helped him under the spray.

your hands moved carefully, washing away the sweat away off of him. then, when he breathed a little easier, your touch grew more deliberate. you soaped, washed, smoothed your hands down his stomach, his hips, and the insides of his thighs.

“you’re being suspiciously gentle.” he murmured.

“i’m cleaning you.”

“you’re palming my ass.”

“i said i’m cleaning.”

there was silence, just the spray of water, and his heartbeat increasing.

you knelt behind him, pressing a kiss on his spine, and he immediately knew you were up to something.

“..what are you up to now.”

“you’re messy, need to clean you out.”

the heat in bucky’s face bloomed almost immediately.

“i can do that with soap, dipshit. like a normal person-”

you pressed one finger in as slowly as you possibly could.

he jolted, one hand bracing against the wall.

“you still feel good inside.” you spoke.

“t-that’s.. not cleaning.”

“you think soap’s going to get all of this?” you whispered, sucking a mark into his hip. “nope. only this’ll do.” you twisted, and curved your fingers “i’ll make it all better. you’ll feel better if i do it.”

a second finger joined the first, and bucky gasped, knees shaking as the dull ache of the stretch became the only thing he could think about.

you weren’t rushing, weren’t trying to tease him, you were just watching, as if seeing your own cum ease out of him was more obscene than the act itself.

“you’ve got me leaking out of you, it’s only responsible if i clean it up, hm?”

you groaned, deep, and fucked your fingers in deeper, scissoring him open, rubbing gently at the spot that made him whimper, and whine against the shower wall.

“you’re going to let me fuck you again, baby?” you whispered. “one more? just to finish what we started?”

bucky chuckled.

“you think this is finishing what you started?”

you shrugged.

“no, not really.” you sighed. “but you want it anyway.”

“you’re fucking insatiable, i hope you know that.” he groaned.

you stood back up, and pulled your fingers out of him, only to guide the thick head of your cock against his rim again, slow, and steady.

“not insatiable, i just know what i want.”

the water ran hot, steam swirling thick around the both of you, mixing with the heavy, wet sounds of you sliding inside him again.

bucky’s legs wrapped around your waist, his hands clutching at your broad shoulders as steady, deep thrusts stretched him open all over again. the rhythm was slow, too slow to be a quick fuck, but just right to drive the both of you wild.

your breath was ragged, low groans vibrating through his skin as you fought to hold back your own orgasm. but still, your hips moved relentlessly.

“you’re so perfect.. can’t get enough of you.” you muttered against his throat. “if you hadn’t been a brat at work, i would’ve fucked you already. then i could’ve gotten to savour this sooner.”

bucky swallowed hard, heat pooling deep in his gut.

“well, maybe.. i like being a brat.”

“oh that’s your fault then. i could’ve fucked you so well this whole week, but you chose to go through punishments instead.” you gave him an extra hard thrust. “just had to test me.”

“baby, fuck, i-”

“shh” you hushed. “not yet.”

the pleasure built sharp, and hot, the familiar ache spreading through his core as you stretched, filled, and fucked him deep. every slow thrust hit that perfect spot.

neither of you had lasted long.

bucky’s cry was loud, and desperate as he came. his body shook with release, hands gripping you so tight it left crescent-shaped marks on your skin.

you followed, groaning deep, burying yourself to the hilt inside of him as you came in him once more.

“better?”

“much.” he smiled at you softly, clearly dazed from his orgasm.

the hot water poured over the both of you, while bucky was boneless against the shower wall. his chest heaved, while you held him up with one arm around his waist, the other braced beside his head.

“you’re going to kill me.” you breathed out a low, shaky laugh.

“you did this to yourself.” he mumbled. “three times, you fucking menace.”

you didn’t argue, just kissed his neck.

your cum slicked his thighs, again. you sighed, not in pleasure, but with a dramatic sort of dread.

“and now i have to clean you up again.” you pressed your fingers to your temple.

“you don’t have to, you know-”

“don’t even try me. you’re not going home dripping my cum down your pretty thighs.”

you knelt in front of him with a sigh, running the warm water down his thighs. your fingers were surprisingly gentle as you cleaned him up.

“still so fucking messy.” you murmured, trailing your fingers between his thighs again. “you’re just so tempting, you can’t blame me for wanting to cum in you over, and over again.”

“you’re not starting again.” he covered his face with his palms.

“mm, no promises.” you shrugged. then, you pressed two fingers into his gaping hole.

bucky’s breath came in slow, even pulls now, his eyes fluttering shut whenever your fingers got too close to that spot inside him.

“easy.”

“fuck, that’s sensitive.” he twitched when you accidentally brushed against his cock.

“i know, let me clean up my own mess.”

bucky murmured something unintelligible, somewhere between a protest, and a moan, and tried to angle his hips away, but you just held him steady. your fingers washed away the heat, and mess, but he trembled with every pass, clearly oversensitive.

“you’re still twitching.” you said, pretending to be surprised as you ran your thumb down the inside of his thigh. “what’s wrong, buck? can’t handle a little ‘clean up’ from me?”

“don’t-” his voice cracked. “don’t say it like that, i’m going to fall over.”

“you’re not going anywhere.” you said smoothly, rising to your feet, and crowding close again. you pressed your palm to his chest, steadying him. “you’re staying right here until you stop shaking.”

he blinked up at you, unimpressed.

“you’re the reason i’m fucking shaking, genius.”

“whatever.” you leaned in. “i take pride in that, so i’ll take care of you.”

by the time you shut the water off, bucky was already swaying on his feet. you wrapped a towel around your own waist, then pulled another one off the rack for him. you worked in silence, drying him with firm, steady hands, all while pressing gentle kisses on his shoulder, the side of his neck, and wherever else he could reach without making it a whole thing.

“you’re being weirdly gentle for someone who rearranged my spine less than an hour ago.”he blinked at you, still a little dazed.

you huffed a laugh.

“yeah, well, just because i fuck like a menace doesn’t mean i don’t know how to handle you after”

“you’re unbearable.” he groaned, mostly at your arrogance.

“you didn’t seem to mind when i was eight inches deep, and making you see stars-”

that earned you a shove.

“fuck off.”

you snorted, weak but genuine, helping bucky into a clean shirt, yours, of course, warm, and soft from too many washes. you pulled on your own clothes quickly, and herded the both of you towards the kitchen.

dinner was simple, leftover pasta, and garlic bread, reheated in a pan while he sat at the counter, hair still damp, eyes half-lidded. you slid a plate in front of him, and nudged a glass of warm water against his hand.

bucky didn’t even argue, just dug in, quiet, and hungry.

the both of you didn’t talk much. it was the kind of silence that was easy, worn-in. you would glance up at him every now, and then, watching him chew lazily.

afterward, you washed the dishes while he leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering towards the clock.

“i.. should probably go.” he spoke softly, looking towards you.

“you can stay, you know that right?” you dried your hands, and turned towards him, standing in the doorway of your kitchen.

“if i stay, i’m definitely not getting any sleep.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it is when you fuck like a man possessed, and cuddle like it’s a hostage situation.”

you didn’t argue, just rolled your eyes at him.

bucky rose reluctantly, grabbed his keys, and let you follow him down the hall. the both of you paused at the door, shoes on.

“you’re going to text me when you get home.”

“obviously.”

“and tomorrow-”

“i’ll be in the office.” he spoke, smirking now. “you going to behave?”

you leaned in once last time, lips brushing against his ear.

“not a chance, buck.”

[yandere-daydreams]

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who crash-lands on your balcony in the middle of winter, long after he should've migrated somewhere more hospitable to his animal counterpart. He's badly injured, half-frozen, and clearly in a state of shock, but you manage to drag him inside after a few minutes of struggling and fussing over his massive wings. An emergency vet is called, a small fortune dulled out in exchange for anti-biotics and bandages, but Diluc only wakes up hours after the chaos has blown over, after he's been moved to your bed and most of his blood has been scrubbed out of your carpeting. If you didn't have such a soft spot for birds, you might've been more mad at him.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who's surprisingly calm for a man who was on the verge of death less than a day ago. He apologizes for the trouble he's caused you, explains that his injuries came from a 'minor altercation' with his brother and promises that you'll be repaid for everything he's cost you so far, even if you can't say you're sure how a hybrid would have that kind of funding. His composure only falters when he realizes that he won't be able to fly until his wings heal, and even then, he manages to limit his frustration to a thin scowl and a wary sigh. His poise is a relief. He'll be stuck with you for a while, and a temper would've made a bad situation even worse.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who clearly isn't as wild as you initially thought. If anything, your meager apartment seems too a little too modest for his tastes - you're not sure if you've ever heard anyone mention the thread count of your sheets so casually, let alone a hybrid. Still, he adjusts quickly. By the end of his first week with you, you can't stop him from helping around the house. He's a good cook, especially, and he seems to enjoy being able to take some of the stress off of you. You've heard that it's a common trait for hybrids, some universal base instinct to 'provide for a pack'. To be honest, you don't really care. He's nice to have around, even if you know he can't stay forever.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who only ever blushes whenever you tend to his wings. You're not a professional, but you do your best to clear away all of the bent and broken feathers, to replace his bandages as often as the vet recommended, but you're still clumsy, still slow enough to mean he has to spend the better part of the hour sitting between your legs with his wings splayed out in your lap. He tries to keep up a conversation, but he trips over his words, balls his fists, pulls his hindlimbs against his chest and tries to pretend he's unaffected. It's cute, watching a creature as stoic as Diluc lose a few of his reservations.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who's too massive to sleep anywhere but your bed. You resign yourself to the couch for a while, but it's not long before you give in to his constant offers to share and end up spending most nights pressed into his side, one of his wings draped over you and an arm loosely wrapped around your waist. You learn quickly that hawks are creatures of routine, which means that you now have a very, very strictly enforced bedtime. He's not afraid to sling you over his shoulder and put you where he wants you to be, and there's only so much you can do to fight against a bird-man twice your height and more than double your strength.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who gets... protective of your apartment, after a few weeks. It's not much - a small frown when you mention a friend he doesn't care for, a certain caginess when you have guests over - but it's far-cry from his normal, gentlemanly behavior. It might just be the instincts of a wounded animal attempting to protect his nest, but still. You worry about him, sometimes.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, whose wings are getting better every day. He's able to make short trips, now, and you make sure to praise him as heavily as you can whenever he comes back from a lap around your apartment complex. You swear, when you're at work or running errands, you'll see a scarlet shape circling miles above you and convince yourself it's Diluc, but he's not the secretive type. You're sure, if he was really that far along, he wouldn't be able to hide it from you. You're sure, if he was really able to fly that well, he wouldn't stay any longer than the time it took to tell you that he was going home.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who's cuddled against your chest when you come to, your skin still numb from the windburn and your vision still blurred with tears. You can barely keep yourself awake, barely lift your head, but you can make out a lavish, crimson bedroom; a bed of sheets and pillows that goes on as far as you can see. No, not a bed, a nest. One big enough for a hawk and its mate.

Red-Tailed Hawk!Diluc, who's always been territorial. You just weren't able to see that until after he decided you were a part of that territory, too.

[callme-holly]

I NEED A KENICKE WHERE HES WITH READER AND HES JUST BEING SUPER LOVEY DOVEY OUT OF NOWHERE IN FRONT OF FRIENDS (he’s a little tipsy) AND THE GUYS START MAKING FUN A LITTLE BIT AND ITS JS ADORABLE

𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐠𝐮𝐲 [𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚/𝐧- some more kenickie stuff bc y'all seem to rlly like it LMAO

The drive-in was surprisingly busy, and despite the movie being long since over, the sun dipping just below the horizon, nobody seemed in a rush to get home. You were perched on the hood of Kenickie’s car, his arm draped lazily around your shoulders as he traced lazy patterns against the fabric of your shirt. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, and you tried desperately to ignore the way his breath fanned across your skin, his lips brushing soft kisses along your jawline. 

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the conversation going on around you, and you’d instead settled for brief nods or hums whenever you deemed necessary. It was rare for him to be this affectionate; sure, he could be touchy, but that was nothing compared to this. He was being sweet and quiet, something entirely out of character for him, although you could probably chalk it up to the few beers he'd downed at some point during the movie. 

Your hand came up to thread through his hair as his lips trailed lower, and you shifted slightly, a gentle reminder of where exactly you were. He made a low, dissatisfied noise, pulling back so that his chin merely rested on your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded as he returned to the conversation, only half listening.

"What'd you say, Zuko?" He mumbles, and you bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling as everyone turns to look at the two of you, taking in your more than cosy state, Kenickie hanging off of you without a care in the world.

Danny raises a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'd know if you were listening." His tone is teasing, and the other guys all break out into hushed snickers, elbowing each other knowingly. 

"Yeah, what's the matter, Kenickie? Can't keep your hands to yourself now?" Sonny grins, and Kenickie shoots him a glare that silences the group immediately.

"Nah, just can't stand to listen to you dorks." He pulls you closer, and you shake your head softly, batting away his hand as it begins to make its way beneath your shirt, the action causing him to huff quietly. "You're just all jealous that I can keep my girl happy." He nuzzles against your neck again, earning another round of laughs and little digs, all of which he shoots down with a sharp. "Shut your traps."

"Kenickie..." you murmur, your fingers tracing absentminded circles on his bare arm. "Be nice." The way you say it is as if you're talking to a child, a light smile playing about your lips, and his expression instantly softens into a dopey grin, leaning his forehead on yours.

"Come on, baby... I am bein' nice." There’s something in his voice that causes you to pause; the sheer adoration laced in his tone makes your breath catch and your face grow warm. He reaches up to trace your jaw gently before moving forward, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Let's get outta here. Please?" 

It doesn't take too much convincing for you to agree, although you don't exactly trust his driving abilities with the state he's in, but he refuses to even let you sit behind the wheel, let alone drive. So instead, you end up sitting in the passenger seat, your seat, his hand resting on your knee as the car rumbles to life, drowning out the digs from the guys about Kenickie "growing soft," the comments only earning an eyeroll from your boyfriend in response. 

"Damn idiots..." He grumbles, pulling out of the space you're parked in, purposefully kicking up dust as he goes, and you chuckle fondly.

"You love them." He glances sideways at you briefly, and although he doesn't answer you, the smile on his face says enough, and that maybe, just maybe, there is some truth behind your words. 

[revelboo]

Hello, I have just found your blog but I am now addicted to the Tarantulas x Reader series💕

May good things come your way and have a nice weekend!!

Tarantulas is a sweetie

Disappear Pt 9

Tarantulas x Reader

• Harmless curiosity he’d said. Those big hands and those wickedly sharp claws at the end of his servos are surprisingly gentle. Touching hesitantly like he expects you to stop him and can’t believe you’re allowing this. You can’t really believe it either. Just like you have trouble understanding why you didn’t run that night when you’d had the chance. You could have. But you’d thought about leaving him here all alone and hadn’t. Because he seems so lonely sometimes.

• Those eyes are staring up at him as he runs the back of a claw over your cheek and his mandibles shift. Extra limbs fidgeting with his nest, brushing against you like they have a mind of their own. “I could be human for you,” he says, the words escaping him before he even realizes what he’s saying. But he wouldn’t mind. Hiding his true self away here if he could live a life out there where he’s not alone. Not a monster. “The avatar is almost perfect.” That was always the plan, but he wants that life to have you in it now. Even if it’s nothing more than as friends, that would be enough. Just talk with him, smile for him and he’d be happy.

• Palm splayed against his chassis, you almost laugh. Bitterness twisting through you that he’s willing to give up who he really is just to not be alone. To get to live without being hunting or dragged back into his own people’s war. Asking to go with you, for you to not leave him. And thinking that for you to allow him to stay, to put up with him, he has to pretend to be human. “I don’t like the avatar,” you mutter, fingertips chasing his biolights and another of his extra limbs brushes your upper back. He’s not really scary. Not anymore.

• “I can change it. Make it whatever you want,” he says, tension threading through him. Do you still hate him for trapping you here? You must. Must want to go back to your life, to your home. And it’s not fair to keep you here, but he can’t let you go either. Doesn’t want to go back to talking to himself out loud just so he can pretend he’s not so alone. “Just tell me what you need.” Freezing when you catch his wrist and he allows you to pull it away from your face. Aware of you staring at his hand, at his claws that can tear your soft skin so easily. Shouldn’t have touched you. Definitely shouldn’t ask for more from you.

• What you need? Gripping his big hand you study it. A thumb sliding against a curving claw and he flinches. Going tense, but you don’t think it’s your touch. He almost looks panicked at your fingers so close to his claws. Afraid of hurting you? “What is it you want?” Mandibles fidgeting, his visor dims slightly and you think maybe he won’t answer.

• “To live. To be allowed to live.” And you’re just staring at him. Venting with a soft huff, his extra limbs dance restlessly against the webbing of his nest. “I want to learn more, study this world. To not be forced to pick a side, to just be.” And it sounds so silly to him saying it out loud. A sparkling’s naïve wishes. Because Ghost will never stop hunting him. The Decepticons and the Autobots won’t let him go, either. Realizes he’s been lying to himself this whole time. Pretending that they’d all let him be. Leave him alone. That he could be free. Be happy. Stilling when you shift closer, the webbing rocks slightly and then you just lay your head against his chassis. And he’s afraid to move, afraid he might frighten you away somehow. Especially when you slide an arm around him, hugging him. ‘I think we all want that,’ you whisper and cautiously, he drapes an arm around you.

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[plor-bindery]

Bound: First Watch of Night by @tackytigerfic

It finally arrived so I can share!

This one was a swap with @sits-bound (and you can peep the amazing bind I got from them here) and hoo boy, did I pack in the learning on this one! First rounded and backed book, first book weighing in over 600 pages, first case constructed to sit in the shoulders...

But before I go on, let me rave about this fic, which doesn't get talked about enough. Drarry fandom has more than its fair share of longer fic, but I don't think it's as common to find something this long that is so immaculately planned, plotted, and written. It has earned every one of its 270K plus words! It's rich and engaging and lovely and gripping, and it's Tacky, so the characterization is amazing and the storytelling is excellent. If you have not read it, you need to! (And tell Tacky about how much you loved it.)

Okay, on to the photos. There's a very subtle poppy theme here, not sure if it's noticeable lololol...

End bands are sewn with silk on a 2mm leather core. Sewing on a backed spine was new/tricky but worked out barring a few little snags getting the needle into the middle of a signature. @maleekamolscreates, acknowledged lovely mistress of end bands, has also let me know I’m fully bonkers for persevering with this tiny-ass silk thread. It’s like wrapping leather cord with angel pubes. I…have some regrets. But it’s so pretty!?

I need to continue to work on rounding/backing but this went okay and the swell was mostly handled?

(Last photo courtesy of sits because I forgot to photograph the delightful way the spine throws up!)

The punctuation in the pull-quote on that back was my personal Battle of Hogwarts.

The dust jacket was a whole adventure. Big thanks to @phoenixortheflame for support and advice on that one, and apologies to sits that I couldn't actually provide a perfectly laminated version. I did have to shout out her comment on the top of the back cover though... Also featuring @lemonlimelea whose comments are always super quotable!

I also failed to take photos of the endpapers, but they are the chiyogami pictured under the bind above!

On to the insides... I did some silver foiling on the full title page just because I felt like it and the needle-device (from the story!) seemed to call for it. I drew that needle in Illustrator, which is probably not impressive except I found it very hard and so I need a cookie.

Why poppies? Tacky prefaced every chapter (and named each chapter) with a bit of war poetry, and for me this evokes images of poppies in fields because Canada, probably. But happily, Tacky also likes poppies!

All told, it was a big undertaking! But also went surprisingly well? This is officially my 40th fanbind (and I've racked up a few more since then) and I'm happy to see how far I've come, and excited by how much more there is to learn. I continue to be challenged and delighted by this craft.

Thank you to @sits-bound for doing this swap with me! It was such an exciting project and a great experience.

[slattlicker]

i love your fics so much!!! would you write about some period comfort? My period is KICKING me in the ass right now and i need some lovey schlatt

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * kiss the pain away ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your cramps are unbearable. schlatt offers tongue… and teeth. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the tired, the crampy, and the emotionally deranged. you are so valid. I hope all your pain is sent to your worst enemies instead!!

warnings: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT (MDNI!!), oral sex (f. receiving), period sex / blood mention, discussion of cramps and menstruation, established relationship, soft dom!schlatt energy / caretaking dynamic

enjoy! (🩸´ ∀ `🩸)

✧✧✧

you’re curled up on the couch, the tv flickering dully across the room. a heating pad rests against your lower belly, its warmth doing little to fight off the deep, dragging ache of your cramps. you feel heavy, drained, like everything’s just a little too loud and far away all at once.

your tea sits cold on the table, untouched. a bottle of ibuprofen stares you down from the edge, but even reaching for it feels like too much. the movie you picked—some moody, slow-burn drama—isn’t helping. it only makes the fog in your chest feel thicker.

you pull the blanket tighter around you and sigh, eyes stinging. it’s one of those days—the kind where you don’t want to talk, move, or exist. just hide.

you barely register the sound of the office door creaking open.

soft footsteps cross the floor. “you okay?” comes schlatt’s voice—quiet, careful, but carrying that rare thread of concern you only hear when he’s serious.

you don’t look up. “just… hurts,” you murmur.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t joke. he sinks down next to you on the couch, not too close, but enough that you feel his warmth.

“why don’t you let me take over tonight?” he says gently, already reaching for the remote to kill the sad background noise. “you sit here, relax. i’ll handle everything.”

you glance at him, caught off guard. “everything?”

“everything,” he repeats. “and we’re starting with cookies.”

you blink. “you’re gonna bake?”

“hell yeah, i am.” he grins, brushing your arm lightly. “trust me. i’ve got this. you just sit here and look cute.”

you let out a small huff of a laugh—more air than sound—but it’s something. “this better not end with a fire alarm.”

“not unless i burn the cookies on purpose to get your attention.” he winks, already rising from the couch with a stretch and a content little grunt. “but i won’t. pinky swear.”

you settle back, too worn out to argue, but the sound of schlatt moving around the kitchen is surprisingly comforting. the soft clatter of bowls and measuring spoons, the hum of the oven warming up—it all fades into the background like a familiar song you didn’t realize you’d missed.

you sip your tea. still cold. still fine. and for once, the stillness around you doesn’t feel so suffocating.

he hums to himself—something tuneless and a little dumb—and you catch a glimpse of him through the doorway: sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed in concentration, mixing with one hand while scrolling through a recipe on his phone with the other.

you close your eyes for a second, letting the sounds blur together. mixer whirring. oven ticking. his occasional mutter of “too much sugar? nah. we ball.”

when you peek again, he’s back in the doorway, holding a mixing bowl with pride.

“alright, baby,” he says, softer now, like he doesn’t want to break whatever spell the evening’s settled into. “time for the taste test.”

you shift slightly, the weight in your belly still there, but less sharp than before. “taste test?” you echo, voice scratchy.

he grins. “you think i’d bake and not let you lick the spoon? criminal.”

you accept the offered spoon and take a bite—warm, sugary, just enough salt to make the chocolate pop. your eyes flutter shut.

“good?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“perfect,” you murmur.

he leans in and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “told you. i’m kind of a pro.”

you hum in response, letting yourself sink further into the couch as the oven ticks on. for the first time all day, something in your chest unclenches. it’s not just the sugar or the warmth of the blanket. it’s him. it’s the way he shows up.

not flashy. not loud. just… the wind at your back. always there.

minutes pass in a quiet rhythm—oven humming, cookies baking, your eyes fluttering between open and closed as schlatt occasionally peeks in with a dumb thumbs-up or exaggerated “chef’s kiss.” eventually, he returns, triumphant, with a plate in hand.

“fresh out the oven,” he declares. “don’t burn your mouth, unless you’re into that.”

you smirk and take one, crisp on the outside, warm and gooey in the center. your body still aches, but it’s easier to ignore with something sweet in your hand and him sitting beside you again, leg pressed gently to yours.

after a beat, he nudges your shoulder. “alright. time for round two.”

“what?” you blink.

he picks up the controller, wagging it like a bribe. “mario kart. winner gets the last cookie.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you made the cookies...for me.”

“and i will gatekeep them from you. pick your character, baby.”

you huff, but sit up and take the second controller. your hips are stiff, your body protesting slightly—but it feels good to move. not painless, but less suffocating. progress.

the first round is a massacre—he’s obviously letting you win, but trying to make it look casual. you give him a side-eye mid-race. “you’re going easy on me.”

“what? me? never,” he says, immediately driving his kart into a wall.

you snort. “wow. such skill.”

“you’re just cracked,” he shrugs. “must be the meds kicking in.”

and for a while, you almost forget the ache. you win the next two races, and he only starts fighting back when you taunt him too hard. even then, he lets you keep the upper hand (for the most part, anyway). it’s soft, easy fun. the kind that makes your cheeks hurt more than your stomach does.

but around race five, you start to slump a little. it’s small at first—your back pressing deeper into the cushions, your hand easing its grip on the controller.

schlatt notices.

he doesn't say anything right away. just lets the next match run as he watches you instead of the screen. you place third. he finishes dead last.

“feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice a little lower, more careful.

you wince slightly, setting the controller down. “yeah. just… fading a little.”

schlatt doesn’t hesitate. he sets his own controller aside and reaches for the blanket you’d kicked off earlier, shaking it loose and wrapping it gently around your shoulders.

“alright, that’s enough super circuit for one night,” he says softly, already scooping you up into his arms like it’s nothing. “time to relocate.”

you let out a weak protest—something about walking—but he ignores it completely, holding you snug to his chest as he carries you down the hall. “i’m serious,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “you carried us through rainbow road. now it’s my turn.”

you bury your face against his shoulder, too exhausted to argue. he smells like clean laundry and chocolate chip cookies, and you melt into him with a quiet sigh.

✧✧✧

once in the bedroom, schlatt settles you carefully on the bed, still wrapped in your blanket. he props a pillow behind your back, then kneels down to slip off your socks with careful hands. the lights are low, the sheets cool, and the ache in your stomach hums quietly beneath it all.

“don’t move,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “i’ll be right back.”

he disappears into the bathroom, then the kitchen. you hear the soft clatter of pills in a bottle, the sink running, the microwave whirring for just a few seconds. when he returns, he’s carrying a small pile: ibuprofen, a glass of water, a fresh pad, and a microwaved rice sock tucked into the crook of his arm.

“came fully stocked,” he says, nudging the medicine into your hand.

you take it silently, your throat tight. schlatt doesn’t say anything about the way you swallow hard or the way your hands shake just a little. he just sets the rice sock over your lower abdomen and climbs into bed beside you.

“how’s it feeling now?” he asks, his voice quiet.

you breathe in. exhale slow. “still hurts.”

he nods. “okay.”

his thumb finds your thigh again, tracing slow, grounding circles into your skin. the room falls quiet—just the soft creak of the bed and the hum of his breathing beside you.

after a minute, you speak. “you don’t have to do all this.”

“i know,” he says simply. “but i want to.”

you turn your head toward him. he’s watching you with that same warm look from earlier, like you’re something fragile he’s not trying to fix—just hold. the longer you stay in that gaze, the harder it becomes to look away.

he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles brushing your cheek. “baby,” he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. “i have a stupid idea.”

you raise an eyebrow, too tired to brace for whatever dumb bit he’s building up to.

“i’ve heard,” he continues slowly, “that, um… sometimes…” he pauses, clearly fighting back a smirk, “certain kinds of relief help with cramps.”

you blink. “…certain kinds?”

“you know,” he says, a little too casually. “orgasms.”

you stare at him.

he clears his throat, suddenly sheepish. “i’m not saying it has to happen, obviously. but if it might help—i mean—i’d do all the work. no pressure. just… offering.”

you raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the edge of your lips despite yourself. “is this your version of a medical treatment?”

“this is strictly medicinal,” he says, deadpan. “completely selfless. i’m practically a doctor, really.”

you let out a soft laugh, your stomach tensing—but it doesn’t hurt as bad when you’re smiling. you reach over and lightly squeeze his hand.

“okay, doctor. let’s see what you’ve got.”

schlatt grins like you just handed him a diploma. “ah, my favorite kind of patient—submissive and skeptical.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t pull your hand away from his. if anything, you squeeze it tighter.

he leans in, presses a kiss to your knuckles, then shifts down the bed slowly, deliberately. “first, we’ll begin treatment with localized warmth,” he mutters, voice mock-clinical as his hands settle on your thighs. “followed by gentle pressure to targeted areas.”

you huff a laugh—but the breath catches in your throat when his lips brush the inside of your knee, then lower. his tone may be teasing, but his hands are reverent.

“tell me if anything hurts,” he says, quieter now, all the joke burned away beneath the sincerity in his voice.

you nod, your body already relaxing beneath the weight of his touch.

“good.” he kisses the top of your thigh, slow and soft. “now hold still, sweetheart. doctor’s orders.”

he hooks his fingers into your waistband and slides your clothes down inch by inch, taking his time like he’s unwrapping something precious—not because he’s trying to be seductive, but because he cares.

and then he’s between your legs, spreading you open with careful hands, his eyes flicking up to check your face before he moves any closer.

“you still good?”

“mmhm,” you breathe, and that’s all he needs.

he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right where you’re aching.

and god—he means it. no hesitation. no skirting around the fact that you’re bleeding. just warmth, and tongue, and care. he licks a slow stripe up your folds, his mouth easing into the rhythm like he’s done this a hundred times, like your body is a map he already knows.

you shudder. your hips twitch, and his hands are there instantly, grounding you.

“you’re alright,” he murmurs. “just let me take care of you, baby.”

his tongue circles your clit, slow and steady. each pass sends sparks rippling through you, heat blooming under your skin and pushing the cramps to the background. he licks you like it’s a gift, like you’re the reward.

and when he groans against you—real and low and hungry—you feel it in your spine.

you exhale shakily as his mouth meets you again, the heat of him sinking into every nerve. his tongue moves with slow, practiced care—one long, deliberate stroke from your entrance to your clit, like he’s savoring you.

he lingers there, circling you with the tip of his tongue, steady and gentle, coaxing rather than demanding. the pressure isn’t overwhelming—just right, just enough—each pass melting the pain in your belly down into something warmer, lower, more bearable.

your breath stutters as your hips twitch beneath his touch. he holds you steady, palms firm on your thighs, but never rough. “that’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice low and almost reverent. “you’re doing so good, baby.”

he picks up the rhythm just slightly, tongue gliding with more confidence now, feeding off the way your legs start to tense. his mouth is soft, but purposeful—focused. every movement says i’m here for you. i’ve got you.

a low groan escapes his throat as he sucks softly at your clit, the vibration shooting straight through your core. you moan before you can stop yourself, fingers curling tight in the sheets.

and then—without warning—his fingers slide inside of you, slow and smooth and so careful.

you gasp, your back arching as he fills you. he’s not rushed, not greedy—just steady, like he knows exactly what you need. his thumb brushes your thigh, grounding you as he begins to move.

“you okay?” he murmurs, glancing up at you through half-lidded eyes.

you nod quickly, breathless. “yeah… it’s good. really good.”

he hums softly, mouth already back on you. his tongue flicks, licks, sucks—all while his fingers move in slow, delicious thrusts, stroking deeper with each pass.

he curls them just right, and your hips jerk in response. “there it is,” he mutters, almost to himself. “that’s what i was looking for.”

you whimper, thighs starting to shake as the tension builds. every part of you is locked in on the heat building in your gut—your belly tight, your skin buzzing, your body climbing toward something you desperately need.

“schlatt—” your voice is thin, cracking.

“i know, baby,” he breathes, kissing the inside of your thigh. “i’ve got you. just let go for me.”

he thrusts a little faster, a little deeper, fingers hitting that spot over and over. his mouth never stops moving, tongue circling and sucking in just the right way—and that’s all it takes.

your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing down and curling your toes, stealing your breath as your body trembles under him. your cry breaks open in your throat, high and raw, and you feel yourself unravel completely—mind blank, muscles tight, everything going white-hot and gone.

he doesn’t move until the aftershocks settle. just strokes you gently through it, whispering little nothings—there you go, you did so good, that’s my girl—while your body slowly softens beneath him.

and when you finally breathe again, shaky and full of quiet relief, he pulls back with a low sigh, like he's the one who just orgasmed.

you blink your eyes open slowly, still dazed, still floating. schlatt’s head pops up from where he’s been pressing gentle kisses to your stomach, his curls a mess, his mouth pink and a little smug.

your body feels heavy and loose, your brain full of static and sugar. the cramps have dulled into a distant hum, and your limbs sink into the mattress like they’ve forgotten how to function.

he tucks the blanket back over you with all the ceremony of a man sealing sacred ground. then he crawls in beside you, big arms wrapping around your waist like a very clingy, very cocky body pillow.

you melt into him with a sigh, forehead tucked under his chin, the warmth of him buzzing through you like a second heating pad.

and just as your breathing starts to even out—just as you think he might actually let you drift off in peace—

“y’know,” he whispers dramatically, “technically, that counts as feeding.”

you pause. “...what.”

his voice drops an octave. “the blood. the offering. the... delicacy.”

you groan. “oh my god.”

“face it,” he intones, clearly trying to sound like a victorian ghost. “you’re dating a vampire now.”

you smack his chest weakly. “schlatt, i swear to god—”

“count schlattula,” he corrects, solemn and proud.

“you’re disgusting.”

“and no longer thirsty.”

you try to roll away from him, but he catches your wrist like the dramatic little menace he is, pressing a kiss to your knuckles with a flourish. “don’t worry, my sweet little snack,” he purrs. “i only feast under a full moon… and your worst days.”

“you are never allowed to say ‘feast’ again.”

“you’ll beg me to next month,” he says with a smirk, already nuzzling into your neck like a creature of the night.

you sigh, half-laughing. “you’re insane.”

“and immortal,” he replies proudly.

you curl tighter into him, exhaustion finally pulling at your limbs again. “if you start sparkling, i’m dumping you.”

he gasps. “you wouldn’t.”

“watch me, dracula.”

he hisses—hisses—into your neck, fangs clearly implied.

and you laugh, real and full and breathy, the last bit of ache easing out of your chest as the night wraps around you.

the cramps are still there, somewhere deep. but for now, you’re warm. you’re safe. you’re curled up beside your idiotic, cookie-baking vampire boyfriend.

and honestly? you could do this every month.

[angelesca]

over and over, you read the sign outside a small agency, rolling the name in your head and flipping it up and down: teyvat's sleuth operatives, sleuth operatives... sounds tacky and lame...

it is only when a brown-haired someone approaches you, that your doubts are erased. their uniform neat, mastering the archetype of a professional private investigator, amber eyes unexpecting your early arrival. “you must be the new recruit, why don’t you come inside?”

edit: i think my tumblr is finally working again, hopefully this post works(-ω-、) w.c. ~3.5k / content: modern au! private investigators (PI) au! [not canon, slight ooc?] bulletpoints and scenarios, writing out of my arse again, lil' crack, another gang of idiots, total braincells: 8.88 (a high score!!), surprisingly they co-exist pretty well, zhongli doesn't know what a waffle maker is, you and childe watch a traumatic talent show, alhaitham's love lang is bickering with you, and wrio has a depressing backstory👍, tldr; working with 4 very fun guys / boss!zhongli / rival!childe / childhood friend!alhaitham / colleague!wriothesley / x gnreader

𝐳𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢 as your boss!

✦ oldest member, worked in the profession for many years. however, when you ask about that, he is suspiciously evasive. zhongli seems to have lived a long life, though his appearance does not tell it

✦ out of touch with the new generation and technology. asks alhaitham to fix his computer and the kettle (bro just needed to plug it in) or asks you what the newest trendy slang means. it is a wonder how he manages the workplace

✦ tea buddies with wriothesley. hosts tea parties in the local retirement home to discuss and rate tea (power scaling tea real). there's enough boxes to last a lifetime in the breakroom. oh, zhongli is pointing at the clock. it’s… tea time… again

✦ talks your ear off about philosophical questions such as what happens after death, or whether a hotdog is a sandwich

✦ you and childe share a joint role as zhongli’s personal wallet. as to what your boss spends his paycheck on… maybe the countless snacks he leaves at your desk. and tea. more tea. poosssiibly those trinkets he has gifted you too

✦ glasses wearer. appears when zhongli is in deep concentration, due to an unexpected influx of cases so he's staring at the computer often, or during an intense reading session

ᯓ★

you flick through the papers detailing the information you recorded from your client. you and zhongli are out on a scouting mission to obtain clues that could point the case in the right direction. “are you listening?”

“mhm,” zhongli claims, but you can see your words are flowing in one ear and out the other with the way he is plucking free food samples as if they were flowers, bunched together in his hand like a bouquet, offered to him by the fawning ladies at the market stalls. the foreboding premonition of another unproductive day is brimming to the surface.

“where should we start?” you clear your throat, keeping the task on track.

“we should entertain any threads and trace it back, even if it proves to be a dead end. there is no such thing as a bad clue,” zhongli pauses in front of a shop. “for starters, what’s this?”

you raise an eyebrow. “a waffle maker.”

“interesting. what about this?”

“a robot vacuum cleaner. would be good for the office.”

“indeed,” zhongli’s eyes shift. “and this? such a profound colour, this corrosive yellow that erodes my vision is quite unpleasant. could it be…? is this a weapon of mass destruction?”

“zhongli, sir, that’s a banana.“ you shake your head. “is this important?”

zhongli nods. “could be. is it really a banana? a true investigator must question even the simplest of theories.” he points a finger at your pocket. “and this?”

“... that’s my wallet.�� 

zhongli has a penchant for being attracted to your money, if he can trace the imprint of your wallet against your pocket. 

zhongli nods, closing his eyes. “a sacred item indeed,” he opens one eye which looks at you expectantly. “i suspect you have quite a formidable sum of mora on your person. and mora is an imperative factor that may save the day, or destroy the world. after all, we still do not know if the banana is deceiving us in its testimony, hm?” 

you give up, handing the money over to the shopkeeper.

his philosophy remains a cryptic language to you. perhaps it’s the gap in experience that makes it hard to connect a bridge to whatever planet zhongli lives on, a divide in universes between you, a disciple, and a master. sometimes, you do believe that there’s a rip in time and space with how zhongli’s senses lag behind as if stuck in the past.

you hand one over to your side. “here—huh?” where did he go?

one look behind you and you find zhongli by a lamp post. a young girl, scratching the ground with a sharp branch with a pout, gazes at zhongli. “who are you?”

zhongli slowly crouches down. “someone who listens to everyone’s troubles. would you mind telling me yours?”

no response. then, a small stomach growls.

zhongli motions at you. immediately, you walk over. “may i take one of the bananas?” you hand him one. “why don’t you take this?”

despite her embarrassed expression, the girl grabs it. she hesitates. “... mama, gone.”

your lips part in realisation.

“come now, we’ll help find your parents.” zhongli offers a hand but the girl extends his invitation, taking his whole arm instead, hugging it. he chuckles, picking her up, her arms naturally cradling his neck as if he is family.

you observe the warm scene, smiling. “you’d make a pretty good parent.” 

zhongli watches you, quiet for a moment. “why don't we raise one together?”

“oh, i’m not—”

“alhaitham can be the teacher; wriothesley will do the cleaning. i can do the cooking, and childe can do all the shopping. you can play the toys with the child.”

“ah. of course,” teyvat’s sleuth operatives is one big family, after all. you have to ask, “also, that banana, how did you know to buy it?”

“well, who knows?” zhongli pats the girl’s back, helping her fall asleep. there’s a glint in his eyes when he looks at you, asking you to work out the mystery. to chase after the clues he left.

another cryptic answer. the master really does live in another world—one that you want to keep learning about.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 as your rival!

✦ works for the rival agency which, unfortunately, is much more popular. when watching cat videos, their adverts often pop up with childe’s annoying face plastered on it, winking at you

✦ tags along when you are on a case. doesn’t he have anything else to do? at least he buys your fav drink from the vending machines. although he trails around you like baggage, you hate to say that he is good at what he does.

✦ … a bit too good at his job. you’ve spotted him slinking into dark alleys occasionally. what’s he doing there? one day you will know.

✦ trained under zhongli before. therefore, he is lowkey in competition with you. any task is met with the following question: who’s the better apprentice? so far, the score is even, but you’ll get him next time

✦ never enters your agency through the front door. opts to crawl in through the window (no idea why, maybe it's the challenge). comes bearing gifts such as expensive fruit baskets, bouquets, and medicinal roots like ginseng. you’d think he’s meeting his in-laws or something. rare, but may bring his younger brother teucer as well. on these days, teyvat’s sleuth operatives becomes half private agency and half daycare. 

✦ for uniform, the red shirt from his birthday art is nice. maybe a leather jacket that hangs on the shoulder. wears accessories: earrings, rings, bracelets, watches, gloves. bro is something of a fashion icon, tbf he’s rich so might as well

ᯓ★

desolation unwraps itself before you, beckoning its finger at you to sink into the drab swamps. you saw a tuft of ginger hair disappear into this alley, submerged by its fog. it is inevitable; you need to know the truth behind the mystery to quell the ‘investigator’ in you. 

as soon as you think that, your face hits against, according to your common sense, a wall—if the wall defined was actually an amalgamation of flesh and muscle. 

“need our help?” 

a voice irritates your ears. you frown, looking up at the culprit. “you can’t steal our catchphrase like that, childe.” 

childe—your rival, your nemesis, the guy who childishly filled a ketchup bottle with strawberry jam so that he could chug it in front of you, without flinching, solely to disgust you, and counted it as a victory—that childe, shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.

“boss, who’s dat?” a voice calls from the darkness.

your ears perk up. boss? childe? a responsible leader? no way. you push childe aside. “... who are you guys?”

a whole lot of people are uncomfortably staring at you. “us?” one man stands out from the crowd. “the fatui, duh. have ya not heard of us, newbie?” the man proudly puffs his chest out.

childe rubs his forehead. “you doofus.”

bells were ringing in your head, red alarms were sounding. “the fatui? aren’t you guys wanted?”

before you can reach for your phone, childe catches your hand. “don’t,” his tone is rigid. it takes you by surprise. “look,” childe sighs. “they’re not bad people, promise.” he lets go.

a fatui agent is dancing. “yup, we have many talents, like stealing lunch money.” that is literally illegal. “say, why don’t we host a talent show?”

“oooooh!!” a chorus of easily amused delight.

“me! me!” a burly man wearing a tank top and shorts, holds up a jar of hotdogs. he twists open the lid.

you and childe exchange glances. the next sequence of events you witness are really unfortunate. “oh– please don’t shove that up your– well, okay then.” the sky looks especially wonderful today.

these guys should be in prison after all. 

“ahaha, okay, okay,” childe gestures with his hands, asking everyone to quiet down. “alas, this should be enough–”

“but i can break into people’s houses without triggering the alarm system!”

“i can use my anemo vision to amplify my fart!”

“aha…” the light in childe’s face falters. suddenly, he grabs your hand. “run!”

“—!” in an instant, your legs suddenly burst into strides, finding the right pace to keep up with childe. “where are we going?!”

“anywhere! anywhere is good!” under the sky, the breeze carries his airy laughter. in his eyes, the blue sea parts, a brightness coruscating on its horizon. it is refreshing, brilliant, childish. and vulnerable. 

you can’t help getting carried along by the waves.

.

“i should report you… for almost getting me killed by an anemo-amplified fart,” hands on your knees, the words struggle out of your mouth.

“sorry about that, they’re just really friendly.” he laughs. you notice, the way childe expresses himself towards the fatui, it is a delicate artistry woven with heartfelt tenderness. it’s the same fragileness as when he talks about his family and home. “how about i buy you a drink?” 

you contemplate his offer. after taking a few more breaths, you stand up. “even though i know you meddle with the fatui? how does a vending machine drink suffice?” childe tilts his head, encouraging you to speak. “for a week straight at least. there’s a new cafe opening, but the prices are too steep for my wallet.”

“okay, okay,” his gentle, tender voice extends to you, lifted by a smile. the blue sea parts, and behind it is childe, offering you a place in his home. “you win this time.”

𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 as your childhood friend!

✦ more like estranged childhood friend. you left teyvat at a young age, leaving your childhood friend, alhaitham, behind. you only returned recently, surprised to find that little alhaitham grew up well 

✦ does not concern himself with anything that doesn't yield results, keeps conversations succinct, conveying what needs to be said for the job with as little words as possible. only interjects if something intrigues him, or when anyone makes a clueless comment that needs correcting

✦ favours are not regarded well. one time, you asked him to grab you some coffee if he was going out for lunch break. alhaitham sighed, listing the side effects of overconsumption on caffeine and how a sufficient amount of sleep will do you better. although, when you came back to the office after an outing, you found a mysterious cup of coffee on your desk. must be the wind

✦ dislikes outputting energy where it’s not needed. when finished with his tasks, he will head to the breakroom or the corner with the bookshelf to relax until zhongli’s next order. rarely seen at his desk

✦ went to uni for a comp sci degree but it wasn't challenging enough. dropped out, but zhongli, a guest lecturer, managed to recruit him after witnessing his talent. has rejected prestigious titles and positions in favour of a peaceful life. but with you in the picture, he wonders how long this peace would last

✦ wears strapped pouches and harnesses… around the chest... and biceps... straps around the thighs... (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`) for utility ofc. equipped with useful items for the job, like a gps tracker, voice recorders, spy cameras, and his music player. 

ᯓ★

“can you afford to be slacking off right now?” the silence breaks, and you are forced to speak.

“i’m not.” you quickly glance at the time on your screen. “besides, i should start heading home before the last train runs—”

“the last train has already gone.”

“... great.” you sigh. “how come you didn’t tell me earlier?”

“the sharp possibility that you’d insist on finishing your work is comparable to chasing after a dead end, and ultimately, a waste of time.”

a trained oracle, predicting every branching future based on your rooted disposition. it is difficult to debate against that which has inputted all your details, computing every possible output.

you rest your chin on your palm. “what are you even doing here? shouldn’t you be getting your healthy eight hours of sleep?” 

“and in the time that has spanned since you’ve sat at your desk, shouldn’t you be done already?”

you object, “you can’t deflect me with a question.”

“which principle asserts otherwise? i can.”

“you can’t.”

“can.”

“can’t.”

“can–”

you sigh frustratedly, knowing that you’re talking to a wall. throw your words at it and it bounces right back, a ball hitting at you squarely. 

with purpose, you blurt out, “little haitham was so much cuter, you used to follow me everywhere.”

and finally, alhaitham looks at you for the first time today. and for the first time today, you get a good look at him too. his posture manages to be effortlessly upright, not a lick of exhaustion burdened on his face.

“why are you bringing that up?” alhaitham returns to his monitor.

the buzzing of the ceiling light fills the silence. you blink. once. “we promised to the stars that we’d be the best detective duo in teyvat.” the mechanical clicking of keyboards clogs your ears. blink. you tug at the cuffs of your sleeve. “to solve all the mysteries, crimes, and beat up the bad people hiding in the world.” 

sounds of the mouse clicking. a pause builds. alhaitham glances at you. “and? we’re doing that pretty well, aren’t we?” you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

“i thought you’ve forgotten about that,” you admit.

“it was you who forgot.”

you sit up. “come again?” your eyes twinkle, watching alhaitham, your childhood friend. the hope that swells on your face, and alhaitham notices it; the stars in your eyes, he’s tracing the constellations in them. 

"why do you think i'm here in the first place?" his voice dips, as if hoping you didn't hear that.

a promise embedded in the stars, and one of them was waiting for the fated reunion. then, in a split second, you see a younger haitham tugging at your sleeve, following your footsteps. you hide the smile behind your hand. “you’ve been waiting for me all this time?”

“don’t flatter yourself.” alhaitham quickly extinguishes. ouch. another pause washes over before he speaks up, “come over.”

your eyes widen. “over? where?”

“to mine.”

“mine? yours?”

“my apartment. it’s close by.”

“your place?”

“yes,” alhaitham glares at you. “do i happen to be speaking in another language?”

“i mean, how come?” 

“i do not want to be investigating a missing person’s case anytime soon,” alhaitham stands up, packing his belongings, leaving you no choice but to swiftly follow suit. “and our photo albums,” he stops moving. “i've kept them.” 

your heart skips, touched by the rare sincerity. you tease, “so you do care about me.”

alhaitham scoffs. “it's only a sensible suggestion. i don’t.”

“you do.”

“don’t.”

“oh, come on.”

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 as your colleague!

✦ was classmates with you at a police academy. by the academy was an arcade where you two played too many games. after graduation, you two silently seperated. wriothesley worked in enforcement for some years before gaining his investigators licence, moved to teyvat, and eventually settled at teyvat’s sleuth operatives

✦ your current hangout place with wriothesley is still an arcade, the one by the agency - it reminds you two of the past. favourite games include money-grubbing claw machines, boxing machines, and “dancing dance rev rev” (i dont wanna get sued–). that, or you end up chatting the day away about whatever new complaints you received from alhaitham, not realising the sun has set and the owner ends up shooing you two out

✦ owns a red motorbike. will take you on rides for fun, watching sunsets on the highway feeling the breeze. will take you home whenever you need—just give him a call. he insists that the best place to hold onto is around his waist

✦ the tea connoisseur of all time. drinks a minimum of 5 cups a day, and you worry he might drop dead one day. you’ve tried to get him onto different drinks, like the popular boba tea, but plain old tea always triumphs in the end. tea is life and zhongli agrees

✦ good at subduing any targets. prefers not to shed blood, but will deescalate confrontations, usually by submission rather than violence

✦ messy uniform. shirt not buttoned all the way up, rolled sleeves, fingerless gloves, dark colours. often seen with bandages along his arm. wears a choker. like a werewolf, rugged

ᯓ★

years back, before you returned to teyvat, you attended a police academy to aid in the preparation and experience needed for your investigators licence.

you always frequented the desolate arcade by the academy. there was no door, the arcade was impartial to any of its visitors, like an open hug.

time and time again, you blew your stress off after a long day. the boxing machine was particularly satisfying in that regard. you and that machine watched the early evening resign, and the night shift taking over everyday. 

the tedium was so easily penetrated by soaking crimson, the liquid leaked vividly dripping down from the forehead. a moment was needed for you to process it. 

a dark-haired person sat languidly against an arcade machine, in a uniform you recognise. half bent-over, head tilting. the sanctity of life departing through hurried breaths. 

“h-hey,” you crouched next to him, hands outstretched but were waiting for a coherent command. “shit.” the lectures slipped by you, running past but never handing the baton. it felt useless.

suddenly, your hand was flicked away by the person. behind his fringe, it was frozen, crystallised, icicles shot past his dark strands piercing you. “don’t bother. it’s nothing.”

eyebrows furrowed. “you’re insane,” you brushed the hair out of his face, finding splotches of bruising. his lip, busted red. injuries walked all over his skin, trampling the delicate layer. his complexion ghastly pale, you weren't sure if it was his skull peeking through his skin. “i need to call you an ambulan–”

“i’m serious,” he reiterated, “i… i just need a moment, some quiet. please. i don’t want them to find…” his sentence trailed off. 

you gulped, hands trembling. “you’re sure you don’t need me to call?”

he nodded.

he reassured you, but you can’t help but feel weighed by the fact that an injured person was right next to you. you made a mental note to ensure he visits a doctor by the end of this. sighing, you slowly sat next to him.

“... i’m just stressed. tired.” his words hung heavy in the blank air.

a familiar word. a sentiment that resonated. all too familiar. 

if there was a way to cheer him up... there was only one thing you knew about feeling burdened. you point a thumb at the boxing machine. “wanna blow off some of that stress?” 

.

“do you think that the arcade by the academy is still open?”

“i hope so. i wanna know if we’re still first on all those machines. and if my bloodstain still frightens people when they walk in,” a snicker. “remember when we played ’dancing dance rev rev’ for six hours straight? those were good days.”

you and wriothesley watch the boxing machine, your joint high scores blinking on the leaderboard in excited colours. 

“do you still have those old plushies i gave you from the claw machine?” you ask.

“of course,” wriothesley searches his pockets and pulls out his keys. a miniature wolf plush keychain hangs, bobbing up and down. “like this one. named it after you, how adorable they are.” he playfully pokes "mini you", cracking a grin.

you smile at the gesture. after all these years, you never forgot each other. “hey, no bullying.” you pause. “... weren’t we supposed to be tracking a suspect? i think they have already left this arcade.”

“oh, yeah. oops.”

a pair of fraternal twins stand outside outside a small agency, reading the sign over and over: teyvat's sleuth operatives… sounds tacky and lame... they think in unison. 

it is only when you approach them, that they stop hesitating. your uniform tidy, almost mastering the archetype of a professional private investigator, smiling at your newfound clients. you are no longer the new recruit. “need our help?”

a/n: i havent played genshin seriously since inazuma so i missed out on many events ( ; ω ; ) sorry alhaitham and wrio i tried my best⭐ lemme know if my reserach sucks bc my references were ace attorney and google (ﾉД`) also i wanted to draw their uniforms but got lazy, so i drew the banner instead (･ω<)☆ anw im off to read more manhwa (great start to the year), ill be back when the motivation finally whacks me hard again. if anyone wants to request ideas, feel free! my inbox is open 24/7! happy new year!!!! 🎆🎆🎆2025 will also be the year of the snake, so shoutout to all my snakes😎

[hephaestiions]

It stands to reason that Harry’s holding groceries when he runs into Draco Malfoy for the first time in twenty years.

Well— doesn’t run into, exactly. No, more like peers through a shop window like a right barmy bastard, bits of overspilling lettuce brushing his arm and passers-by on Diagon shooting him strange looks.

Of course Malfoy has to look up from the till— because, yes, Draco Malfoy is a shopkeeper on Diagon Alley apparently— and see him goggling. So, of course, Harry has to step inside, as though he meant to make a stop at— right, yeah, Narcissus Needlework Studio— all along, holding brown paper packages of vegetables.

Malfoy’s frowning when Harry makes his way over to the till.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he says. “I’ve registered the shop, everything’s perfectly within regulation—“

“Trouble?” Harry blinks. “Oh, no. I’m not an Auror. Anymore.”

“I know that,” Malfoy says unhappily. “The whole Wizarding World all over Europe knows that. Only you’ve never left well enough alone, have you, Potter?”

Harry’s forty next month. He’s lived twenty years seeing hide nor hair of Draco Malfoy, and he’s never gone looking. Well, except for that one time when he was twenty one and went to the Manor as a trainee Auror for a— well, it was a routine check, really. And that other time when he was twenty five and thought he saw a man at a club who looked just like Malfoy from the back and was convinced for four months Malfoy was back in London and must be up to something if no one knew about it. And that time when he was thirty two— and, oh, alright, Harry hasn’t ever left well enough alone, not when it comes to Malfoy, at least.

This time, though, Harry really didn’t go looking. And it’s definitely Malfoy.

“I just wanted some— thread,” Harry says. A needlework studio should have some of that, shouldn’t it?

“Thread,” says Malfoy. He looks down, deliberately, at Harry’s lettuce.

“For Molly,” Harry says. “As a, um, birthday present. New shop on Diagon, thought I’d pop by. Seemed the place, you know. Didn’t know it was yours.”

Molly’s birthday, Malfoy doesn’t need to know, is in December. It’s June.

Malfoy continues to stare at him, until Harry’s unsure whether to get indignant about it all or turn tail and flee.

“Well,” says Malfoy before he can make a choice. “Embroidery yarn for you, then, Potter. Come along.”

-

“I’ll see you again, I assume,” Malfoy says at the end of what transpires to be a surprisingly smooth purchase.

Harry nods.

He only realises after he leaves that there’s no reason for him to come back. He’s seen it for himself— what Draco Malfoy’s up to these days. Nothing nefarious or suspicious, just yarn and needles and tapestries on Diagon.

Except, well, he’s committed now, hasn’t he? And Harry Potter’s a man of his word. He said yes, when Malfoy asked— Malfoy asked!— so he’ll be back.

And really, if he has to invent Hermione’s sudden new and passionate interest in needlework— well. That’s between Harry and his lettuce.

written for @drarrymicrofic’s prompt “sewing”. i just personally think harry james potter could be seventy five and still rapidly become obsessed with draco malfoy at any given moment.

[tohakumaru]

[project page]

>walk away, go with the nomad. i love you.

since you cannot cry, you make an effort to push the stale air out of your lungs, a poor imitation of a sigh - i guess bad habits really die hard. if the nomad has noticed, then it pays you no mind and simply carries on. casting one last lingering glance at the water and the sky above, you dutifully follow. after a short while, it becomes clear that something has changed. the nomad has picked up its pace, moving in erratic strides. here and there, you find it dashing across the sand, beak and head angled upwards, as though searching, or following an invisible thread in the air, one that you can feel, but cannot quite grasp, like a long forgotten name - always on the tip of your tongue, yet never to be spoken aloud. at times, you struggle to keep up. it's so hard, you're so tired, it's too much. your eyes burn with fatigue. you want to scream, to beg the bird-thing to slow down, but the words evade you everytime you open your mouth, and the nomad does not so much as look at you. a hot and bitter pressure builds behind your nose and muffles your ears. once again you feel yourself falling apart - but the blanket wrapped around your frame and the water sloshing in your hollow stomach seem to work against your body's trajectory to disintegrate, two forces swirling inside and all around you, like a wicked pendulum that propels you forward despite, despite.

i won't let you go, should have known that from the start.

---

tenderly her eyes made their pilgrimage across the mounds of glass and steel, mourning perhaps hunger is a cure for insanity, shut-you-up-real-nice knowing full well being alive is a horrendously beautiful thing while the dogs, blood stained snouts dig out the madness, turn it into a five course meal heaving, a still-beating heart melts like butter on their lips as poorly clipped nails fumbled and fussed,

just enough to make a day-ride.

---

in this fashion, you and the nomad dance across the white sand for some time, until a hillside comes into view. upon closer inspection, you are awed to realise it is made entirely of roots. at the foot of this strange hill, a grove - an incredible indent in that tangled mass that is the tree-hill - opens up and presents an even more curious sight: 12 creatures, each bearing the likeness of a bird, but is clearly not one. they stand stock-still and solemn, with multitudes of dried flowers and glittering gemstones at their feet. their faces, elongated and coming to pointy, beak-like ends, are not dissimilar to the nomad, but much more haggard; and so immobile, it is easy to mistake them for statues, has there not been the occassional puffs of dusty smoke and shrill noises, like a kettle boiling over, coming from their beaks and throats that betray any hints of liveliness about them.

the nomad slows its steps, and looks down. it keeps its eyes to the ground as you get nearer to the grove. it occurs to you that it is avoiding the living-statues' gaze. surprisingly, they reciprocrate the gesture. Ever so slightly each of them turn their head, so their eyes fall off the nomad, and onto … you. you, who does not belong you, who comes on a leash, believing it to be choice you, who dies, and nothing changes

to your bewilderment, the statues came to life, all at once. they grovel at the flowers and gems, and toss them in handfuls at you as the nomad leads you through the grove, leaving a trail of petals and stones. when you pass the 12th statue and come to the end of the opening, everything suddenly shifts: slowly, mechanically, the roots shape themselves into a winding stairway, leading you up the hill.

calmly, the nomad signals you to go up.

what do you do?

[previous chapter]

[darlinluxx]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : none

summary : mornings with sae

if you have any requests, feel free to message me <3

𝐓he first thing you feel is the gentle weight of an arm draped across your waist, followed by the soft tickle of dark hair against your cheek. you nuzzle deeper into the warmth, inhaling the sleepy scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Saebyeok. it’s a scent you’ve come to associate with safety, with belonging. the kind of feeling that feels like a stolen moment, a secret tucked away from the harsh realities of the world.

you open your eyes, the morning light filtering weakly through the sheer curtains of your small apartment. it’s a pale, hesitant light, much like the city slowly waking up. Saebyeok’s face is turned towards you, her eyelashes resting against her cheek like dark, delicate feathers.

you trace the line of her jaw with a fingertip. a small smile plays on her lips, a secret sign that she’s awake. her breathing deepens, a low rumble against your ear. you love mornings like this — quiet, intimate, a world of just the two of you.

“morning.” you whisper, your voice still thick with sleep.

Saebyeok’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. “morning.” she mumbles, her voice a low, husky rasp. the word is muffled against your hair, but it’s enough. it’s always enough.

she shifts, her hand moving to gently cup your cheek. her thumb brushes over your skin, sending a shiver of warmth down your spine. her eyes, usually so stoic and cold, are soft and drowsy as they finally meet yours. there’s a depth to her gaze, a love that feels both fiercely protective and tenderly vulnerable. you could get lost in their dark depths for hours.

“did you sleep okay?” you ask, your voice a soft murmur.

she nods, her eyes never leaving yours. “yeah, better than usual.” the admission is small, but the meaning behind it resonates. it’s a testament to the fragile bubble of peace you’ve built together.

you press a kiss to her palm, her hand surprisingly warm against your lips. “me too.” you whisper.

the small smile returns to her lips, a flash of warmth against the backdrop of her usually reserved expression. you know how difficult it is for her to show affection, how cold she usually is, and the way she allows herself to be soft with you fills your heart with a love that feels both profound and sacred.

a comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the city outside and the gentle rise and fall of her chest against yours. you stay intertwined, enjoying the quiet intimacy of the morning, knowing that this moment, this perfect stillness, is something worth fighting for.

after a few more stolen minutes, Saebyeok finally stirs, a deep sigh escaping her lips. she pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows furrowing slightly.

“what should we do today?” she asks, the question a silent invitation to plan a day where the outside world doesn’t matter.

you think for a moment, a multitude of possibilities swirling in your head, before settling on something simple.

“maybe… we could go to the park? or just stay here and watch movies?” you suggest, your voice hopeful.

Saebyeok considers this for a moment, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. she looks at you, a soft, almost hesitate tenderness in her eyes.

“either one is okay.” she finally says, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “as long as i’m with you.”

and in that moment, with the pale light filtering through the curtains and the warmth of Saebyeok’s presence, you know that whether the day holds, you’ll face it together. because in the end, the most important thing is the quiet, fragile peace you’ve found in each other’s arms, a love that feels both a refuge and a promise. you reach out, threading your fingers through her hair, and lean in for a kiss, a promise sealed in the soft morning light.

[doveywovy]

do you have tobiizu recs? i feel as though i’ve read them all 😔

i've been slowly working on a tobiizu rec list and its not done yet tbh. here's what it is so far!

Fanfics that are explicitly tobiizu:

Ghost marriage is a collection of multiple fics where tobirama gets haunted by izuna, gets driven a little bit crazy, and then talked into marrying him. And goes on to a life of wedded bliss that’s only mostly insane. Madara is there and also crazy. Izuna is having the time of his (un)life. Really delightful read with a surprisingly happy ending. The whole relationship has a haunting vibe to it that’s really enjoyable to read.

bloodline thieves is not tobiizu in the first part, but it does become tobiizu eventually. personally the vibe is there from the start to me and it's a fun read on its own. you get tobirama whump AND izuna feeling weird about him!

To dwell inside a hearthfire heart: blessed au! Worldbuilding! Izuna’s life getting saved twiceover! Izuna being a smug little rat! Tobirama and the “if peace is possible,i’m allowed to find izuna extremely sexy” pipeline! Such a good read.

Unthreading the needle is a slow burn on tobirama and izuna realizing they view each other as ‘people’ and perhaps….people they….like? Delightfully, the slowburn starts with their marriage (When they’re both convinced the other one is a monster) and they take a good long while the get anywhere from there. Izuna is deeply possessive without noticing it; tobirama has many deeprooted biases that she rationalizes as logical. My favorite plot thread within it is that izuna is, to some extent, a service top, and he spends the first 3/4th of the fic being denied the ability to service.

Death do us part: matrimony! Murder attempts! Matriomony-vibes for the murder attempts! Murderous vibes for the matrimony! Divorce is OFF the table! Izuna and the consequences of his own actions! 

A soft green glow: tobirama saves izuna’s life, and they are both so bitchy about it the entire time. This is a compliment. Izuna’s perspective while dying is so funny & tobiramas put-upon annoyance just adds to the fun. Love that tobirama never underestimates izuna throughout. Love when tobirama starts dragging izuna’s body, unwillingly to risk any of the more romantic ways to carry him.

Don’t give up the ghost allows for izuna and tobirama to slowly come around to the idea of eachother, ending up somewhere close to “old married couple”. Izuna is, of course, dead the entire time.

Footprints in the snow: the author is kind enough to skip the slowburn setup and give us the “Finally they get together” stage. Tobiizu had an arranged marriage, both fell in love, and took far too long to realize it was mutual. 

Gift horse: Tobirama saves izuna’s life in a moment of strategic diplomacy. Izuna cannot help but be a little bit wooed. Favorite line: tobirama would be the wife.

Can’t seem to shut my eyes: a collection of short light-hearted tobiizu fics, all of which are a fun time.my favorite is kagami’s fan :) 

there are also, of course, all my of my tobiizu fanfics (shameless plug) that if you leave nice comments on perhaps i will feel inspired to work on new ones. Perhaps if you leave nice comments on all of these tobiizu fics i’m linking more authors will feel compelled to write more. 

My fics: knifepoint , trouble brewing, powerplay, will you come into my parlor

gen fanfics that are not tobiizu but you can very easily imagine become tobiizu (or at the very least do not outright reject the possibility):

eyestealer is a delightful romp mostly about hashirama & tobiramas brotherly relationship, but it absolutely includes lots of opening for tobiizu and the author tagged it as open to a tobiizu interpretation. my favorite bit is the exchange izuna and madara have by the river, in which the audience knows what they do not- and what an eavesdropping hashirama fails to piece together.

Hide & seek: We don’t get izuna’s perspective directly, but a blessed au is always ripe for imagining and the worldbuilding on this one is SO fun. The implications that izuna is religiously-minded and struggling with the situation immensely really adds to the potential.

--------

i'll add a disclaimer that i don't have access to most of the chinese & japanese tobiizu fan creations bc they're primarily on twitter, which i do not have and refuse to get. if you do have twitter you can probably find a lot of cool tobiizu there and i will be very jealous of you (Except for the fact that you are suffering the existence of twitter to see it).

pixiv has lots of amazing art, and you can mostly understand what's happening in the comics even if you can't understand the language. i love this comic were birdboy izuna breaks tobiramas wing and then takes care of him. artists on the platform tend to do "dump posts" so you'll have to scroll past other ships/general fanart to get to the izutobi stuff, but it's worth it! that's how you get great stuff like this izuna upskirt photographing tobirama. and remember on pixiv that the name order is important! tobi/izu is top tobirama and izu/tobi is top izuna on there :)

you should also check out (and comment on!) all the comics slurmdog's made, especially since we have another longer project in the works :) library comic, bravest knight, multi-part comic "Cheaters never prosper"