#(drabble)

[kiplex]

You really do think Caleb was a dog in his past life.

Here you are, on your bed dying from the most excruciating period cramps you think you've ever had in your entire life and Caleb has his head on your uterus.

It's honestly your fault for saying the hot water bottle wasn't hot enough, and… probably yelling at him too in the process. He panicked, you could see the gears turn in his head before he made you lay down on the bed and then planted his head on your stomach. “There!” He said triumphantly, if he had a tail you're sure he'd be wagging it, he looks so stupidly proud of himself as he nuzzles into lower abdomen. “You always say ‘I'm so insufferably hot’ when we cuddle at night, so I'm your hot water bottle now.”

You sigh and Caleb's head rises and falls with your breath, you can't be mad at him, not when he's giving you those big puppy dog eyes. “If it gets uncomfortable, I'm banishing you to the couch." You mumble, relenting finally. Caleb's eyes light up and he nods into your stomach. "I'll be gentle, I promise.” Your hand runs through his hair as he places a kiss on your tummy letting out a boyish giggle. He's far too pleased with himself. You can practically hear his phantom tail smacking against the bed from how happy he was to be helping, and being this close to you.

...

Yeah you're sure Caleb was a dog in a past life.

[crispy-bonnie]

thinking about date everything characters (a harem maybe?) with a lover who's paranoid at night.

open curtains, unlocked doors, the general looming fear that someone might be watching, that type of thing. not bad security, just anxiety.

daisuke would help to double check that all the windows and the doors are locked, having a checklist at the ready just for them.

dorian and wyndolyn not only affirm they are locked, but make sure they are shut and locked tight. if it means bringing a bit more security to the house, then both are more than willing.

curt & rod make sure that all the curtains are closed and that nobody can peek inside without meeting the guarded gazes of curt & rod.

chance helps to distract from the fear by running through some adventures, mateo ensuring max comfort whilst chance is narrative his stories.

after being tuckered out, betty and mateo ensure warmth and comfort whilst being tucked into bed. lyric may pop by to read a couple stories in order to ease nerves.

[cisse-writes]

our lord and saviors @indiewritesxoxo, @yenayaps, and @madamechrissy gifted us with animal!sukuna and objectification!sukuna (no one but me is calling it that, i just thought it was funny) which i have been obsessed with (it gives me soo much serotonin) and i’ve been inspired by them to write my own EXCEPT I NEED TO FINISH MY BACKROOMS PORNO FIRST soooo…

heres a little headcanon as i think about it:

painting!sukuna who you bought at an estate auction. a slightly grotesque portraiture of eyeballs you are sure is just a customized halloween decoration from joanns r.i.p.

painting!sukuna who feels right at home on your wall next to other morbid decorations. the gothic decor really reminded him of the good times in his shrine. he especially like the snake skeleton.

painting!sukuna who watches you never come home with anyone, watching sad television and reading the raunchiest books, but you seem happy. the little vibrator you call “toji” makes you very happy.

painting!sukuna who falls off the wall for no goddamn reason all the time. (there is a reason and that is that its time for his show on tv but you haven’t turned it on)

painting!sukuna who one day throws himself too hard, breaking the seal that kept him locked away

painting!sukuna who looks for the goddamn remote when it comes time for his show but can’t find the remote and for once in your life, your not locked away in your room.

painting!sukuna who tears your place apart looking for the remote only to miss his show. and now he’s pissed.

and you come home from a crazy long shift to find your house destroyed, a hulking naked 6’5 man with a huge cock on your couch, and your… panty drawer strangely empty.

oh, you’re in trouble.

[fawncrw]

Bombshell #1: So you know anything about cars, sweet-cheeks?

Cas: Erm, no. I do not.

Bombshell #2: Oh me either, honey. We just come here to gossip and support our men.

Bombshell #3 (gesturing towards Dean with a wink): That’s why you’re here too right? To support your man?

Cas: I… always do my best to support Dean’s endeavors.

Bombshell #1: Well aren’t you just the sweetest thing?

And with that a beautiful friendship is born that ends up with Cas solving the case and protecting his new group of friends.

Criminal that we didn't have a Supernatural vintage car show episode, come on now

Dean can infiltrate no problem bc he genuinely knows everything about cars and gets super into discussing fixes, gets wildly side-tracked, while Sam goes off to interrogate a bunch of car-enthusiast hot milfs

Dean is glued at the hip to Cas and Cas always stands awkwardly at the Impala, doesn't know anything about cars, so everyone just assumes Cas is the boyfriend who showed up for support? And the hot young ladies in shorts and boots befriend him bc he's apparently one of the hot girlfriends? And so he gets insight into their lives and solves the case, leading them final-girl style through the monster showdown in a garage full of heavy machinery and angry ghosts

Dean watches him emerge from the garage, shotgun in hand, shirt torn and covered in grease, and he bluescreens so hard he just runs past the flock of bombshells in shorts and tank tops (also covered in grease) to clutch Cas to check him for injuries

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[dykeriver]

thinking about ellie coming across an old adult store as she hikes just outside an abandoned quarantine zone. curiosity wins, because of course it does, and she needs to look. just a peep, only for a moment. but a peep turns into scavenging, and scavenging soon turns into successfully finding a little sealed package in a box in the back of the store.

she knows what it is, she’s a grown woman, but obviously there’s never really been the time or place during her adult life to have been able to explore that particular aspect of herself so… intensely. ellie stares at the box for a second before deciding, fuck it. she rips off the top of the package and flips it upside down, shaking it. the… toy falls onto the table in front of her followed by a little instruction manual. she knows what to do in theory but she grabs at the instructions anyway, bending them a bit as she skims quickly. shut it — she’s just a bit eager, okay?

so she… and then she… nice. and she’s lucky, because this one doesn’t call for batteries. ellie just hopes that the power will have held up for all these years.

she secures the store and makes herself comfortable relatively fast, throwing one of her extra flannels onto the ground before pulling her jeans to her ankles and taking a seat on top of her shirt. she’s a little intimidated, so she doesn’t strip out of her boxers. ellie holds the button in for about five seconds before it vibrates to life, a gentle thrum sounding alongside her breathing in the otherwise empty store.

she just stares at it for a moment before braving the whole… opening her legs thing. don’t get ellie wrong — she’s touched herself before. hell, she’s even had sex a few times. but a vibrator is a whole new ball field. it thrums against her hand and it actually tickles a little bit. the lithe muscles of ellie’s thigh flex as she opens her legs, and she takes a deep, soothing breath. finally she brings down her hand, and…

what. the. fuck.

the vibrator buzzes against her clit gently and she gasps, the feeling immediately too much. ellie almost pulls it away, not knowing if she wants to press into or away from it. she rests her back against the floor, because she needs to fucking lay down for this shit. “hhh…” she breathes quietly.

ellie accidentally hits the button again, and she fucking gasps. the toy is humming louder, vibrating harder. “ha-” she moans before she can shut herself up. she knows she must be making an absolute mess of her boxers, can feel herself soaking right through the thin material. it feels fucking good, so incredibly overwhelming that her free hand keeps clenching uselessly against the ground. ellie brings it to the flannel underneath her, needing something to latch onto for support.

and oh, how ellie feels is unlike anything she’s ever felt before. a fire grows low in her belly, intense, building heat rapidly. the heat spreads all throughout her body and her toes curl in her sneakers. she chokes over a half held back whine. the feeling burns and burns until ellie thinks she’s going to fucking melt.

when she cums, she throws her hand over her mouth, sobbing into it. her orgasm is more intense than she ever could have expected; she feels it in her fingers, in her legs. in her fucking bones, man. she’s trembling everywhere, shaking like a leaf as it’s swept through the wind. ellie’s head knocks against the ground in overexertion, she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it up.

when she comes down from that high, ellie just kind of… lays there a second. because, yanno. best orgasm of her life just achieved. she inhales deeply and then blows out a gust of air, chest deflating. eventually she’s got to get back on her feet, pulling her jeans back up and picking the flannel off of the floor before chugging some much needed water.

and ellie thinks she does a pretty good job at ignoring the weird, hollow, lonely feeling that grips her chest as she leaves the store: hiking into the unknown. alone.

[cod-dump]

Had a thought last night as I attempted to sleep of an actor au.

BUT

Ghost's actor is actually Scottish. And Soap's isn't. So in the middle of takes Ghost will correct Soap's pronunciation and it drives Soap crazy because "I know what I'm fucking doing" so they're bickering a lot. Soap has a coach but he's still pissed he's not getting things right after the first time

Also Price's actor is very giggly and it doesn't take much to get him laughing, so him playing a very serious character is difficult but when he's in the zone it's GOOD. He mainly was a music guy who did skits here and there for his fans but he got caught up in a long going webseries that got him where he is now (he's so confused but he's happy to be here) because everyone knew he would bring in a particular large audience in

And Gaz's actor is really excited because this is his first big thing and he's excited to work alongside Ghost (cuz in this au his actor is the biggest name, Soap being the runner up which gives them this rivalry). He was mainly a kid actor in a long going sitcom and this is his big break (he and Price get along too well). And Soap is just kinda dickish to everyone (full on dick to Ghost) and Gaz just thinks "Oh I'm getting THE FULL EXPERIENCE" and is having a damn good time (thanks to Price for keeping things fun and to Ghost because he's really laid back)

[totallynotashieldagent]

what if... what if jason goes to help zatana with something and is hit with a spell where he's a kid again. scared, alone, confused but he knows you're safe and that's it. he doesn't know you, he doesn't know bruce or anyone in the manor but still, the giant man who was your boyfriend is now a child and hugging at your leg because bruce is too tall and that's scary-

he keeps asking for his mom and saying he's worried because 5 year old jason knows sometimes his mom goes to sleep for very long and sometimes he has to clean her up.

he's happy his dad isn't around though but he's also confused why he doesn't have any booboos.

he's got all the manners a good kid does. alfred keeps wiping his tears as jason says please and thank you and feels shy about asking for seconds.

damian is having a crisis because jason was his big brother when he was with the league. he was the ruthless man who killed without a thought and now he's a small defenceless child. so he opts to be his guardian. little 14 year old damian is ready to throw hands or stab anyone who looks at baby jason wrong.

bruce is sobbing because that's his baby. that's the age he never saw jason in and somehow he's even smaller than anyone ever imagined.

dick wants to hold him for as long as possible until he squirms and leaves his arm

jason isn't a fan of tim though. somethign about smelling yuckie. it's just coffee but it hurts tim much more than he thought it could. he stops drinking until jason sits with him for at least one afternoon.

his own current clothes are humongus on him but he sticks to your leg so you take him home with you. he still likes his side of bed though. you give him milk and read him a story and everyone else goes to get dr fate or constantine to fix this-

the spell is ready but bruce just wants one selfish thing. he hugs jason as tightly as possible. kisses all over his small face and tells him a thousand times that he loves him and that he's sorry for the life he has ahead-

everyone figures that jason wont remember anything when he's turned back to normal and jason pretends so as well.

but he's glad that everyone in his life loves him as much as humanly possible and that he doesn't have to doubt him.

and maybe- just maybe- he may have whispered an i love you back to bruce too

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 18

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Steve doesn’t stop. Your head lolls and your hands explore his chest. You moan like a wild animal as he pumps into you. Beneath the pleasure, there’s a dull pain. You’re going to feel this for a while. 

You arch your back, pushing your heels into the floor as you latch onto his head. His hair falls forward and tickles your face as he bows to nibble your neck. He grunts and groans, biting until you squeal. 

He slips his hand beneath your back and drags it down. He scoops your ass off the floor and sinks deeper into you. You gasp. How much further can he go? 

You dig your nails into his scalp. He pinches your skin between his teeth. You puff shallowly as you push your chest up and yank at his thick hair. He sucks on your flesh until it throbs, his fingers curling under the curve of your ass. 

You slap your other hand down on the floor and drone. His thrusts are long but deliberate. He breath dampens the fabric of your dress. You writhe and push your fingertips into the floor. 

He reaches over blindly, not breaking his pace, and grabs your hand. He guides it behind him and down to his ass. Your fingers brush against his pants as his rhythm picks up. His skin is warm against your palm. The heat between you swirls through your veins and prickles up your back. 

His pelvis rubs against yours. The friction burns. You mewl and squirm as you feel bubbling just beneath the surface. 

“St-Steve--” 

He fucks you harder as you babble his name. You squeal and thrash your legs. Your toes curl and your calves strain. Oh... it’s happening again. 

You cum with a fluttery moan. You spasm and shake around him but he doesn’t relent. His incessant invasion has you weak and willow. 

He growls against the crook of your shoulder and brings his arm higher, hooking it under you. He lifts you as he raises himself to his knees. He moves you in his lap, pushing his hand in front of you to toy with your clit. You whine again. 

You hand your head back as his lips once more dance over your neck. He bounces you on him, his fingertip flicking until you’re a quivering mess. Your delight smears across his pelvis and stains the open front of his pants. 

Your eyes feel loose and your brain is speckly. You blink and heave, your chest is heavy. Oh, oh, no. As another orgasm swells in you, so does a wave of dizziness. Your body slackens at once and you hang limply in Steve’s embrace as your eyelids droop. 

You wake as if you’ve only blinked. The only things that changes is your position. You’re back on the floor. Steve’s hands are on your thighs as your legs extend up his torso. The loose tails of his shirt flap with his frantic tempo. He kneads your flesh and snarls. 

You brace the floor as his pelvis claps against your ass. He bites his lip and his eyes meet yours. He smirks and rams into you harder. 

“You’re back, sweetheart,” he rasps. 

You murmur dumbly as you tongue sticks. You lift your head, pushing yourself up on your elbows, and look down at yourself. You feel him stretching you. It’s even more intense as you watch his veiny length dip in and out. You squeak. 

“Oh, Ste--” 

The world flickers again. As you wade up from another fog, he looms over you, bending your legs to their limit as he cradles your head in his hands. He rocks into you, brushing his nose against yours as he laughs. 

“Alright, baby, I’ll let you rest...” he purrs through scratchy breaths. “Almost... almost...” he puffs and rests his forehead against yours. 

He ruts into you, slamming down so hard your ass bounces against the floor. He stretches his thumb to the corner of your mouth and shoves it inside. You bite down as his strength reverberates through your bones. 

“God--damn!” He rams into you several times before slowing. The gush squelches around him as his hips roll. He lets your legs splay around him and falls limp onto you. “You still awake?” 

“Barely,” you answer. 

He chuckles and pets your cheek. He pushes into you until you wince. You clasp onto his thick arm and he rumbles. 

“Think we understand each other now, huh?” 

You nod. You can’t speak. You understand exactly what he wants now but you’re not too sure about giving it to him. 

🌼

“Ow, ow, ow,” you waddle with your thighs apart across the bedroom. 

You woke up disoriented. Again. You’re not sure if it’s whatever’s been going on with you or that glimmer of disbelief that lingers, but you just can’t remember how you got back there. All you know, is that you have to pee. Now. 

You get to the bathroom door, cupping your cunt, skirt pushed up, and wiggle the handle. It’s locked. You don’t think, you just hammer on the wood. 

“Please, open up! I gotta--” 

The door opens from the other side. Oh shoot! This has to be a nightmare! And you really have to pee. You can’t go in bed. You have to wake up. Wake up and you can go. Wake up and there won’t be a stranger staring back at you. 

“Ahh! Who are you?” You exclaim and back up, wobbly on your feet. Wake up, wake up, wake up. 

The man tilts his head and snorts. You stare at him and slowly your mouth falls open. Staunch jaw, clean shave, freshly trimmed hair... how can it be him? 

“Steve?” You gasp. 

He laughs. “Really?” 

“I...” his voice is jarring coming out of that face. He doesn’t look that different but different enough. No beard, short hair. It’s just not right. 

“Oh, I feel weird,” you say. 

“Don’t pass out,” he warns. 

You pout. “Steve, I... I need to go.” 

“It’s a bit late--”  

“No, I mean I need to use the—the bathroom.” 

“Oh,” he steps out, his arms and chest flexing beneath his white tank top, “all yours, sweetheart.” 

“Uh, sure,” you hobble forward, hissing as your thighs brush together. 

“Figure this’ll take care of the rug burn,” he drawls. You stop short in the doorway and look back. He rubs his bare cheeks and winks. “You keep walking around like that, and people might think I’m knocking you around.” 

You frown and quickly turn away. Your cheeks are on fire but more importantly, your bladder is going to burst. You swing the door shut and race forward. You can figure out what the heck you’re going to do once you can think straight. 

[notrustfratedjin]

UUUUGGGGHHHH I NEED ONE OF THESE RIGHT NOW 😭

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ keep it on the low !!

ᝰ.ᐟ if there's one thing every celebrity needs to master, it's the art of the soft launch. building up the anticipation by teasing your fans, leaving little easter eggs that only the two of you could possibly pick up on, playing coy whenever questioned about your relationship status... looks like you and him could write the how-to guide on this art form. alternatively: a headcanon post on how the two of you soft launch your relationship. ( sfw + fem!reader )

features osamu miya, kiyoomi sakusa, wakatoshi ushijima, tobio kageyama, tooru oikawa author's notes blue lock version!

౨ৎ OSAMU MIYA. you are: a famous influencer notorious for being bad at cooking. you could burn water at this point. it's okay, though, because at least your makeup tutorials and your day-in-the-life vlogs are always entertaining and fun. you always joke that you feel bad for your future husband, convinced that a life of takeout and restaurants is the only sustenance your future family is going to know. you posted: a tiktok of a man cooking in a kitchen that isn't the familiar one your fans have seen from your vlogs. he's wearing a black apron, a black t-shirt that hugs his biceps, and the veins in his forearms pop out as he quickly dices the vegetables on the cutting board. you don't show his face, but you do caption the video when he tells me it's okay i can't cook <3. suspiciously enough, the owner of onigiri miya has his own tiktok page where he posts cooking videos, and his kitchen looks exactly like the one you're recording in. matter of fact... osamu miya always wears that plain apron, too...

"thank you for the meal!" your feet don't hit the ground when you're sitting on this stool, and you're literally kicking your feet as you stare down gleefully at the plate of food he's prepared for you. the meal is great, and for dessert, you decide to read the flood of comments tagging miyaosamuofficial on your latest video. you won't confirm or deny, but when osamu convinces you to stay the night, you know that you'll be more than happy to share a when he cooks you breakfast <3 video next.

౨ৎ KIYOOMI SAKUSA. you are: a cheeky pop princess. with your promiscuous persona, your flirty songs laced with sexual jokes, and your minidresses that you flounce around in while on stage, you're the girlie that has parents gasping when they take their daughters to one of your shows. while there's been speculation that you're already in a relationship, since clearly there has to be someone inspiring all these ovulation songs, you've never confirmed anything. you performed: a special dance routine at your latest concert. while you normally wear extremely bright colored bodysuits or pastel babydolls, tonight you're dressed in a sparkly black and gold getup. all your male dancers are wearing fitted black shirts with three golden scratches down the back, and you make a show of grinding against one of the dancers, running your nails against his back. you're staring into the crowd, smiling cheekily. that same night, grainy footage is captured of kiyoomi sakusa standing in the crowd, watching the whole show. the mask he's wearing covers his facial expression, but he barely blinks throughout the entire show, as if he doesn't want to miss anything.

"and there's a special guest here tonight." your chest is rising and falling from how out of breath you are after an hour and a half of nonstop singing and dancing. this is your ending speech for the concert, and the crowd is going insane. "i really hope he enjoyed tonight's show as much as i know all of you did. the love songs... they all are about him." the screams from your fans are deafening, and kiyoomi's glad that his mask covers the blush that creeps on his face as he hears your confession.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA. you are: literally ushijima's wife. you're a fairly private person to begin with, and it's not like you two have been married for long. you've been engaged for nearly a year, and you do attend most of his games, but ushijima specifically requests that the suite you watch him from doesn't get filmed. he wants to protect your privacy as much as possible, until you're okay with being shown to the public. he posted: a picture of you smiling on christmas day as you open up a gift from your husband. the boulder on your finger can be seen from a mile away, and as dorky as ever, ushi captions the photo with a happy wife happy life 👍🏻

"what does this mean?" ushijima shows you his phone screen, and you squint at it before laughing. one of the tweets tagging ushi reads leave it to ushijimawakatoshi to fucking hard launch his wife one random xmas morning. "it means you posted about our relationship out of the blue. usually people soft launch before they confirm anything." "soft launch?" his eyebrows furrow adorably as he tries to piece together what you just told him. "like, if you were to soft launch us, you would post a picture that maybe doesn't show my face but people might infer that you're in a relationship based off the photo you took." "that's dumb." he says, in his familiar ushijima cadence that had you falling for him. "i'd never take a photo of you without showing your face. why would i want to hide you?"

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA. you are: japan's favorite nepo-baby model. with a face card like yours (and connections from your parents), it's no wonder why you're gracing every billboard in the city, and you're the spokesperson of a premier skincare brand. your fame gets you international publicity, and you're selected for the latest skims campaign. with an entire country in love with you, it might be a hard pill to swallow for your intense fanboys when they find out you're in love with japan's best setter. he posted: so many reposts of your campaigns. tobio still wants to support you, even if he knows that you two can't go public with your relationship just yet. he's actually branded (and sometimes mocked) as one of your biggest fanboys, and it doesn't help that during your skims campaign, he reposted every single ad featuring you.

"tobio, baby, you're so sweet, but you don't have to repost every ad." you tell your boyfriend, watching as clicks repost to yet another one of your photoshoots. "but i want to." he says. you kiss his cheek happily. "and that's exactly why i stayed back and did some extra photos on the skims set, just for you. these are pictures you might not want to repost, though." tobio isn't sure whether his eyes should stay glued to the personal photoshoot you did just for him, or to the real life you who's ready to show him what the set looks like in person.

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA. you are: currently visiting your beloved boyfriend in argentina. people know that you two are together, even though neither of you have confirmed it explicitly. it's pretty obvious, though, considering you're constantly seen with him, and he talks about how lucky he is that his girl is his number one supporter. someone posted: a viral video of a toned man wearing aqua blue swim shorts taking pictures of a beautiful girl laying down on a beach towel. not only are the two of you so hot that you look fresh out of a perfume ad, but to have a boyfriend so devoted to getting your best angles? iconic, truly. fans don't even realize that it's you and oikawa until someone points it out.

"tooru, are you taking multiple photos or just one?" you try not to move your lips too much when you speak, uncertain of when he's going to snap a pic. "you trained me well." tooru whines. "obviously, i'm taking several at once." "and make sure the lighting is good!" you remind him. "it doesn't matter how i take the photos, baby. you're still going to look good in them, regardless." "aw... are you sweet talking me because some of the pictures are blurry?" when your boyfriend starts showering you with more compliments, you know the pics are definitely not going to be instagram-worthy. he's lucky he's so cute.

[crispy-bonnie]

picture this; you're scrolling through your phone and stumble upon kintsugi, a japanese method of repairing broken pottery with gold. you decide 'fuck it, i've got spare time and money' so you get the stuff you need for it.

you have everything, all you need is a dish.

so you go to your kitchen, where daisuke is going through inventory as per usual. you grab a pretty plain looking plate, and at first daisuke thinks you're about to eat, but you suddenly smash the dish against the ground.

he's fucking mortified, infuriated, ready to strangle you, but you're quick to grab the shattered pieces and run off to lock yourself in your office.

at first, he refuses to talk to you. daisuke has spent practically his entire life guarding those dishes; of course he's going to be mad! and the fact that you ran off with the pieces doing god knows what? it has his blood boiling.

though, as a couple days go by, he hears from lyric about a project you've been working on. usually, he'd be mad, but he can't help but feel a little concerned when he hears that you've barely left your room. of course, he's still angry at you.

a while passes, and once more, he's going through inventory. you're in the dining room, sipping on coffee and trying not to pass out (with abel keeping you from faceplanting directly into the table).

daisuke takes notice of a rather familiar plate. it's the same one you shattered, but it's put back together, its cracks line with shimmering gold. a note is plastered onto it, saying 'sorry' with a little heart next to it. at this point, he might just cry.

as you get up after finishing your coffee, daisuke calls you over. as soon as you're within reach, he pulls you close, letting out a soft sigh. it's been a while since he held you like this. he missed it, honestly.

"at least ask me next time you want to try a new art form with the dishes..."

---

I KNOW I KNOW THIS WAS POORLY WRITTEN BUT IT CAME TO ME SUDDENLY AND I JUST HAD TOOOOOO

kintsugi also takes like, 2 to 3 months according to google, so if anyone wants to make a little more detailed ver., just keep that in mind.

[kumasakka]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ TRICK OR TREAT !

ft. bunny iglesias , crack , 0.35k wc , idea ; tiktok.

　DING - DONG !

One thing Bunny Iglesias hopes for, is that the media didn't find out where he lives. He also hopes that there will be no paparazzi standing in front of his doorsteps like a predator, waiting for their prey to come out.

Yet Bunny is aware of how crazy the internet can be and leaking his address and personal information is one (common) thing. Yeah but he still hopes no one will disturb him today.

After all it's halloween — the day or rather night where people dress up as something terrifying or ugly to scare off others. Oh well, it's still day though so he doubts anyone is asking for candies.

Hesitantly, he reached out for the door handle before he grasped it fully. Slowly but surely opened the door, revealing someone very familiar.

"[na—"

"Trick or treat!" you interrupted him with a kind smile, a big bucket in your hands (which was already filled to the brim).

"Why are you dressed like that?" he blinked slowly, unimpressed eyes glancing over your outfit.

"Because it's my costume?" you tsked smugly and began to smirk proudly, flashing your amazing cosplay of him with a hairwig that doesn't even fit your head, "all you gotta do is go to the costume store and say »make me look stupid«!"

The wig almost fell off.

"I—"

Suddenly the smirk disappeared from your face as you put on a sweet, fake smile and also raised your hand to show him a rock-and-roll hand sign. But it should actually look like a bunny.

"Don't stand like that." he deadpanned.

"But that's how you stood!" you broke character for a second to argue before going back to your Bunny-pose.

"That's not how I stand." he grimaced.

"That's exactly how you—"

　THUD !

"Oh this hoe..." you whispered under your breath as you let out a breathless chuckle after he slammed the door shut.

You rolled your eyes — you were petty. That's why you decided to dump all the candies across the ground and spread it everywhere. "That's what you get haha." you laughed evilly.

"...GONNA CALL SAE NOW TO SHOW OFF MY AMAZING HALLOWEEN COSTUME.”

© 2025 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work !

© dollywons for the first divider !

[kuronarnze]

Rin with a compression shirt... 🤤

a/n: let me guess this is Sumire who requested this.. but OHMYGOSH yes I needed to make a drabble (?) of this 😈😈, I think I've ever seen someone writing about Rin with a compression shirt, so go check out their's too ! (I FORGOT WHO THOO, but it was soo delicious 😋😋)

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

thinking of... Itoshi Rin wearing a compression shirt !

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

It was late in the afternoon—The training ground dimmed with the fading sun. The rest of the team had already filed out, exhausted, chattering about tomorrow’s drills.

But Rin remained, as usual.

He finally jogged toward the benches, tugging his jersey over his head in one swift motion. It left him in a tight black compression shirt that clung perfectly to his frame — lean yet built from relentless hours of training. His toned arms flexed naturally as he ran a hand through his damp, dark green hair, pushing the messy strands out of his sharp eyes.

Sweat still glistened lightly along the curve of his neck, the fabric of the shirt sticking slightly to the defined lines of his back and chest. His breaths were controlled but heavy, the slight rise and fall of his chest hypnotic.

You happened to walk in at that very moment—eyes instantly locking on him.

Rin noticed you... and didn’t say a word. Just tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp but unreadable, while grabbing his water bottle for a long sip. The veins along his forearm stood out, catching your eye even more.

“...You’re staring,” he finally murmured, voice low, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips when he saw your flustered reaction.

"Not my fault you showed up looking like that," you shot back, trying to act unaffected — but failing miserably when his eyes gleamed in amusement.

He stepped closer, towering just a little, the heat from his skin radiating through the already thin compression fabric.

“You better stop looking, or I might think you’re into this,” Rin said, cool and teasing — though the faint pink dusting his ears betrayed him.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

tysm for readingg !! I hope you guys have a nice day 🫶💗

[chleem]

rafe having trouble unhooking ur bra...

"mmh," he whimpers against your lips, tongues crashing into each other. you pull away for a millisecond, taking your shirt off, leaving your bra on display for him. he lets out a breathless laugh at ur tits; probably in over his head at how he's finally going to have his hands all over them.

and yes, he's been dreaming of this moment for a long time.

"wipe that off your face," you whisper, throwing your arms over his shoulders, pulling his weight further down on you. you're referring to both the saliva that trails from the corner of his mouth, and that dumb smile of his.

his blue eyes flicker from your tits to your lips, closing the distance again.

noses clashing, his tongue thrusts into yours as your back hits the couch cushions; his hands roaming around the sides of your waist.

where he touches burns; adding to that lust pooling in you.

rafe whimpers again; and you giggle, encouraged by his breathy vocals to continue what you're doing, mixing saliva and exploring his mouth.

his hands move upward, and you buckle your hips up.

his hard-on pokes against your stomach.

rafe fumbles with the back of your bra, fingers slipping over the hook.

you wait for the tension around your chest to ease, your mouth moving slower in anticipation.

...but it never comes.

and you could tell by the way rafe has stopped kissing you, merely his lips touching yours, that he too, is struggling with something.

you pat against his shoulders; a signal for him to stop. but his fingers stay there, determined to get this bra off of you.

"rafe," you call against his lips, eyebrows furrowing at how much he's struggling with your bra.

"fuck," he curses, tugging on your bra hook. and the force actually makes you wince a little, and you take matters in your own hands.

you sit up, forcing rafe to back up a bit. "rafe," you laugh under your breath, "i’ll do it."

his expression is one that has lost all patience; hunger looming in his eyes and lips plump from all the kissing. red stains his cheeks from either the room temperature or the mere embarrassment of losing to a bra hook.

you pull his hand off of you; but he rejects it.

he peers over your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, the familiar contact of his fingertips playing with the clasp of your bra.

"somethin's wrong with your bra..." he murmurs.

you bite on your lip to suppress the giggle that threatens to release itself; because he's somehow so cute and amusing in this moment, that you just want to hug him closely in some way.

"get me a new one then," you reply, as his other hand wraps around you, now multiple fingers grazing your spine.

he needs two hands to do the job.

"just don't wear one," you could hear the frustration in his voice.

finally, it comes off.

the straps slip off your shoulders, and you're being pushed back onto the couch again.

you laugh, at both the way he's so eager to fuck you out and his response; which is just very rafe of him.

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

thought of this while unhooking my own bra on a friday night.... so excuse how lazy it is

elevator

[k4tsuki4th3win]

just thinking of volt holding you and cooing in your ear how well you’re doing with your head in his lap as eddie eats you out bringing you to your second orgasm of the night