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luffysscraps · 11 months ago

Text

How they eat~

Drabble;🔞;Fem reader;Ft;Luffy;Zoro;Sanji;Ace;Sabo;Law;Kid

Luffy devours you~

-“Shi shi shi~ come’re~”

Gruff hands grab at your thighs and pull you down causing your legs to dangle off the bed. In no time his head is deep in between your legs. He looks up at you and gives you a cute, angelic smile before his slimy tongue slips out of his mouth. In an instant his mouth is against your folds, nose deep on the ridge of your clit while his tongue plunges deep into your gummy walls. His hunger is ravenous. He inhales through his nose while his mouth is busy, not once lifting his head to take away take from his meal. Lots of slurping, sucking, and gulping when he’s eating out your pussy. His arms squeeze around your torso tightly, not allowing you to move an inch. “Stoppp squirming~ ‘m hungryyy~” He came to eat and that’s exactly what he’s gonna do. He’s not letting you go until you cum at least three times on his tongue. Even then his hunger knows no bound, he’ll go until he’s locked jaw and his boxers are soiled with his own cum.

You just taste so good. He can’t get enough~

Zoro’s a fucking tease~

-“Feel good don’t it~? Sounds like it does~”

Zoro speaks in between long, wet, licks. His meaty tongue sinks in between your folds ever so slightly and starts out quick, but once he comes up to your clit he takes his time. Painstakingly so. Short and spaced out licks land on your bundle of nerves and then when you least expect it he’ll dive straight in and start sucking on it intensely. His large hands hold your thighs in place so you can’t squirm away while you lull out in pleasure. He moves away from your clit and extends his tongue as far as he can into your pussy, it swirls around collecting and sucking up your juices. You’re almost to your limit and Zoro knows it. So he pulls away, a trail of your juice and his saliva connecting his tongue to your pussy “Hmm tasty~” He’ll chuckle and look at you with an all knowing smirk. “What… where you about to cum..? Hmm I’ll just have to go back in for seconds then~”

He loves to edge you with just his tongue~

Sanji savors his meal~

-“Thank you for the meal, Mon amour~”

Soft, slow, and gentle kitten licks and kisses trail gently down your stomach until they reach your soaking core. He inhales your scent, softly groaning at the delicacy as his thumbs gently pull apart your folds. His tongue laps at your juices softly, taking in the wetness on his taste buds and imprinting your taste into his mind. He loves it. It’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted and he’s infatuated with your cunt juice. But he’s not a glutton; he takes his time eating you out. Small licks, gentle sucks on your clit, and takes in mouthful after mouthful of your pussy slowly. If you end up cumming he takes his time using his tongue to clean you up and drink up his reward.

You’re just so divine, he has to savor you~

Ace gets pussy drunk~

-“Hmm~ I need ya sugar~ com’ere”

Ace often wakes up with a need to taste you. He’s already under the covers and between your thighs. He lazily scrapes your panties to the side before diving in. His tongue roughly and wildly scraps against your entrance a few times before he parts your folds plunging his face in between your pussy lips. Ace practically melts on your cunt; his tongue curling and twisting inside your entrance, a thumb lazily flicking your clit, and his other hand begins to palm himself through his boxers. “Mmm~ So good~” He can’t help but moan into your pussy at the taste of you. He laps up your juices with lewd and loud slurps, sucks, and licks. He buries himself in between your thighs lulling on your cunt like a lollipop, your juices soaking into his taste buds like a delicious sweet. After you reach your climax all over his tongue he greedily dives back in for another round. He just can’t stop, no matter how sensitive you are.

He craves your pussy

Sabo’s a freak~

-“Sit on my face.”

Without much of an explanation, Sabo’s arms wrap around your waist and brings your body down and clit on to the ridge of his nose. No hovering; He holds your waist down tightly to his mouth. You can feel his short breathes against your clit and while a large smile forms against your pussy lips. He simply watches your pussy from this angle for a while. His hands not letting go of you and you can’t move an inch. Without warning he pulls you down farther, smothering his face in between your cunt. The pleasure hits you like a rocket and you aren’t sure if he can even breathe anymore. He’s sure having his fill, his tongue goes wild against your pussy, licking, sucking and frantically slurping up your juices. He doesn’t let you move from off of him, in fact his fingers sink deep into your waist lightly scratching you as a warning. He rocks his head against your cunt, giving your clit stimulation from his nose rubbing against it. Because of his wildness you feel yourself squirt as you reach your climax. Sabo smirks allowing you to lift off of him just a little bit as your juices soak his face. You’re beyond embarrassed but the blonde just stares up at you with a knowing smile as he licks his damp lips and face. “Delicious~”

What more can he say? He just gets a little feral when he gets to taste your juices~

Law plays with his food~

- “You want more than just my tongue don’t you~? Such a naughty pussy.~”

Right there. In between the ‘D’ and ‘H’ in the word ‘Death�� tattooed on his fingers. Spells none other than ‘eat’, and boy do his fingers know how to devour he has two fingers knuckle deep inside of your cunt, twirling around and tapping along your gummy walls. Every now and again he’ll pull them out with a lewd ‘pop’ and give them a soft gentle lick. “Hmm~ you’re sweeter than usual today~”. He’s such a dirty talker. He thrusts his fingers back in without any warning causing you to squirm a little. “Stay still.” He commands giving your bottom a smack. While his fingers thrust into you, he bends over and gives your clit some attention with his tongue. Lightly sucking on it and rolling it around his tongue. you can feel the small, cold metal piercing clink against your clit which adds to the pleasure. Your juices taste delicious against his tongue and his fingers and tongue switch places. Now his fingers are rubbing circles in your clit while his tongue thrusts in and out of you; drinking up your juices with nothing but primal urge. It doesn’t take long before you cum undone onto his tongue in which he drinks it all up, softly pulling away once he’s satisfied. He even goes so far as to lap up the rest of your juices on his finger and pops it in his mouth.

He knows how to work his fingers; from his devil fruit to the bedroom~

Eustass Kidd loves to bring you to tears

-“What? Can’t take anymore slut~? Isn’t this what you wanted~?”

As obnoxious as Kidd is, he sure knows how to get you to scream out on his tongue. He smirks deviously as his tongue edges in and out of your walls. He’s holding you down onto his face while his hands grip your bottom. His hands practically claw and dig into the side of your ass, not allowing you to get away from him. “ ‘s too much? Slow down? You beg and whine for it all day but can’t take it~?” Kidd laughs as his overstimulation and frantic tongue practically brings you to tears. You’ve already came three times and he won’t let you go, the pleasure is too much; You’ll know to think twice before asking him to do anything for you. “Too bad. I’m enjoying myself now~” He chuckles into your pussy before going back in. Your hands claw at his legs for dear mercy but the pain only drives him further. He sucks at your labia before plunging his tongue inside of you and thrusting wildly as if it was his cock. Even as you cum for the fourth time in an hour he shows no signs of stopping, even licking your hyper sensitive clit as you cum and scream out his name.

He just loves to make you scream on his tongue~

Cum back post <3

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

Note

I love your headcanons!! I’d love to see how you think the X-men would react to the reader playfully biting them, in or out of the bedroom, whatever scenario you’d like (you can go with any characters, but bonus points for Logan, Erik, Charles, and perhaps a new one, Victor Creed 👀)

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller, Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik & Alex Summers

Reply to anon: OMG yes, Victor my little mad dog!

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

- “Alright, fine,” he relents at last, rubbing his neck where your teeth had been, his grin turning almost challenging. “But just so you know? I’m keeping score.” And with that, he leans in—his lips brushing against your jaw, a teasing warning before he suddenly nips at your skin in retaliation, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Your move.”

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janumun · 11 months ago

Text

Painted Red (LaDS Sylus - NSFW ABCs Headcanon]

Rated: NSFW/18+

Words: ~4k

Tags: oral, vaginal and anal sex, usage of toys, fingering, enemies to lovers dynamic/passing usage of guns, bondage, semi-public sex, improper use of Evol, switching power roles, dirty talk, masturbation, mirrors, orgasm denial, praise kink

Author’s Notes: A little treat to myself right before Sylus’ release. Please take careful note of those tags and content warnings before you proceed.

I hope you enjoy your read as much I enjoyed myself writing this!

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

With the state of indecent disarray one usually ends up in — quivering, drenched thighs, nerveless arms useless by your sides, a flushed face and an inability to catch your breath — after a single night spent in Sylus’ bed, aftercare is a necessity post-coitus. And fortunately, the man, damn him, knows and understands so, very well.

And so, he has a pitcher of cold water, prepared well beforehand — even on days your dalliances are not what the two of you intend when you meet — ready and at your disposal by the bedside.

The moment he pulls out of you, another short one spared to ensure you are still there, with him and well, he’s moving off of you. A clean robe he throws on, loose, over his body before striding over to the nightstand to pour you a glass.

A cool, pleasant palm he eases against the back of your head to raise, as he encourages you take those big, long gulps of fluid to quench your thirst and replenish your energies. “There you go, well done,” his low baritone settling deep within your belly, your core instinctively clenching in on emptiness to hear his unexpected praise for something so very mundane.

Truly, you do not know what this man is doing to your body and mind.

Extra

Sylus slides into bed with you for the remainder of your night and tucks close under the covers, for your much needed repose.

Morning afters, you greet with a fresh shower (and on days you insist, with him), a pair of clean towels and a pressed outfit, ready for you to change into and later settle in for a healthy, fulfilling breakfast, whipped up to perfection by his personal chef. All of his house-staff, professional, discrete and well-versed in handling affairs of the Onychinus scion’s household. Whatever the two of you share within the confines of your privacy — animosities or amourous rendezvous — remains entombed, within that very space.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Sylus takes pride within his dexterity, particularly that of his limbs (...particularly that of his hands, his fingers when it comes to matters of the bedroom).

One would hardly expect a man of his body stature to possess the nimble flexibility that resides compacted within his body. An erroneous judgment that often proves fatal to foolish foes within a fight.

And with you, he puts that lethal agility to use: within the push of thick digits up into your clenching walls, the roughened pads of them swiftly seeking and pressing up against the spot at your frontal walls that makes you wail, makes you twist. Makes that body of yours gush against his insistent palm in an orgasm vehement enough, you see dark blanket across your eyes for the scarcity of mere seconds. Truly bringing upon you, as they call it, la petite mort. A tiny death.

Sylus is extremely fond of your face. It’s not because of the way you look, a mere pretty face in the crowd he would simply gloss over; it’s the striking catch of your facial tells that steal his gaze and keep it captive.

The wary intensity of your eyes the first time you laid eyes on him.

Or the way your brow knit in firm concentration when you had him tossed to the ground, once. Nearly taking him by something almost akin to surprise, the weight of your gun, incessant, against his chest. Your mouth turning sour in restless irritation when he dared try tease at your sensibilities, a harsh knee you plunged deeper into his torso.

The quick work of your mind — a testament of its well-endowed intellect and wit, a Hunter of good repute — channeling brilliance in crisp words uttered from rouged lips, when the two of you, on one certain occasion, found yourselves in a particularly dire situation. One you’d agreed to accompany him to, undercover, as an associate of the Onychinus’ head.

Truly, he has been snared with your fascinating mien since the day he laid his eyes upon you, your expressions spinning — amusing — as if placed upon a carousel, the longer he spends in your company.

And from there on, is born a desire to witness even more.

When you drive him back into the covers with the force of your wet kiss, parting untimely before he has the proper chance to put his tongue into your mouth and taste for himself (there will be further opportunities, he holds himself).

The way that well-coveted, devious tongue sweeps a slow path against your upper lip —just out of reach — edge to edge. The harsh dash of red, high across your cheeks, the intensity of your breaths, untamed as his. And those beautiful eyes, a riotous mix of vexation and desire so incinerating, it turns Sylus’s cock to unbearably hard stone beneath the cleft of your ass, he bucks up against you just to see that wheeling carousel within your gaze, shift forms for him, watch that mouth swear at the exhilarating stimulation of your combined symphony, he knows, you too feel. Just for him alone.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Sylus enjoys the slick feeling of your skin stained by his cum; that exact moment he pulls out of your quivering walls to release himself in thick spurts down the length of your folds. Slips the head of his cock against the smears of his release, before pushing back, slow, once more into your depths.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There is no secrecy or shame involved with a man in possession of as poised a self-assurance as Sylus; his sexual tendencies he not only owns up to and understands but has no qualms about elucidating his wants in great... obscene detail, to his partner, you.

He wants you to be knowing exactly what it is you are doing to arouse him and exactly how to get him up to that stage.

His palms curving about your thighs, scaffoldings of heated flesh that climb up and slink slow beneath the cut of your dress. Covetous fingers that trace delicate patterns against the lining of your panties and yet you quiver underneath that feather touch alone. “Such fine lace.” Garnet gaze, sharp, as it meets yours within the tight, much too confined space of his car.

The chauffeur in front, separated a mere layer away from the two of you as Sylus wrenches you onto his spread lap, the firm muscle of his thighs unyielding beneath as they shift, subtle, to press you deeper against a broad chest.

Index and middle scouring a hot, glancing path against your clothed slit before withdrawing, leaving you to scramble for purchase against the fine pressed collar of his shirt, creasing it within your hold.

Your question snipped short with the soft, soughing whisper at your ear, voicing his true intentions. “I’d very much like a memento, to remember our evening by. Your panties...” Devious fingers pinching at the apex of your heat. “They will do well, sweetheart.”

A moan tumbles past your lips before you can smother the sound — you break it against the sweep of his mouth, welcoming — at such a scandalous request, bold, without a lick of remorse. Just as the man himself.

“I trust you will help me then, yes?” A long, tapered finger, pressing above underwear, right at your slit. Course thumb leisurely stroking its fire against that tight bead of pleasure. A rumbled groan he breaks free against your ear to feel the wanton slick of your arousal, soaking right through fabric. “That’s right, drench them well. I want your fragrance long on my gift, even after your departure.”

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Sylus has been out and about. He isn’t capricious enough to have changed sexual partners as frequently as the rumors around Zone N109 might paint him to have, but he is certainly no stranger to sex.

His preference before you, usually having been for casual, short-lived, discrete dalliances, to indulge in bodily pleasures and no more beyond. With a man as committed to his goals as Sylus is, with a clear concept of how he wishes to manipulate the underworld to his liking, he does not spare much attention to subsidiary gratifications.

With people at large, he is apathetic to that which does not catch his interest. There is very few within this world that truly does.

And you, now, stand among those rare few treasures that have all of his attentions arrested.

He finds himself wanting to captivate you, in turn, not just in body but mind. Truly, he finds you a fascinating being.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Seated within his lap, cock nestled warm within clenching depths.

Hair, a spread of wild locks across the coverlet, mirroring the writhing state of your sweat-drenched body underneath his, as he thrusts into you.

Hungering fingers clawing at the expanse of his chest, down the strength of his shoulders as you furiously grind upon his cock, intoxicatedly chasing an orgasm just within reach. Strong fingers, he rushes down the length of your clenching abdomen, inquisitive palm digging just beneath your naval to feel for the vibrations that ripple across pliant skin with the vehemence of your thrusts onto his cock.

Sylus relishes the privilege of your private, salacious unravelings, brought upon by him alone, by what he does to you and what you force out of him, for your singular pleasure. Desires heightened to witness you using his body to bring yourself to shattering ruin, it floods his veins with inebriating arousal so heavy, his body aches with the force of his want.

As such any which way he takes or lets you take, which allows him privy to your raw, unfettered emotions rushing across your face [See above: B, Body Part] is what he enjoys most. Bringing him to completion the fastest when he is able to witness your mouth breaking apart in moans, watch sex mussed strands of hair stick to your temples, mixing in with the sweat of your body, tear-streaked pleasure smeared vivid across your cheeks.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Your sexual escapades are hot, often times competitive and cathartic; an unfettering of strangled desires. Bursting to the surface within the fever of your intimacy. Arduous cravings that are hardly scotched in a singular session.

Vocal and perverse though he may be in tongue when it comes to your love-making, Sylus is not one for poetic romanticisms waxed within the bedroom. A man of action rather than ornate words.

His regard for you exhibited in the grip of sturdy arms that clutch you back against his body, feeling for each part of you pressed against his. In the tongue that laves at sweat soaked skin in soothing mercy, from the relentless assault of his hips against your ass.

Roughened thumbs that swab at tears from red-rimmed eyes, post-coitus, a gentle towel that skates soft down the quivering length of your ruined body before tucking it clean into fresh robes.

The manner in which he chooses to stay close and warm your bed, instead of leaving right after, even after the fire within your veins has long cooled itself. Foregoing his own personal mandate, to never spare a single trace of himself behind.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Sylus takes exceptional care to maintain good hygiene at all times; a man who looks and smells just as good, the pleasant, sharp undertones to his cologne, having you canting your nose into the space of his neck, as you breathe.

Right at that tendon wrung taut with the press of your teeth into a harsh bite, to choke the scream that climbs up your throat with the hard propulsions of his cock into your depths.

Downstairs, he is fairly clean; a shave on the regular, a mere fine dusting of ivory tracing a path from navel, downwards until it disappears beneath the stretch of his pants.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

[Also see above: G] Choosing to bury his skewed smiles against your wet moans, the bite of restive teeth you sink into his lip, pulling it wider. The anchor he throws forwards for both your sakes in the entwining of digits, meshing tight against the other to ride out your highs.

Sinking a bite in farewell right above your left breast before you part, so he knows how that heart bears its frenzied beats for him alone. A reminder he leaves upon your body to ache by, until the next time he finds himself buried within you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sylus lies in possession of an exceedingly high sexual drive. And herculean, in-humane self-control to boot. Experienced though he may be, due to the course of his sexual history; he’s been able to keep his casual encounters to a minimum due to how well he is able to compartmentalize his needs.

Overwhelming desires at times, he often spilled within the confines of an oiled fist. At others, tamping down the more primal parts of himself, until he felt it turn a necessity.

After you, he allows himself release from that tight-fisted restraint more often. Finishing himself in white relief, trickling down his fingers on the days (...hours) he does not have your warm body to sheath into, does not have the symphony of your cries to help him along.

Your visage in mind, sharp, jagged; he’s already expecting your next meeting with bated pleasure.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Sylus loves the color red on you, appreciates fiercely how becoming it is on you.

Loves to buy you dresses — scarlet as his eyes, as his desires — to put on, when you let him. Personally ensures, first-hand, they are well-fitted, within the confines of a cosy dressing room.

When large hands reach to flit past the split of your dress, cup about your ass, fingers drifting about your waist. “A perfect fit.”He praises, to your reflection within the body-length mirror. Skating further up your body to finger the strap of the outfit, skirting it, slow, down your shoulder. Indolent digits, index and thumb, pinching at the hardened peaks of a breast. Curving a hefty palm about the clothed flesh. “You’re a sight to behold.”

Red, when he curls a palm in between the cleft of your legs, leaves your flesh smarting with the short, pinching grinds against an increasingly swollen clit, stimulated for hours on end. Ruby, to match the flush at your cheeks. Scarlet, down the crescent of your breasts.

Wine, when you make his color spill with the bite of harsh teeth into his lip, bursting blood in between your mouths, as you withdraw on panting breaths. Tipping down in willing obeisance — he gifts just to you— with the violent tug of your fingers, directing him back against your mouth. Lapping at his wound, marking him for your own.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anytime, any place, any where.

There isn’t an authority powerful enough on Earth to stay his hand, once the two of you decide you want your bodies against each other. Sylus does not shy from an opportunity presented, and if there is none, he makes one.

In seclusion, or in public—

Crowds melting away the moment his fingers whip about your waist, stealing you away into private silence. The weight of his Evol has barely scattered from your shoulders, before the strength of his body replaces it, driving you back against a carved pillar. Mouth pulsing against yours in a slow, heavy kiss. Wet, hot; parting from your tongue on a conjoined string of damp pleasure, that bows and breaks under the weight of gravity.

There isn’t a moment he does not desire you and he certainly has no specious sensibilities to appeal to, when it comes to the chance to indulge you.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Curses, nothing quite turns Sylus on than to see you flourish in the place you shine best. When you are dedicated and singular-minded, in pursuit of your target. When you are forced to contend against situations far out of your control, compelled to navigate the perilous dangers that come with your line of work, be it the Tenebrae, Wanderers or something else entirely. And rise above it all, through the sheer drive you possess, a stubborn nature unable to give up on what you believe in. Not unlike his own, a kinship he finds within you.

A desire to obtain that fire for his own.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There is little Sylus would ever deny you. Certainly, keep from you, briefly; demands he may not fulfill immediately, in the pursuit of your combined pleasures.

Sharing you with another, however, is a stringent boundary.

Despite that first impression he settles, of immovable composure, he’s territorial, rather like a murder of crows, over you. Your heart, your sole focus, he desires to monopolize for his own.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Having your mouth on his cock is stimulating. Having your positions swapped and your ass grinding hard against the strength of his jaw, however, is what truly incinerates the blood within his veins. The leverage it bestows within his hold, to have you. Manipulate your pleasure to his liking, set the blood thrumming high within your own body.

Sturdy arms that cord about the plush of quivering thighs, garnet gaze that rolls up to capture yours, accompanying the wicked bite of teeth into the pliant flesh of your thigh. The flat of his tongue running from base to hood, ensuring not a single drop is wasted.

Relishing his victory in the slow sweep of lids falling shut, the open grin that pulls taut, with the harsh, fluttering pull of your fingers at his hair, shoving him deeper into your pussy. Signaling your utter defeat.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Sylus is in it for the long game. And no matter what it takes, no matter the cost, he sees to it that he gets what he wants.

Oh, him fracturing from that torturous tug-and-pull you’ve got going on, is but a feverish wish on your part. Sylus lives for the pleasure of your ruination, delights in the number of times he can crest you to your climax. And when not.

Part desire, part the necessity to have you well and utterly drenched before he even thinks to breach that soft, quivering flesh. Extended periods of torturous teasing foreplay, obligatory if he is to have penetrative sex with you. His size, he understands, not an easy burden to accommodate.

He often starts out slow; long, deep thrusts into your body as it clenches and moulds against the shape of him. Stimulated eventually enough, you drip copious against him, pleasure over-riding any remaining scraps of fleeting discomfort entirely until you’re clawing at the sturdy strength of his back.

Fingernails pulsing at the firm flesh of his ass, his name tumbling incoherent from a parched mouth, until he’s driving into you with the vehemence of an untethered beast. Guttural groans and whispered sighs, splintering against the give of your neck in tandem to your mounting screams. Quenched against the bite of a breast.

Letting your desires burn in between you until the moment they’re blanketed, hours later, into the dark of night.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Sylus does not wait. When he witnesses desire pool within that provoked gaze, watches the fire that burns parched, as you seek for moisture with the slow slide of a pink tongue against your rouged lip.

Helping you along into a dark crevice, if you’re out in public. Drawing your panties down against your thighs to reach for the place in between your legs. Roughened fingers plucking at wetness, dragging an indolent path from your slit to the apex of your sex. Curving one long, tapered digit into your clenching walls, stroking, until he brings you crashing for him.

Proud mouth pulsing a kiss in hushed laughter against your temple, as he assists you in putting yourself back in spruced order.

Sylus never goes the entire way, when the two of you are rushing against the clock. Ample time, he requires — and makes certain he’d have that, later — to unwrap and uncover the entirety of you, piece by piece.

An early aperitif, however, is one he isn’t opposed to, especially when it is served, as intoxicating as you are.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s willing and he’s game; a word from you is all he requires before granting you exactly what you desire, in spades.

There isn’t a thing you could throw his way to turn him off you, Sylus is the kind of man to take it all in stride.

[See also: L, N and K]

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Oh, he possesses a generous, infuriating amount of discipline; immovable rock in the face of obvious temptation. That does not, however, imply there isn’t a savage beast caged, restless, underneath that cool, tempered demeanor. Sylus merely maintains inhumane control over the leash of that sexuality beneath. And he knows how well to untether it too, once he allows himself to let loose his inhibitions.

Infinite stores of stamina (for daaays), an extremely brief refractory period and an overwhelming desire to wring you dry, entirely for himself, make for a terrifying combination.

Your hips would long break before Sylus’ cock ever begun to lose its vigor.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Sylus knows an opportunity when he sees one and the chance to have you utterly devastated, is one he never lets up on, and toys are just a welcome addition to his arsenal.

Pretty little baubles, the two of you purchased together on one of your dates — a discrete, neat store tucked within one of N109’s infamous districts, the way he’d encouraged your fascinated survey of the store’s à la mode selection of vibrators and jeweled plugs, a vaguely amused smile plucking at his mouth. Pulling up every single toy that sparked your fancy for a detailed overview from the ever-present staff, more than happy to answer all your enthused questions.

Rounding a firm hand about your waist to tug to his side, at the end of your purchase trip, breathing a sensual promise into the cleft of your ear, to let you try them all out in due time.

And he fulfills it, in equal enthusiasm.

Deft fingers that press up to slide against the insistent vibrations of the object settled snug into your wet walls. Toying, indolent, at the intensity of its stimulation with sporadic flicks of his Evol. Your stuttered moans clawing higher the longer he keeps you suspended within this torturous state of denial. Rejecting your babbles to let you come, that he’s been at it for hours.

“Not yet,” he instructs, slipping a cool hand onto the shell of your hip to hold down your senseless bucking.

It is only several, excruciating denied orgasms later does he tug free the plug at your ass, pressing his cock in lieu of its emptiness. And the way your hole clamps down in a vice at the base of him drags a shuddered, guttural groan from him. Your body stimulated so beyond sense, it drags an exhilarated laugh from his chest, in conjunction to your lost moans.

“This is it, lovely. Are you enjoying yourself that much?” Mouth pulling wider at your vehement nods. “Do you desire more?” Sinking three fingers up to the knuckle into your pussy, without warning. A quick tug of them upwards, has his energy tinkering at the vibrator’s intensity, sending it buzzing higher and you wail your curses at him. “Hah.” He shudders above, pressing deeper against your back. “That’s it, I like those sounds.”

“Sing higher, darling.”

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh, his craving for riling you up and goading you is infinite.

Even when you have him physically bound and at your mercy; the gorgeous, insouciant pull of that mouth into a skewed smile — a crafted calculation — has you feeling as if he still holds the entirety of a winning deck within those trussed hands.

Through each singular groan, every heaving breath and grunt, a disquieting, infuriating grin tugs constant at lips that demand further of your cruelty. As if a perverse beast actually enjoying the cage it belongs in.

The ram of a harsh heel, deep into his abdomen, has his grunting a long, gravely sound, Sylus’ body driving further into the savage crush of your shoe — pleasure so intoxicating in the knot of strong brows, that parted mouth — it stirs fiery arousal deep within your own belly.

Traitorous wetness trailing down the length of your thighs, arousal that Sylus convulses against the binds of his shackles for. Manages to dip forwards just enough — the brute — to catch the trickle of wetness against an adept tongue, at your thigh, and lap. Garnet gaze seeking and capturing yours in a haze so vicious your fingers fist harsh into his hair, in an unforgiving pull. Your moans, he steals — victorious — for himself.

“That is surely not all you can manage to do with me, can you, darling?”

And you can’t be too dishonest with yourself any longer; your orgasms far more fervid and ruinous when he’s had you both dancing along to his little cat-and-mouse game for hours on end, teasing you both with the pantomime of the act. Until, finally, finally, his cock plunges past aching, swollen folds and into your drenched, clenching walls.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Sylus’ moans are low, licentious burrs; throaty whispers he secretes right against your ear, to turn your legs to quivering flesh. He doesn’t require his voice to rise above a certain octave, not when he has you gushing on his face with the vibrations that buffet deep into your pussy, when that pleasured rumble of his breaks right in between your legs.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Sylus does not care much for binding or detaining you — restraining your senses — for personal pleasure.

He allows you use of your precious fetters and restraints, for what it does for him — an opportunity to maneuver your pleasure — and for the two of you, that is... if you can manage to bring him under, to begin with.

It merely isn’t something that works for him, in roles reversed, when he finds himself sufficient enough to draw forth the pleasure he can achieve for the two of you, with his body alone.

He has innumerable ways within his arsenal he can bring you to mind-numbing finish with, and he doesn’t require the comfort of a rope for that.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Sylus’ cock is a beautiful, symmetrical thing — rather intimidating at first glance. He teaches your body to take it well, in long, pleasurable lessons. Curving, slight. towards his abdomen. A thick shaft running up into a flared glans that burns in pleasurable penetration the first time you take him in. Numerous, undulating veins along the length, that bump perfect against the surface of your tongue when you swirl around it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

[Incredibly high as detailed at great length in J and S]

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sleep is the farthest thing from mind when the Onychinus’ head has you tucked at last, exhausted, within his bed. His body — long programmed — hardly permitting the scope of vulnerability slumber brings, in your presence.

And so, he puts that time to other pursuits. Often nights, choosing to watch over your sleep, carding the occasional stray strand of hair back against your ear. At others, he brings work to bed, spectacled scarlet gaze scouring over lines of text and diagrammatic compilations.

Not choosing to desert your side, even once, throughout the entire night, protective over your own vulnerability, for as long as it lasts.

End Notes: Once my fingers actually started on this man, I could not stop even if I wanted to. Sylus has me gripped by my very throat and that worries me greatly LOL.

If you’d like to be added to my tag list for future stories, please fill out this quick form.

#love and deepspace sylus x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace x reader #lads sylus x reader #LnD sylus smut #sylus love and deepspace #lads headcanons #love and deepspace headcanons #l&ds sylus smut #l&ds smut #lads x reader #lads x you #l&ds headcanons #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x you #sylus x reader

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dollcher · 3 months ago

Text

suggestive ୨୧.

nanami stood still, staring at you in complete adoration. hearts were practically shooting from his eyes as he drunk you in. every fibre in his being was swelling up with amour as he looked you up and down, mouth slightly agape, heartbeat quickening the more he looked at you.

you were wearing a sweet lavender babydoll cami with white lace covering your breasts and a cute little bow stitched in between them. it was one of his favourite tops that you owned and he adored how pretty and dainty you looked in it. the camisole hugged your curves so prettily, and accented your breasts as well — and it would be a lie if he said that he wasn't constantly staring at them when you wore this top.

though this time around, it wasn't the camisole that had him flustered. it was for the fact you were wearing one of his boxer shorts.

they were clinging onto the plush of your thighs, making them appear so much more squishy and soft in his eyes. your thighs filled out his boxers so perfectly and the waistband clinched to your tummy so cutely. it was the pair of white ones he had forgotten when he had stayed over at your apartment a few nights ago. he figured he would just retrieve them whenever he stayed over again but now he was debating if he should just let you keep them...

"kento honey!", you squealed. you dragged him into your apartment, shutting the door behind him. "i wasn't expecting you! what brings you here?"

nanami cleared his throat in an attempt to compose himself. he said in the most steadiest tone he could muster, "i wanted to surprise you so i came over and brought you your favourite treat."

he handed you a small paper bag with your favourite bakery's logo on it, trying his best to avert his gaze from your lovely legs so as to not get more aroused than he already was.

you giggled as you gave your boyfriend a soft peck to his lips. "thank you, sweetie! this is so nice of you!". you looked at him, smiling at him warmly and that's when you noticed the faint pink dusting his cheeks. you brought your hand to cup his cheek as you asked him, "are you okay? you look a bit flushed."

"i'm fine, honey," he murmured, planting a gentle kiss to your forehead. he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. he brushed the strands of hair that had fallen next to your face behind your ears as he whispered to you, "are those my boxers?"

your face was now coloured pink, pouting bashfully as you said, "well, i'd washed it yesterday and then i wanted to wear something comfy today and i saw this laying around so..."

"you look so cute, darling," he said, his lips trailing across your face, to your jawline down to your neck. your arms instinctively draped itself over his shoulders, the bag still in your hands. "but i must say... this look of yours is getting me riled up."

he was softly nipping at your skin in the place he knew that got you excited. a tiny moan left your lips when he sucked on your sweet spot a little, just as he had wanted. the tent in his pants was growing, rubbing against your leg while a few more mewls tumbled out of your mouth.

"wow, i didn't think this would get you so aroused kento," you said, a smug grin spreading across your face.

nanami's hands reached for underneath your derriere, groping your cheeks as he lifted you into his arms. you wrapped your legs around his hips, an involuntary squeak coming out your mouth from the sudden movement. he walked over to your bedroom, carrying you as he said in your ears in that deep, seductive voice of his, "let me show you just how much you got me worked up, my princess."

safe to say, the cake nanami had bought for you had been forgotten for a good, few hours. it served as a delightful aftercare treat though!

#呪術廻戦 #七海建人 #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu nanami #jjk nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami fanfic

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ari-ana-bel-la · 3 months ago

Note

hello! can you write for Charles taking his baby girl for her first haircut to his mom’s salon? And like the whole family doing lunch afterwards and just spoiling the baby

A Special First Haircut

The soft morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Charles' apartment, casting a warm glow over the living room where little Yn sat on the floor, playing with her stuffed animals. She was humming to herself, completely immersed in a made-up conversation between her plush rabbit and a tiny toy horse. Charles watched her from the couch, a fond smile on his lips.

His daughter, his sweet sunshine.

Yn was the kind of child who made every day brighter just by existing. She was all golden curls and sparkling green eyes, her laughter the most beautiful sound in the world. She had inherited her grandmother’s and uncle Arthur’s blond hair, though Charles liked to say it had a little of his messy touch to it. It was long now, cascading down her back in soft waves, and today was the day she would get her first-ever haircut.

Charles had made up his mind instantly—there was no one else he would trust for such an important moment except his maman.

"Mon amour," Charles called, standing up and walking over to Yn, crouching down beside her. "Are you ready to go see Grand-mère?"

Yn gasped excitedly, immediately dropping her toys and looking up at him with wide, excited eyes. "Yes! Grand-mère! She’s gonna cut my hair, right, Papa?"

"Oui," he confirmed, running his fingers gently through her soft curls. "But just a little. Your hair is too pretty to cut too much."

Yn giggled, clearly pleased, and jumped up. She immediately ran toward her little coat, struggling to put it on in her excitement. Charles helped her, chuckling at her enthusiasm, before grabbing the car keys.

"Let’s go, ma princesse."

When they arrived at Pascale’s salon, Charles could already see his mother through the glass storefront, tending to a client. As soon as she noticed them, her entire face lit up with joy. She quickly wrapped up the appointment, saying a few kind words to the woman in the chair before ushering her out with a warm smile.

Then, she did something Charles fully expected—she flipped the sign on the door to "Closed" and locked it.

"Charles! Mon ange!" Pascale greeted, pulling her son into a tight hug before bending down to Yn's level. "And my beautiful, beautiful granddaughter!"

Yn let out an excited squeal and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms. Pascale laughed, lifting her up easily despite her small frame. She pressed several kisses to Yn’s cheek, making the little girl giggle and squirm in her grasp.

"Grand-mère!" Yn squeaked between laughs. "You’re tickling me!"

Pascale pulled back with a mock gasp. "Oh no! I would never!" She then ran a gentle hand through Yn’s hair, eyes softening. "My little sunshine, are you ready for your special haircut?"

Yn nodded quickly. "Yes! Papa said not too much!"

"Of course," Pascale agreed, setting her down gently before looking at Charles. "Would you like me to trim it just a little, keep it neat?"

Charles nodded. "Just enough to keep it healthy, maman. I can’t let her lose her princess curls just yet."

Pascale laughed, then gestured toward the styling chair. "Come, mon trésor. Let’s get you all set up."

Yn eagerly climbed into the chair, legs dangling adorably. Pascale carefully fastened a tiny cape around her, making sure she was comfortable before gently combing through her golden locks.

As she worked, Charles pulled out his phone and quickly sent a message to his brothers.

Charles: Yn is getting her first haircut. Maman closed the salon just for her. You two want to come?

Lorenzo replied almost instantly.

Lorenzo: Of course! Charlotte and I are coming.

A second later, Arthur’s response appeared.

Arthur: I’m on my way!

Charles smiled, already picturing how much his family was going to fuss over Yn. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked up just in time to see Pascale snipping the very first strand of Yn’s hair. The little girl watched in the mirror with wide, fascinated eyes.

"That’s my hair!" Yn exclaimed, staring at the small golden lock Pascale had cut.

"It is," Pascale said with a smile.

As Pascale continued working, the door opened, and Lorenzo walked in, his arm wrapped around Charlotte’s waist. Arthur followed closely behind, looking just as excited.

"Lorenzo! Arthur! Charlotte!" Yn squealed, waving at them from the chair.

"Mon petit trésor!" Lorenzo grinned, immediately walking over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Look at you! Such a big girl, getting her first haircut!"

Charlotte smiled warmly. "You look adorable, Yn."

Arthur leaned down, resting his arms on the back of the chair. "Are you sure you want to cut your princess hair?" he teased.

Yn giggled. "Grand-mère says I still get to keep my princess hair!"

"Of course she does," Pascale said, sending Arthur a pointed look before ruffling his hair. "Don’t make her second-guess it."

Arthur raised his hands in surrender, grinning. "Alright, alright."

The adults stepped back, letting Pascale finish trimming Yn’s hair. But then—

The salon suddenly filled with the sound of Yn’s uncontrollable giggles.

Everyone turned their heads in surprise, only to see Pascale holding the blow dryer, directing warm air toward Yn’s head. Her hair was flying in all directions, making her laugh so hard she had to grab onto the armrests to keep from wriggling too much.

"PAPA, LOOK!" Yn giggled. "MY HAIR IS FLYING!"

Charles grinned, pulling out his phone to snap a quick picture. "You look like a little fairy, ma princesse."

"Or a lion!" Arthur added.

"Lion princess!" Yn declared, still giggling.

Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head. "She’s too cute."

When Pascale finally finished, she turned off the blow dryer and carefully ran her fingers through Yn’s hair one last time.

"There," she said proudly. "My beautiful sunshine, all done."

Yn turned her head from side to side, admiring herself in the mirror. "It’s so pretty!"

Charles leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "You’re always pretty, mon amour."

Everyone else immediately chimed in with compliments.

"You look like a real princess!" Charlotte said.

"The cutest princess ever," Arthur added.

"Perfection," Lorenzo agreed.

Yn, slightly overwhelmed by all the attention, giggled shyly and reached for her father. Charles laughed and scooped her up, letting her hide her face in his neck.

"My little shy baby," he murmured, rubbing her back gently.

Pascale smiled fondly at the scene before clapping her hands together. "Alright, now that we’re done, who’s ready for lunch?"

"Me!" Yn perked up instantly. "I’m so hungry!"

Arthur ruffled her hair. "Then let’s go! I think our little princess deserves a big treat today."

At lunch, Yn was completely spoiled by her uncles. Arthur insisted she get a chocolate milkshake, while Lorenzo made sure she had extra fries. Charlotte helped her color on the kids’ menu, and Pascale couldn’t stop pressing kisses to her forehead.

Charles just sat back, watching it all with a full heart.

His little sunshine, surrounded by love.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

#f1 drivers as fathers #formula 1 #💙🦋#f1 x female reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #charles leclerc x daughter!reader #charles leclerc x reader #dad!charles leclerc #leclerc!reader #first haircut #lando norris x reader #carlos sainz x reader #f1 x daughter!reader #formula one #lewis hamilton x reader #max verstappen x reader #oscar piastri x reader

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haerenven · 4 months ago

Text

Pairings. M.D.Luffy- R.Zoro- V.Sanji - shanks - T.Law - P.D.Ace - E.Kid

summary. Fav part on your body

— (a/n): DARLING!, every inch of you is perfect. Plus request are open (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

Monkey D. Luffy – Your Hands

Luffy is fascinated by your hands. Whether they’re soft, calloused, or adorned with tattoos, he loves them because they’re yours. He’s constantly grabbing them, playing with your fingers absentmindedly, or holding them against his cheek. He especially adores when you feed him—his eyes light up every time you bring food to his lips, and he sometimes playfully nibbles on your fingers just to make you laugh. And when you ruffle his hair with those same hands? He melts.

But Luffy’s obsession goes beyond just holding them—he finds comfort in them. If he’s sleepy, he’ll take your hand and press it against his cheek, his lashes fluttering as he hums in contentment. If he’s excited, he’ll grab both of your hands and swing them around, his laughter ringing through the air. And if he’s feeling extra affectionate? He’ll kiss your palms, grinning up at you before pressing them against his face dramatically. And when you cup his face in your hands, gently stroking his cheek with your thumb, his usual playful energy softens. His lips part slightly, his expression suddenly unreadable. He stares at you—wide-eyed, almost mesmerized—before he suddenly grins, rubbing his face even further into your touch like an overgrown puppy. “Heh, your hands feel nice,” he mumbles, before promptly biting your finger again, his laughter echoing through the air as you scold him.

Roronoa Zoro – Your Back

Zoro has a thing for your back—he won’t outright say it, but his actions make it obvious. Whenever you wear something that exposes even a hint of skin, his eyes linger. He finds something undeniably strong yet elegant about the way your back curves when you move. If you have scars, he respects them deeply, running his fingers over them with quiet admiration. If you have tattoos, he studies them in silent appreciation, perhaps even tracing them when you’re resting together. And when you stretch, arms raised above your head, your back arching slightly? He has to physically stop himself from pulling you into his arms.

But if he’s feeling bold—or maybe just a little tipsy—he’ll step up behind you, fingers ghosting over the bare skin of your spine, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “You’re showing off, aren’t you?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a rough edge to it, like he’s holding himself back. “Knowing you’re what man need”. If you turn to face him, expecting him to retreat, he doesn’t—he just smirks, eyes locked onto yours, before running a calloused hand down your back with slow, deliberate intent.

Sanji – Your Neck

Sanji worships your neck. It’s his personal sanctuary, a place where his lips constantly find their way. He loves to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as his hands settle on your waist. His kisses are slow and lingering, sometimes teasing, sometimes desperate. He whispers sweet nothings against your skin, praising you like you’re the most divine being in existence. If you wear something that exposes your neck—off-the-shoulder tops, delicate necklaces—he’s doomed. He’ll place kisses there absentmindedly, even in public, murmuring, “Mon amour, you’re making it very hard to behave.”

If you wear something that leaves your neck exposed—whether it’s an elegant dress or just a loose button-down—Sanji is done for. He’ll run his fingers over the delicate skin absentmindedly, his touch featherlight, his breath hitching slightly. And if you so much as tilt your head, offering him more space? He’s pressing his lips against you instantly, But his favorite? When you’re cooking together and he sneaks up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist. His lips graze your neck as he murmurs something about how beautiful you look, and before you can even react, he’s already pressing a lingering kiss to your pulse. He lives for the way you shiver under his touch, and you can feel the satisfied smirk against your skin.

Shanks – Your Breasts

Shanks is shameless. He doesn’t try to hide his admiration—he fully embraces it. He loves resting his head against your chest after a long day, sighing contentedly as you run your fingers through his hair. He’s the type to slip his hand under your shirt absentmindedly, not necessarily with ulterior motives, but just to feel your warmth. If you wear something that accentuates your figure, expect him to tease you endlessly. He’s the kind of man who smirks, takes a sip of his drink, and drawls, “how god create something perfect like you” before pulling you into his lap.

He’s convinced that anything can make your breasts look even sexier, and once the idea enters his head, it stays there. One day, in that deep, playful voice of his, he casually suggests, “You know, a piercing right here—” his finger traces between your breasts, his touch featherlight yet purposeful, ”—would look absolutely stunning on you.” If you decide to tease him back, tilting your head with a smirk and saying, “How about nipple piercings instead?”—his reaction is immediate. His grip on your waist tightens, his pupils darken, and he exhales sharply through his nose, as if he’s just been hit with a vision too tempting to handle. He leans in, voice rough with amusement and something deeper, “get ‘em, I’d love to feel them on my tongue.”

Trafalgar Law – Your Collarbone & Shoulders

Law is a man of precision, and there’s something about your collarbones and shoulders that drives him crazy. Maybe it’s the sharp elegance of them, the way they peek through when you wear certain outfits, or the way his fingers trace over them absentmindedly when you’re lying together. He appreciates the way they flex subtly when you move, the strength hidden beneath softness. If you have tattoos here, he’s even more obsessed—he studies them with sharp, quiet interest, his fingers brushing over the ink as he asks about their meaning. And when he’s feeling particularly possessive? He marks you with slow, deliberate kisses, leaving faint traces of his touch behind.

When he’s feeling possessive, he won’t just admire—he’ll mark. His lips will graze over your collarbone, pressing slow, deliberate kisses, his grip tightening on your waist. He’s not one for open displays of affection, but the moment you’re alone? His hands are on your shoulders, his mouth tracing along your collarbone.

Portgas D. Ace – Your Hips

Ace has a love for your hips, and he’s not shy about it. His hands naturally settle there, whether he’s pulling you closer, steadying you after a stumble, or just holding you while talking. He likes the way they move when you walk—so much so that he often ends up staring without realizing it. He’s the type to hook a finger into the waistband of your pants or skirt, tugging playfully just to see your reaction. If you have dimples on your lower back, he’s obsessed, pressing kisses there whenever he gets the chance. And when you straddle his lap, resting your hands on his shoulders? He swears you’re going to be the death of him.

He loves how easy it is to tease you when he has his hands on your hips. He’ll grip them suddenly, just to see you react, and his grin only widens when you give him a playful shove. And if you’re straddling him, hands braced against his chest? He’s gone. His fingers tighten instinctively, his voice rough as he chuckles, “you make me feel like a dream”

But the real kicker? If you jokingly sway your hips while walking away, knowing he’s watching. He’ll groan dramatically, running a hand down his face, before catching up with you, tossing an arm around your waist. “You can’t just do that and expect me to hold on,” he huffs, but the way his fingers flex against your hip tells you he’s not complaining.

Eustass Kid – Your Thighs

Kid is obsessed with your thighs. He loves the way they feel under his hands, whether they’re soft or toned, and he often absentmindedly grips them when you sit close to him. He’s the type to pull you onto his lap with zero hesitation, his metal hand resting heavily on your thigh like a silent claim. If you wear something that shows them off—shorts, skirts, anything that accentuates their shape—he’s staring. And if you dare to tease him, pressing your legs together in a way that draws his attention? He’ll lean in, voice low and full of challenge, “you wanna play bad bitch role ~ hmm?”

If you wear something that shows them off—shorts, skirts, anything that accentuates their shape—he’s staring. He won’t even try to hide it, his red eyes dark with something dangerous. And if you catch him looking, raising an eyebrow at him in amusement? He just smirks and shrugs, completely unashamed. “Not my fault you look this divine.” But his absolute favorite? When you’re sitting with your legs draped over his lap, and he gets to absentmindedly trace patterns along your skin. His touch is rough yet oddly tender, and if you tease him about it, he just grunts, “Shut the fuck up,” but doesn’t stop. And if you so much as playfully squeeze his waist with your thighs? He growls, his grip tightening as he leans in, voice low and taunting, “they will look perfect spread, don’t you think?”

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loafysainz · 5 months ago

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🎥 SENDING DIRTY TEXT TO MY HUSBAND AROUND BUNCH OF PEOPLE

cast: carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, lando norris, max verstappen, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, george russell × reader!

warn: 18+, smut, minor dni

hope you guys enjoy it!

carlos sainz

Carlos is sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by his family, deep in conversation with his father when his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, expecting something harmless—until he sees your message:

"I can still feel you from last night. My legs are shaking just thinking about it. Maybe you should do something about it later, mi amor."

He chokes on his drink, eyes widening as his mother pats his back, oblivious to the heat rushing to his face. His fingers tighten around his phone as he clears his throat, throwing you a sharp look from across the table. You, sitting there sweetly, sip your wine like you didn’t just set him on fire.

Carlos leans closer, voice low but urgent. "Cariño, you can’t do this to me here."

But the way his jaw clenches, the darkening of his eyes, tells you he’s already planning his revenge for later.

lewis hamilton

The music is loud, drinks flowing as Lewis chats with a few celebrities in the VIP lounge. He’s mid-sentence when his phone vibrates. Casually pulling it out, he takes a quick glance—then freezes.

"I miss having your hands all over me. Maybe we should sneak out and you can remind me how good they feel?"

His lips part slightly, tongue running over his teeth as he exhales sharply. He tilts his head back, taking a slow sip of his drink, but his grip on the glass tightens.

You’re across the room, acting innocent, but when his gaze meets yours, he smirks. Oh, you’re in trouble now.

Lewis leans against the booth, texting back, “Meet me in five. Don’t bother fixing your dress. I’ll ruin it anyway.”

lando norris

Lando is laughing, lining up his shot, when his phone dings. He doesn’t think twice before checking it—only for his eyes to nearly pop out of his skull.

"Imagine me on my knees for you right now. Bet you wouldn’t be able to focus on your little golf game, huh?"

He fumbles his club, nearly dropping it as a deep red flush spreads over his face. The guys around him notice immediately.

“Lando, you good, mate?” Max Fewtrell grins.

“Uh—yeah, yeah, just—uh, hot out here, isn’t it?”

You wink at him from the golf cart, and he shoots you a warning look, shifting awkwardly as he tries to compose himself.

Later, he grabs you by the waist, voice low and desperate. “You’re so dead when we get home.”

max verstappen

Max is in the hospitality lounge, joking with Christian and a few engineers, when he checks his phone under the table. His body stiffens immediately.

"I can still taste you on my lips. Wonder if you'd rather me use my mouth somewhere else next time."

He nearly drops his phone. His face is unreadable, but you know him too well—the slight clench of his jaw, the way he shifts in his seat.

Christian nudges him. “Something wrong?”

Max clears his throat. “No. Nothing.” But his ears are red.

You catch his eye from across the room, biting your lip playfully. He exhales through his nose, tapping out a reply:

"Hotel room. Now."

charles leclerc

Charles is lounging on the deck, drink in hand, surrounded by his friends when his phone lights up. He checks it—and immediately sits up straighter.

"I wish I were sitting on your lap right now… but not in a way that’s appropriate for this party."

His breath hitches, fingers tightening around the glass. He shifts, crossing his legs to conceal his growing problem. His brother Arthur notices.

"Charles, pourquoi tu fais cette tête?" (Why do you look like that?)

"Rien," he mumbles quickly, shoving his phone into his pocket.

You smirk, and he glares at you before texting back, “Keep playing, mon amour. See what happens when we get home.”

oscar piastri

Oscar is laughing with his engineers when he checks his phone. His face immediately changes.

"You looked so good this morning. Wish I’d had more time to be on top of you before you left."

His breath catches in his throat. He coughs, nearly choking on his drink. Andrea Stella raises a brow.

"You okay, Oscar?"

"Yep. Fine. Just—uh, spicy food."

He doesn’t dare look at you, knowing the second he does, he’s screwed. Instead, he sends a quick text back:

"You better be naked when I get back."

george russell

George is the picture of politeness, sipping his tea while his mother chats about the weather. Then his phone vibrates.

He checks it discreetly—only to nearly spit out his drink.

"Wouldn’t it be fun if I slipped under the table right now and made you lose composure in front of everyone?"

His grip on the cup tightens, and he clears his throat loudly, shifting in his seat. His mother eyes him.

"Everything alright, love?"

"Yep, just—uh—just remembered something from work."

You blink innocently at him from across the table, and he clenches his jaw before texting back:

"You are absolutely wicked. But don't worry, I’ll make you beg for mercy later."

END

you can share your thought/ideas my box always open!! 🤍

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requiemforthepoets · 7 months ago

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baby peanut! 𖦹 LN4

PAIRINGS: lando norris x wife!reader

SUMMARY: keeping your pregnancy from lando was proven to be very hard when all you want is tell him the amazing news that you both are expecting again. but since his birthday was coming up, you waited for his special day to tell him.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: reader is french-russian, multicultural household, established relationships, pregnancy, typos, and gramatical errors

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HAPPY LANDO DAY!!!!! was debating on posting a new fic for him, but decided to just make it a part of the norris family series, though this can be read as a stand alone. hope you’ll enjoy this one!

The soft morning light was just beginning to filter through the white curtains when you stirred awake, glancing over to see Lando fast asleep beside you. His peaceful face looked even more boyish, framed by the tousled strands of hair he hadn’t bothered to tame before collapsing into bed after last night’s stream. It had been hours before he joined you in bed, he and Max laughing and gaming into the early morning, and you knew he deserved this rest.

Just as you began to carefully sit up, you heard a soft rustling sound from the bedroom doorway. Peeking over, you spotted a small figure, a very familiar figure—a little silhouette with tousled hair, just like Lando’s, and sparkling eyes, trying best to tiptoe into the room. It was Thylane, with her tiny hands clutching her favorite blankie. You could see that she was struggling to hold back a giggle as she glanced over at her sleeping father.

Smiling, you brought a finger to your lips, silently shushing her. Thylane’s eyes widened, and she stopped mid-step, freezing in the doorway. You motioned gently for her to come closer to you, and she padded over quietly, looking up at you expectantly.

“Is Papa awake yet?” She whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

The eagerness in her tone made your heart swell, and you could not help but lean down, kissing her lightly on the forehead.

“No, mon amour,” you whispered back, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Papa had a very late night with Uncle Max. He needs his sleep, let’s let him rest a little longer, hm?”

Thylane nodded, her expression brightening at the thought of what you had in mind. “But it’s Papa’s birthday! I want to say happy birthday to him!”

“I know, my love. But how about we go to the kitchen, just you and me, and make a special birthday breakfast for Papa? Then we can surprise him together when he wakes up, and…” you paused, heart fluttering as you thought about the special surprise you had planned, one that you had kept to yourself until today. “And there’s something very exciting we’ll be giving him. Something you’re going to help me with, too.”

Her eyes lit up, and she bounced on her toes, already whispering with excitement. “What is it, Mama?”

“You’ll see, mon petit trésor,” you murmured with a soft smile. “It’s a surprise just as much for you as it is for your Papa. Now, come on.”

You grabbed your silk robe by the vanity chair and put it on. Taking Thylane’s little hand in yours, you casted a quick glance back at Lando. You leaned over, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, lingering just a moment. The warmth of his skin was comforting, and for a heartbeat, you just admired the peaceful look on his face, hoping he would carry that warmth with him when he awoke to find you both by his side. Then you carefully lifted Thylane into your arms to keep her quiet and avoid the soft creaks of the floorboards as you slipped out of the room together.

You and Thylane moved quietly into the kitchen, both of you filled with anticipation. The kitchen was softly lit by the morning sun, casting a warm glow over the countertops as you gathered everything you needed for Lando’s birthday breakfast, with Thylane already clutching the whisk with her small hands, her tongue poking out in concentration as she tried her best to mix the batter for the pancakes.

“Like this, Mama?” She asked, glancing up at you, her face bright with determination.

“Oui, parfait, mon ange,” you replied, ruffling her hair lightly. “Now, tu peux ajouter les blueberries. Add the blueberries, like this.” You handed her a small bowl of plump blueberries, showing her how to fold them gently into the batter.

She followed your instructions very carefully, not wanting to ruin Lando’s surprise, her little fingers pushing each blueberry into the mix with care, her eyes darting to you every so often to check if she was doing it right.

“Is Papa going to love it?” She whispered.

You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Of course Papa’s going to love it because you made it for him,” you assured her, watching her face break into a wide grin. “Now, pass me the flour, please—la farine. Careful, don’t spill.”

With both hands, Thylane picked up the small bag of flour and brought it over, the look of focus never leaving her face. She had switched to a more serious demeanor, taking her role as your little sous-chef very seriously.

“Here, Mama!” She said proudly, handing it to you as if it were the most delicate thing in the world.

“Merci, mon trésor,” you replied, taking the flour and measuring out the right amount for the batter. “Okay, now you can stir again, doucement, like this.” You demonstrated, letting her hands follow yours as you guided her through the gentle motions.

When the pancakes were stacked high on a plate, topped with fresh berries and a drizzle of maple syrup, you and Thylane both stood back, admiring your creation.

“Look at what we made together,” you said softly, squeezing Thylane’s shoulder. “Papa will be very happy.”

Thylane clapped her hands excitedly, bouncing on her toes. “Can we give it to him now?”

“Not yet,” you shook your head, a smile forming on your lips. “There’s one more surprise we need to get ready.”

Walking over to the drawer, you retrieved the small acrylic box, some soft cloth, and your carefully wrapped pregnancy test. Thylane’s brows furrowed as she watched you, her head tilting with curiosity.

“What’s that, Mama?” She asked, peering closely at the box as you placed the soft cloth inside.

“This, my love, is a very special surprise for Papa,” you knelt down so that you were eye-level with her, placing the test in the box atop the folded cloth. “Do you remember how you told me you wanted to have a little brother or sister?”

Thylane’s eyes sparkled, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes! Yes! Does this mean…”

“Yes, Tilly. This means you’re going to be a big sister.” You smiled warmly at her.

Her face lit up, her mouth forming a perfect little “O” of excitement. “Really, Mama? I get a baby brother or sister?”

“Yes, mon trésor,” you nodded, laughing softly at her reaction. “We don’t know yet if it’s a brother or sister, but the baby is here, right inside Mama’s tummy, just a little peanut for now.”

Thylane’s eyes went wide with wonder, and she pressed her small hands to your stomach as if she was trying to feel the baby herself.

“A baby peanut!” She giggled, delight shining in her face. “Can we call the baby that for now?”

“Of course,” you chuckled, brushing her hair back. “Until we know more, we can call your little sibling, baby peanut.” She grinned, clearly enamored with the idea, and watched carefully as you tied the ribbon around the box with care.

“Can I help with the ribbon?” She asked, her hand already reaching out eagerly.

“Of course, here.” You said, guiding her hand as she carefully looped the ribbon around, tightening it with a gentle tug and finishing it off in a neat bow.

“Where should we put it, Mama?” She asked, glancing around the room.

You took a quick look at the cozy space, then pointed to a spot on the kitchen counter, just out of Lando’s immediate line of sight.

“Right here,” you decided, setting the box down gently. “That way, Papa won’t see it right away.”

Thylane nodded, grinning widely. “I can’t wait to see Papa’s reaction!”

With breakfast prepared and the surprise box tucked safely out of sight, you and Thylane made your way back to the bedroom, eager to wake up the birthday boy. By now, the sun had fully risen, casting a warm glow across the room as you nudged the door open to your and Lando’s bedroom. You expected to see Lando still sleeping peacefully, but instead, he was already awake, propped up on pillows with his phone in his hand, scrolling with a sleepy smile on his face.

Before you could say anything, Thylane let out a squeal of excitement and sprinted towards the bed, practically launching herself onto him. Lando barely had time to react before she pounced, wrapping her arms around his neck and showering Lando’s face with small kisses.

“Happy birthday, Papa! Happy birthday! Happy birthday!” She chanted, each word punctuated with a giggling kiss to Lando’s cheeks, forehead, and nose. Lando can’t help but laugh, his eyes crinkling with joy as he pulled her close, enveloping her in a warm hug.

“Thank you, Tilly!” He replied, chuckling as he looked up at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a special wake-up call on my birthday before.”

She nodded enthusiastically, her face flushed with pride. “I made you a biiiiig birthday card last night! It’s pink, and has lots of hearts and sparkles on it, and I even drew a race car!”

“Woah, a race car? Just for me? Now that is one special card,” he said, brushing a few stray curls behind her ear as he smiled up at her. “I can’t wait to see it. I bet it’s the best card in the whole world.”

Giggling, Thylane seated herself on top of his stomach, her little hands resting on his chest as she looked down at Lando with pure adoration. You leaned against the doorway, laughing at the sweet sight in front of you before walking over to the bed and settling down beside Lando.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, but laced with affection. “I’m so happy that I get to spend my birthday with my favorite girls.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips softly against his. “Good morning, birthday boy,” you whispered, smiling against his lips before pulling back just slightly. “Happy birthday, my love.”

Lando grinned, puckering his lips again, silently asking for another kiss. Laughing, you leaned down, giving him another soft kiss, feeling his hand come up to gently cup your cheek. In that moment, it was just the three of you, wrapped in warmth and love, as if nothing else in the world existed. As you pulled back, Thylane let out a little giggle, pointing at the two of you with a mischievous grin.

“Ew, Mama and Papa!” She teased, though her face betrayed nothing but happiness.

Lando laughed, reaching over to ruffle her hair. “Hey, I deserve a birthday kiss, don’t I?”

“Papa! Mama and I made you a special breakfast!” She announced, clapping her hands. “We worked really, really hard. I even put the blueberries in all by myself!”

“No way! You mean to tell me you were my chef this morning, too?” Lando ticked her side, making her dissolve into giggles.

Thylane laughed, wiggling under his tickling fingers. “Yes, I’m your chef today! Mama showed me how to make everything.”

“Well, now I definitely have to see what my two favorite girls cooked up,” he said, sitting up slowly.

Lando reached over, wrapping an arm around your waist as he pulled you close, then lifted Thylane into his other arm. She squealed with delight, wrapping her arms around his neck and snuggling her head against Lando’s shoulder. As the three of you made your way to the kitchen, Lando kept his arm secure around your waist, pulling you close as Thylane chattered excitedly about breakfast.

“Mama taught me how to fold in the blueberries so they wouldn’t smush!” She said proudly. “And we made a big stack of pancakes with syrup and blueberries and…oh! And I even helped tie a bow for your present!”

Lando gave you a curious look over Thylane’s shoulder. “A present, huh?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with a grin. “I’m starting to think you two were up to a lot more than just breakfast this morning.”

“Hm, maybe we were,” you replied, smiling playfully as you reached up to brush a strand of his hair back. “But you’ll have to be patient to find out.”

He chuckled, squeezing your waist. “Well, I don’t know how much patience I have today. I mean, it is my birthday.”

Laughing, you reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Good things come to those who wait, birthday boy.”

The three of you entered the kitchen, where the table was set with the special breakfast you and Thylane had made. Lando’s eyes sparkled as he took it all in, and Thylane beamed with pride, practically bouncing in his arms.

“Happy birthday, Papa!” She exclaimed one last time, her voice full of love and excitement, her little arms squeezing him tightly.

With Lando’s arm around you, and Thylane hugging him with all her might, it was clear to you that this birthday morning could not have started off any sweeter.

Breakfast was a cozy, peaceful affair, the three of you wrapped in the simplicity of the morning. You and Lando chatted about plans for his birthday dinner later, throwing around ideas and laughing at each other’s jokes, while Thylane happily watched her favorite show on her iPad, humming along with the familiar theme song of Little Einsteins. It was a gentle scene, just the three of you? Sharing a quiet, joyful space as the morning sun spilled across the table.

Lando seemed perfectly content, caught up in the warmth of the moment. He had almost forgotten about the small gift waiting for him, tucked away in the kitchen—until you stood up, brushing a gentle hand across his shoulder.

“Wait here for a sec,” you said softly, a hint of excitement in your voice. “Tilly, come help me with something for Papa.”

Thylane’s face lit up as she hopped down from her chair, glancing at you with a secretive smile. She knew exactly what was coming next. Taking her hand, you led her back into the kitchen, glancing over your shoulder to see Lando watching you both with a look of fond curiosity. He seemed completely oblivious to what was coming.

You reached into the cozy corner of the counter, pulling out the small, acrylic box you had hidden away with so much care. Inside, carefully wrapped in a soft cloth, was the positive pregnancy test. You knelt down, handing the box to Thylane, who held it carefully with wide, shining eyes.

“Okay, mon ange,” you whispered, giving her a gentle smile. “Give this to Papa, and make sure he opens it.”

She nodded, taking the box in her hands as if it were a treasure. Together, you walked back to the dining area, where Lando was watching you both with growing curiosity.

“What’s this?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with a playful grin.

Thylane held out the box, her excitement barely contained. Lando took the acrylic box, glancing from her to you, a mixture of awe and confusion on his face.

You smiled, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, leaning close. “Go on,” you said, voice soft with anticipation. “Open it.”

“Open it, Papa! Open it!” She echoed, bouncing slightly on her toes, her face brimming with excitement.

Lando carefully untied the delicate ribbon that Thylane had helped you with that morning, his fingers moving slowly as if savoring the moment. The box felt light in his hands, and his expression shifted from curiosity to wonder as he lifted the lid, pulling away the cloth inside. The instant he saw the test, his eyes widened, and Lando looked up at you with a mixture of disbelief and joy.

“Is this…” he stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he was afraid he might shatter the moment. “Is this real? Is this for real?”

You nodded, unable to contain your own smile as you squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, love. It is real.” You watched his face light up as the reality of it washed over him.

“Happy birthday, my love.” You added softly, feeling your own heart swell with happiness.

Lando did not hesitate. He stood up, pulling you into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around you as he lifted you off of your feet, twirling you in a gentle circle. His laugh was warm and filled with immense happiness so pure that it brought tears to your eyes.

“After all this time,” he murmured, voice thick with emotions as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’re really going to have another baby?” You nodded, laughing through your tears.

“I found out a few weeks ago, when you were in Mexico. I wanted to wait until today to tell you.” You placed a hand on his cheeks, gazing up at him with all the love you had been holding back for weeks. “It took everything in me not to tell you the moment I found out.”

He kissed you softly, his forehead pressing against yours as he whispered. “Thank you for waiting, love. This…this is literally the best birthday gift I’ve ever had.”

“Papa, did you see? It’s real!” She said, beaming and clapping her hand, while bouncing in happiness. “I’m going to have a baby brother or sister! I told Mama I want to call them baby peanut!”

“Baby peanut, huh?” Lando chuckled, bending down to lift Thylane into his arms, bringing her close to the two of you. Kissing her forehead, and looking at you with a grin. “I think that’s a perfect name, for now.”

“Papa, can we tell everyone? All our friends?” Thylane’s face lit up at the thought, and she looked back and forth between you and Lando.

“Soon, Tilly. But for now, let’s keep it our little secret, okay? Just between us.” He leaned down, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That way, we can keep baby peanut all to ourselves a little longer.”

“Our little secret!” She nodded seriously, her eyes wide as she held her finger to her lips. “I’m really good at secrets, Papa. I won’t tell anyone!”

You all just stood there, basking in the warmth and happiness of the quiet moment, Lando had never felt a new kind of peace settle over him. This was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of. A family, life filled with love and laughter, and now, another little one on the way.

Lando let Thylane down, letting her run towards the living room to play with her toys. He reached out, threading his fingers through yours and giving your hand a gentle squeeze, and kissing it softly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking a little bit. “For this, for everything. You’ve given me the greatest gift of all.”

You squeezed his hand back, your own eyes shining with emotion. “I love you,” you murmured. “Happiest birthday, my love.”

As Lando held you closely, he realized that this was a happiness beyond anything he could have ever imagined.

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