#FABRIC FOR STORMY DAYS

[karpagam-architecture]

Waterproof vs. Water-Resistant: Choosing the Right Fabric for Stormy Conditions 🌧️

Ever been caught in the rain and wondered why some jackets keep you dry while others don’t? Let's dive into the key differences between waterproof and water-resistant fabrics to make sure you're prepared for whatever the weather brings.

Waterproof Fabric 💧

Waterproof keeps water out entirely. It’s designed with a complex structure of polyurethane coatings and synthetic fibers, making it ideal for heavy rains or extreme weather. These fabrics often use membranes like Gore-Tex and are enhanced with DWR (Durable Water Repellent) coatings and seam sealing for full protection.

Water-Resistant Fabric 🌦️

Water-resistant fabric repels light rain. It’s not entirely waterproof but blocks moisture to a degree. Made with tightly woven fibers, it’s more breathable, lightweight, and comfortable—perfect for short trips or light rain showers.

How to Choose?

Weather: Waterproof for downpours; water-resistant for light rain.

Activity: Water-resistant is more breathable for active days; waterproof works for long, wet conditions.

Budget: Waterproof gear is pricier due to high-tech materials; water-resistant options are more affordable.

Want to dive deeper into fabric technology and weather-proof fashion Click Here

[khioneee]

‘honey, i’m home.’

simon, presumed dead for the past five years, appears at your doorstep, very much alive.

the knock at the door cut through the quiet night like a knife, startling you from restless sleep. rain hammered against the windows, and the wind howled through the cracks. your heart pounded in your chest as you shuffled toward the door, dread curling deep in your stomach. no one visited at this hour. not anymore.

you hesitated at the door, hand trembling slightly on the knob. for a moment, you thought about ignoring it—letting whoever it was go unanswered. but something pulled you forward, a strange sense of familiarity, even though you couldn’t place it.

when you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.

there, standing on your doorstep, was simon.

simon stood before you, drenched from the rain, looking like a ghost dragged back from the edge of the world. his hair clung to his forehead, water dripping down his pale face, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. it had been five years since you’d gazed into those stormy eyes—five years of grief, heartache, and learning how to live without him. his familiar eyes, shadowed by exhaustion and pain, locked onto yours. his clothes were soaked, his body thinner than you remembered, like he had fought every step of the way just to stand on your doorstep.

your breath hitched painfully. ‘wake up,’ you said to yourself, heart racing. ‘please… wake up.’

but you didn’t.

‘lovie…’ simon whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a long time. ‘i’m home.’

your mind swirled and shock paralyzing you. it felt like a cruel trick your mind had conjured. the world around you blurred, and your heart ached in your chest. it couldn’t be real. he couldn’t be here.

simon’s expression softened, and without a word, before you could react, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet thud. he reached for you, pulling you into his arms without hesitation, and the breath left your lungs. his grip was tight, desperate, as if holding you was the only thing keeping him grounded. his cold, rain-soaked body pressed against yours, but you didn’t care.

he was here.

you froze for a moment, and then, slowly, your hands gripped the wet fabric of his jacket, your chest pressed against his. tears welled in your eyes, the disbelief crashing into a flood of emotions—relief, anger, and love. his familiar scent, rain-soaked, earthy, and undeniably him, flooded your senses, overwhelming you.

‘they told me you were dead,’ you sobbed against him, your fists clinging to his jacket as if that could keep him here. ‘they said your plane crashed. that you were gone.’

you clung to him, your heart shattering in your chest. he held you as if afraid you might slip through his fingers, as if his entire world depended on you being real.

simon buried his face into your hair, holding you tighter, his breath shaky. ‘every bloody day, i fought my way back for you,’ he said, his voice heavy with the weight of everything he’d endured. ‘you were the only reason i stayed alive.’

you sobbed harder, burying your face into his chest, your knees nearly giving out beneath you. all the years of mourning him, the endless nights spent crying yourself to sleep, the desperate ache of thinking you’d lost him forever—all of it shattered in his arms.

but then, simon’s grip on you faltered. something had shifted in the way he held you. slowly, he pulled back just enough to look down at your hand. his thumb brushing over the bare space where your wedding ring used to sit.

his body tensed. he pulled back slightly, just enough to glance down at your hand, and his breath hitched. the wedding ring you once wore was gone.

‘where’s your ring?’ he asked, voice quiet but edged with something fragile, as if the answer might break him.

your throat tightened, guilt and sorrow clawing at your chest. ‘simon…’ you started, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

his jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked past you. that’s when he saw them—new photos hanging on the walls. the ones of you and him were gone, replaced by pictures of you and someone else.

it was like the air had been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenched, shoulders sagging under the realization. his face a mask of exhaustion and heartbreak as the weight of what he was seeing sank in.

you looked away, guilt pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. ‘i waited…’ you whispered. ‘even when they told me there wasn’t a chance you were alive, i tried.’

his face didn’t change, but the subtle pain and betrayal in his eyes was unmistakable. ‘i came back for you,’ he uttered softly, almost to himself. ‘i told you i’d come to you.’

‘i thought you were gone,’ you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks. ‘i didn’t know how to keep waiting when they told me you’d never come back.’

simon’s hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away your tears. despite everything, his touch was tender, grounding. ‘i didn’t survive just to be a memory, sweetheart,’ he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. ‘i fought every day to come back to you. and if i have to fight again… i will.’

you leaned into him, your heart breaking and mending all at once. the years apart, the lost moments—they still weighed heavy, but he was here. he had kept his promise, and that was all that mattered now.

‘i told you i’d come back,’ he said, voice low but steady. ‘and i’m not going anywhere. not ever again.’

[asiatic-apple]

The colonel's uniform

Caleb x female reader

Words: 5.1k (pls forgive me)

Content: reader has a thing for uniforms, a few dog metaphors to describe caleb, CMNF, slightly jealous caleb, mean-ish dom caleb, but also switchy/sub caleb, his hat used as a blindfold, evol used as restraints, some unserious roleplay, one instance of “attagirl”, gloves on while he teases you, pussy spanking!!, safe word check-ins, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms

a/n: thank y'all for voting in my wip poll! this was inspired by his cafe dialogue when you say you prefer his hat from the fleet; the line is used verbatim (you’ll know it when you see it) Read on AO3

A few months ago, when Caleb had just come back into your life, you blamed your inexplicable feelings toward his new uniform on the fact that you wanted to see beneath all the layers. You were desperate to peel back the restricting outfit—only metaphorically, you convinced yourself—and see what secrets and hidden pain laid under it all.

But even after that feeling passed and you worked through your complicated emotions surrounding what Caleb had become, you were still left feeling…tense whenever you saw him in that damn uniform.

It takes you a few more weeks of inadvertently acting all flustered and shy around the colonel before you realize what your problem is. You notice it every time he tips his peaked cap down over his stormy eyes. Every time he adjusts the aiguillettes draped in front of his chest or runs a gloved hand down the length of his body to smooth out any wrinkles in the fabric.

Caleb in full Fleet regalia is your Kryptonite.

Even though you two have long since confessed feelings for each other, you keep this little secret to yourself. You master the art of subtlety. With stolen glances, you quietly admire the winged accents along the broad back of his coat and the way his gloves fit snugly on his long, slender fingers.

It’s easy to believe you might get away with your depraved thoughts and your silent, simmering obsession. Maybe Caleb will never find out how much you dream of grinding yourself on him without taking a shred of his clothing off.

That plan goes straight out the airlock when you let your guard down one evening.

You’re just visiting him in Skyhaven for the week. It’s about time for him to return home from work, and you anticipate the usual: Caleb half-changed already—his coat, gloves, and harness folded over his arm when he enters.

Instead, the sound of the door clicking open reveals the length of his coat, all his gear still carefully arranged on his tall body. You’re officially screwed.

After a long day at work, he somehow looks even more devastatingly handsome. The strained smile on your face twitches when he flops down onto the couch beside you, apparently too lazy to change out of his clothes just yet.

Work seems to have left him in the mood to rant. And really, you don’t mind listening to him vent. Even if he only mentions endless paperwork and frustratingly stupid mistakes from subordinates who should have known better. In fact, you cherish this moment.

There aren’t many opportunities for Caleb to share details about his work with you—always claiming confidentiality when you know he’s mostly doing it out of some twisted sense of protectiveness. So you’re grateful he’s confiding in you a bit right now, finally revealing what’s on his mind instead of keeping it close to his chest.

And you swear, you’re listening to him. You’re trying to.

But how can he expect you to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth when he’s sitting so casually beside you in his slightly rumpled uniform?

It looks like the day wore him down. His tie hangs a bit loose around his neck, and the crisp lines that usually define his coat and pants have now softened into feathered creases. His colonel’s cap is thrown haphazardly on the coffee table in front of you, and you have half a mind to beg him to put it back on.

Your eyes travel the expanse of his chest, following the strap of his leather tactical harness before getting lost in the shiny insignia on his left breast. What would it look like if he proudly bore your mark instead of the Fleet’s?

“Helloooo,” Caleb says as he leans closer to you with an amused smile. “Ground control to Major Pip-squeak. Have you even been listening to me?”

Heat flares across your cheeks, embarrassment blooming as you blink like you’ve just snapped out of a trance. Hopefully he didn’t catch the exact direction your eyes had wandered—or magically guess the thoughts that went with them.

“Huh? Oh, yeah…yeah, I was listening,” you quickly reply, trying to hide the lie in your voice. “You were saying something about paperwork, right?”

“Pips, that was ten minutes ago.”

He sounds unimpressed, but you know he's not really upset you zoned out. There's only concern and curiosity on his face. The latter half is what you need to shut down quickly. It’s time to switch tactics.

“Oh, right. Silly me.” Your chuckle sounds less carefree and more nervous than you want it to. “Hey, shouldn't you change into something more comfortable? I’m sure that uniform is stifling, yeah?”

Shit, that sounded too suspicious.

You're about to backtrack, but Caleb catches on quickly.

“Y'know, you've been actin' real strange lately,” he says slowly.

He's not necessarily accusing you of anything, but his brows are furrowed in that way they always are when he thinks you're keeping things from him.

A thousand curses flood your panicked brain. Changing the topic made things worse, so now it’s time to act stupid.

“Hm? Strange?” Your voice cracks, but you soldier through it and hope he doesn’t notice. “Nope, nothing strange here.”

Throwing in a small shrug for good measure, you hope the casual act will somehow cover the way your entire body has gone rigid.

It’s not really surprising he sees right through it all.

His playfully narrowed eyes inspect you carefully as he leans in even closer. “No, you’ve definitely been acting weird,” Caleb argues. “And it's only when I'm wearing this uniform.”

He's hit the nail on the head, and you make it way too easy for him to see it. His knowing response is a simple chuckle, but it doesn't have its usual lighthearted lilt.

There’s a familiar, faraway look in his eyes now. You’ve noticed it more and more often, ever since you reunited with him. But you still haven’t figured out what it means.

When his gaze finally returns to you, his voice is eerily calm, but there’s a shine of unshed tears in his eyes. “Do I scare you when I'm dressed like this?”

The question catches you off guard, knocking the breath from your lungs. You two have had this conversation before. Caleb can be terrifying when he’s hyper-focused on certain things—like protecting you, whatever it takes. But fear is not at all what you’re feeling right now.

Scooting closer to him, you cup his face, desperate to erase that strange, sad look in his eyes. “No, that’s not it,” you say sternly. “You could never scare me, baby.” The first half of your statement is true, at least.

Even if he catches the slight hitch in your voice that gives you away, he seems to take you at your word. He breathes a sigh of relief and nuzzles into your hand, the tension dissipating from his body with your gentle touch.

For a second, you almost forget your previous embarrassment at where this conversation was headed. But Caleb’s mind is a steel trap when it comes to anything involving you—especially if he suspects you’re hiding things from him.

He lightly tugs your hips, carefully maneuvering you to straddle his lap. “Then what’s been bothering you?” he asks, his voice a soft whine. He’s pulling out all the stops to get you to confess, giving you those big puppy dog eyes of his and even pouting cutely. “C’mon, you know you can tell me anything.”

You want to deflect. Want to keep telling him nothing’s wrong, but the words never make it past your parted lips. Because now you’re on the colonel’s lap, and the heat of his body is searing through all those layers of fabric you’ve spent far too much time ogling.

Thought abandons you. All that exists is the coarse weave of his coat beneath your hands, the faint creak of leather as his harness shifts with each breath. There’s a sharp trace of gunpowder clinging to him, cut through by the familiar, grounding scent of the cologne you love.

And then you catch the way he looks up at you. So willing and ready to fix whatever is troubling you. It’s like all you have to do is snap your fingers, and he’ll heel like a good boy.

He’s the colonel of the goddamn Farspace Fleet, but you’re the one pulling his leash. That thought has arousal heightening in your body, its greedy chokehold so tight you can practically taste your own need.

Your breath shudders at the same time your self restraint cracks.

It’s instinct causing your fingers to curl slightly into the lapels of his coat. Worst of all, your hips roll. Just the slightest movement, subconscious and slow. But god, you feel it—the tiniest bit of friction.

Caleb feels it too.

He stills. One brow lifts ever so slightly.

“Pip-squeak…” His voice is a low warning that makes you want to keep testing him.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides not in restraint, but in silent acknowledgement. He doesn’t push you away, doesn’t scold you. He just waits, assuming you’re only trying to distract him from his earlier question.

But it's exhausting denying yourself what you've wanted for so long. It’s easier to just show him what you need with trembling hands.

You slide your pointer finger beneath one fold of his lapel and glide it down to the center of his chest. When you switch your attention to the metal tip of one aiguillette, you can’t help but tug experimentally, entranced gaze locked on your colonel’s large frame jolting a bit from the motion.

Now it’s clearer what you want. No more hiding from Caleb’s eyes as they darken with lust and amusement.

“Well…would you look at that?” he whispers to himself, realization dawning on his gorgeous face.

You feel the shift in his body. The way he draws in a shaky breath. The way his posture straightens like he’s readying himself to stand at attention. He grins, wide and wicked and entirely too pleased with himself.

“And here I thought you were just shy.” His voice drops further, low and teasing—like you’re back in college and Caleb is the big meanie who caught you looking at something naughty and wouldn't let you live it down. “Turns out you’ve been tryin’ not to pounce on me every time I wear this, haven’t you?”

That smug look on his face pisses you off. But your pussy loves it. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek while he waits for a reply you stubbornly don’t want to give him. 

It doesn’t matter if you don’t admit it out loud, because Caleb’s observational skills are always sharp around you. You don’t need to use that pretty mouth to form words when he knows deep in his bones that he’s right.

He rocks his hips ever so slightly beneath you—just enough to make your breath stutter and your eyes flutter closed. There’s only a second of delicious friction before he’s ripping it all away from you with a chuckle.

A surprised yelp escapes you as he effortlessly lifts you from his lap only to toss you right back down onto the couch—so you're seated where he was a few seconds ago—legs parted just enough by the fall.

Not a second passes before he slips down to the floor in front of you, settling on his knees and pressing lazy kisses to your neck, over the thin fabric atop your chest, down the curve of your stomach. His hands rest heavily on your thighs as he leans in closer, trailing even lower with each kiss, until he’s fully nestled between your legs.

His affection is relentless—a steady, simmering thing that never quite lets up. Even now, with his lips brushing the waistband of your shorts, he can’t resist toying with you. The way he pauses there is deliberate, maddening.

Caleb has never been one to rush moments like this.

He eases your shorts down with aggravating leisure. The fabric kisses its way down your thighs, making you shiver. He keeps his eyes locked on you the entire time, watching your breath hitch and your hips shift restlessly under his touch.

The moment the shorts reach your knees, he dips his head and presses a single, reverent kiss just above the band of your panties. Then his hands shift, curling beneath your thighs. He lifts your hips just enough to slide your shorts down and off. The fabric falls to the floor, forgotten, while his gaze never leaves you.

Tugging on the hem of your shirt, he murmurs, “Take this off too.”

Where Caleb is all slow patience and eager to drag this out, you’re the exact opposite.

You don’t even think. There’s no hesitation in your limbs. No self-consciousness. Just an urgency that makes you tear the shirt over your head and toss it into some far-off corner.

Your chest rises and falls in a rush of breath, completely bare to him. The sight of your exposed skin has his jaw tensing and pupils dilating.

He always does this—looks at you like it’s his first time seeing you. You normally find it incredibly endearing. But right now, you nearly whine in impatience.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the way his gaze drinks you in.

But he doesn’t pounce yet. Instead, the cool leather of his gloves tickles your legs, stroking in slow, reverent passes that leave goosebumps in their wake.

One hand trails upward, pausing at the edge of your underwear. Then it dips just low enough to brush against the growing wet patch at the center—and he groans when your legs instinctively spread wider for him.

You’re burning beneath his stare, almost every part of you laid bare and aching for him. And he’s still fully clothed. But for once, you don’t want him to take a stitch off.

He hums in smug amusement and brings one thumb to press over the soaked spot on your underwear, rubbing a slow circle before gliding upward until he nudges your clit through the fabric.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice laced with that perfect mix of tease and tenderness. “Is this really all because of what I’m wearing?”

The soft brush of lips against your thigh feels like a brand. Like he’s staking his claim on you before looking up again with a cocky tilt of his head.

“Do you like the colonel’s uniform,” he murmurs, "or the guy wearing it?"

Is he seriously jealous right now? If you weren't so high-strung with need, you’d laugh. Only Caleb could be jealous of his own damn clothes.

After all this tension and the way he drags out your pleasure at a torturous pace, you might as well let the green-eyed monster fester inside him.

You pretend to think it over with a quiet hum, as if his question requires careful deliberation.

His fingers still, and one brow arches in mock disapproval. But you see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—he’s amused, even as he clings to the role of the cold colonel.

“You're cruel, baby,” he growls, pressing his thumb to your clit with firmer pressure. “If it's that hard to decide, maybe I should give you some private time alone with my uniform.” His voice is lower now. That usual trace of playfulness is gone. “But first…I think you need to be properly disciplined for keeping secrets from your commanding officer.”

He snatches his hat from the coffee table behind him before obscuring your field of vision with it, angling the brim so it’s half on your face and down low enough that you're plunged in darkness.

“Wha– ugh, Caleb!”

You reach for the brim, intending to yank it off so you can glare at him. But he stops you easily. Gravity tugs at your wrists until they're pinned loosely at your sides.

There’s a soft tut of disapproval, and then comes the sudden sting of your panties being snapped back against your wet heat.

“Don't move, soldier,” he warns smugly, as if you even could. “You're under the colonel's command now.”

The pressure of his Evol fades, but he clearly expects you to stay obedient. And for now, you do. You know better than to test him—at least, not yet.

Still, in case you forget, he reminds you with icy authority, “Insubordination will not be tolerated. Understand?”

This is unfair in so many ways. All you want is to see him, to touch him. But the hat, the rules, the aching need between your legs—it’s all too much.

You can only reply with a frustrated huff, and the sound soon melts into a whimper as he finally hooks his fingers in your panties and begins tugging them down your legs.

Once they’re off, there’s a deafening beat of silence before Caleb finally breaks it. “If you need me to stop, you know what to say, yeah?” His voice is gentle now, a jarring shift from the commanding edge it had a moment before.

You’re grateful for the check-in, but right now all you want is for him to keep going. You nod eagerly, but that doesn’t seem to be good enough for the colonel.

“Say it out loud, pip-squeak.”

“Apple juice,” you reply breathlessly, repeating the safe word you and Caleb have used in the past.

“Attagirl.” His praise curls around your spine like a hot wire, setting every nerve on edge.

You can’t see his face beneath the hat still shading your vision, but you can feel his eyes on you. You’re willing to bet they’re dark, hungry, focused entirely on what’s between your legs.

He proves you right with the slow, deliberate stroke of leather gliding up your inner thighs and brushing against your quivering heat. He’s touching you again, finally. But it’s frustratingly soft, every sensation dulled by the smooth barrier of his glove. The feather-light contact makes you twitch, hips rolling instinctively, desperate for more.

The chuckle that rumbles from his chest tells you he’s clearly pleased with how responsive you are. “You’re so wet for me already,” he murmurs, lazily dragging his fingers down your slit to collect your slick and smear it against your clit. “Bet you’ve been like this since the moment I walked through the door in this uniform.”

It’s addicting when Caleb gets like this—so drunk off the sight and feel of you that he can’t stop yapping about everything he wants to do to you. It’s as if touching you sets something loose in him that was hiding beneath the surface before. You try to bite back your moans, straining to hear every delicious word he spills against your skin.

More of your arousal gets captured between his fingers. You can hear it clearly with each obscene squelch from your cunt.

Caleb groans in appreciation of a sight only he can see. “You're makin’ such a mess for me, baby,” he says, voice rough with desire. “Maybe if you hadn't lied to me, you could have seen the way you’re soaking these gloves you seem to like so much.”

You can't stop yourself from huffing out a retort from beneath his hat. “But I didn't lie–”

Smack!

Your whole body jolts at the sudden, delicious sting of his palm landing hard against your swollen pussy. The seams along his gloved fingertips brush against your clit on the way down, and the sharp tingle of pain mixed with pleasure nearly unravels you. His name tears from your throat in a yelp, and he just laughs like this is the most amusing thing he’s ever seen.

But even though you can practically hear the sick smile on his face, he’s still Caleb, still careful. “Was that okay?” he asks, voice soft and grounding despite the burning heat between the apex of your thighs. “Do you need to use your safe word, baby?”

You shake your head fast, too desperate to want this to stop. Your clit throbs, greedy for more of that delicious sting. And your thighs tremble where they press around his kneeling body.

He gives you a moment anyway, even if you’re trembling with need instead of nerves. And then, finally, he strikes again.

The second smack is sharper, leaving a slightly more intense sting in its wake. Heat blooms across your pussy with startling clarity—and that’s when you realize he’s taken off his glove.

The next hit comes just as quick. His palm against your soaked, sensitive flesh makes your toes curl. With each spank, blood rushes to your clit, making your cunt slicker, hotter, and hungrier than before. It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build during each frustrating pause when Caleb juxtaposes the pain with tight circles rubbed against your aching bundle of nerves.

The feeling soars higher and higher in the pit of your stomach…and then you anticipate the tension about to snap in a sudden rush.

It’s overwhelming and unstoppable all at once.

“Fuck, I’m going to–” is all you manage to cry out before his fingers are inside you. Two thick digits plunge deep into your pussy and curl hard against your g-spot like he knows you’re about to come undone before you can even warn him properly.

Your orgasm crashes over you so violently you convulse. Your thighs squeeze around his broad torso, the harsh fabric of his uniform lightly scraping your smooth skin like a possessive claim: you’re his to break apart, and his to hold together.

That familiar, magnetic pulse of his Evol clings to your body again. It keeps the hat firmly on your face and pins you down as your slick gushes around his rough fingers. There’s no escaping the intense pleasure he pulls from you.

You whimper through the aftershocks, mind spinning, body trembling. But even now—blissed out and soaking wet—your cunt still clenches helplessly around his fingers.

It was all too soon. Too fast. The sweet release you were craving just minutes ago now feels like a hollow ache, a need left open and begging to be filled.

“Calebbb,” you whine beneath the hat, too wrecked to deliver the scolding he deserves. “That…that was so mean!”

Condescension drips from his voice as he coos in reply, “Aww, poor little thing.” The mocking lilt of his words makes you throb on his fingers all over again.

Luckily for you, he’s nowhere near done yet. You've barely caught your breath and he's already moving his fingers again, sliding them in and out at a lazy pace while his other hand—still wrapped in cool leather—snakes up your trembling body to play with your pebbled nipples.

“Want me to kiss it better, sweetheart?” he asks before shifting closer and blowing a gentle stream of air right on your clit.

His mouth just hovers there for a few painstaking seconds, taking his sweet time in getting you all riled up again while you squeeze his fingers with your cunt.

When a fat glob of spit lands on your heated skin and drips down to meet his fingers, you struggle to keep your hands by your side like he demanded. The added lubrication only amplifies the sounds coming from your greedy pussy. It’s sucking his fingers deeper inside with loud squelches—and you’d be embarrassed if you weren’t busy getting your brain turned to pleasure-filled mush.

But Caleb doesn’t waste the opportunity to keep being a big meanie.

“Ohhh, listen to that,” he purrs through a satisfied groan. “She’s practically singin’ for me.”

That infuriatingly smug tone seems impossible for him to keep at bay. His fingers curl inside you with pinpoint precision, nudging your g-spot in a rhythm so calculated, so perfect, it has you twitching for him.

“At least this pretty cunt never keeps secrets from me.” The words are muttered so close to a growl that you can barely tell if you actually heard them or imagined them, lost beneath the growing sounds from between your thighs.

You’re going to lose your mind like this. You’re seconds away from being locked up in a padded room if he keeps this up without putting that sinful mouth of his where you need it most.

Clawing helplessly at the couch, your voice breaks with desperation. “Please, Caleb! Stop teasing me.”

Some merciful god above must take pity on you because finally, Caleb decides you’ve been punished enough.

His Evol yanks the hat off your flushed face and throws it to the other end of the couch. You’re relieved to be able to see him again, but slightly annoyed he’s not putting it back on himself. Your disappointment only lasts a second though, because the sight you’re greeted with nearly makes you come on the spot.

As soon as your gaze meets his, he smirks. And then his mouth descends upon your clit like a man possessed. His mouth latches on with zero hesitation, tongue flicking with terrifying accuracy. One deliberate stripe, then a harsh suck that rips his name from your throat in a breathless cry.

And all the while, he watches you.

Bliss is written all over his face, and he moans against your sloppy center like this is all he ever needs in his life. Caleb doesn’t just eat pussy to make you feel good. He eats it like he never wants to part from your glistening folds. And when he enjoys a meal, he makes a mess out of it.

With each curl of his fingers inside you, you’re dripping more of your arousal across his chin and down his damn wrist. And he is smearing it all back on your twitching pussy with a depraved moan, eager to make you feel more, so much more pleasure than you can imagine.

He only parts from your clit for a second to demand that you keep your eyes locked on him, no matter how good he’s making you feel. After all, your attention should be trained solely on him while he licks and sucks on your swollen clit. He wants to look into your eyes and pinpoint the exact moment you come because of him—and only him.

You’re so close to giving him what he wants, your hips jerking as you start to grind against his mouth and hands at a more feverish pace. He gets the hint immediately, moving faster to match the rhythm you desire.

Any control the colonel had a few minutes ago is gone. It’s washed clean from your wetness and from the way he melts into the soft, needy heat of your cunt. Now, all he can do is look up at you in worship while he whines a whole damn symphony against your flushed skin.

You try to hold out for him—god, you try—but your body’s already a trembling mess, wound so tight it only takes one more flick of his tongue to unravel you completely. Your second orgasm of the night tears through you with a cry of his name as your hips roll against his mouth in a final, desperate grind.

Caleb doesn’t let up.

He keeps curling his fingers, keeps moaning against your drenched pussy like he’s savoring every drop of your pleasure. The intensity leaves you shaking—mind hazy, body spent, nerves frayed in the best way.

By the time you slump back against the couch, sweaty and panting, he’s already surging up to steal a kiss from your lips. It’s all desperation and greed, his tongue curling past your lips to share the taste of you and swallow your sweet whimpers.

When he parts for air, you find yourself suddenly boneless in his arms as he lifts you like you weigh nothing at all. His Evol helps him along and caresses your skin as it ensures you don’t squirm in his hold.

You expect him to tease you about how wrecked you are—maybe even throw you right back onto the couch and start again. But instead, he carries you deeper into his home, feet moving with purpose.

It’s clear where he’s taking you without even needing to ask. Of course it's the bedroom. Of course he wants more. So do you.

There’s a beat of tense silence as he crosses the threshold, the anticipation burning in your veins. He could take you against the nearest wall, could push you into the mattress and ruin you completely, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Caleb once told you he likes to take his time when he shows his affection. And he’s always stayed true to his word. But you’re still getting used to the way he drags out every moment of pleasure between the two of you.

When he finally sits down on the edge of the bed, he keeps you in his lap, cradled but not restrained. The pull of his Evol has faded now, but you don’t make any move to leave his arms. You simply shift to straddle him, legs settling on either side of his hips.

Even after your intense orgasms, you still want more. And it doesn’t take a genius to know he’s going to fuck you now.

You wait—for his hands, for his voice, for anything. But he leans back to lie on the soft bed. You watch in confusion as he folds his arms behind his head. And does absolutely nothing.

One blink. Two. He’s still just lying there.

“Well?” he drawls, voice low and unbearably smug. “You said you like my uniform so much. I’m givin’ you your alone time with it.”

Your breath catches at the implication. That cocky bastard.

Alright. Two can play at this game. You just need to persuade him with the gentle rock of your hips. It seems to work for a second, causing his cock to twitch beneath you. But he still doesn’t budge.

“Caleb,” you whine, “stop playing around.”

He only smiles wider at your plea, eyes sliding half-closed like making you squirm is better than any other pleasure you can provide.

Desperate to convince him to do something, you ask, “What happened to you barking out orders and calling all the shots, hm?”

Still not even a flinch from him.

“We both know you’re always the one in charge, baby,” he says so simply it makes your jaw tick in annoyance. “So go ahead. Use me.”

It seems he’s settling in for the show, arms folded behind his head as if he has all the time in the world.

This isn’t just him being a tease anymore. It’s a full surrender wrapped in a smirk.

And then he promises, “I’ll follow any orders you give me, Colonel Pip-squeak.” He knows you can’t pass that up.

The uniform you’ve been obsessed with is all yours now, but the man beneath it has always belonged to you. Maybe it’s time to remind him of that.

I'd like to give a big shoutout and HUGE thank you to @walleeli for beta reading this and giving me fantastic feedback And I'd like to thank my bff @sirianisrock for dealing with my usual antics, indecisiveness, and listening to me rant about this fic for days LOL ~ Creds: mdni banner by @/cafekitsune glove/apple dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[raevalyntine]

what happens when you buy a little plushie of the man you love?

(zayne fluff! a gift for all zayne lovers out there, let's shower him with the love he deserves)

Akso Hospital had always been proud of its reputation—cutting-edge technology, pioneering research, and a surgical team led by some of the brightest minds in the field.

At the very center of it all?

Dr. Zayne Li. Their prodigy. Their miracle. Their youngest Starcatcher Award recipient. The man whose steady hands had rewritten the outcomes of congenital heart defects. Whose name was printed in journals and whispered in lecture halls. Cold, brilliant, focused. A doctor with a heart so carefully guarded, it felt like a privilege just to see him smile.

You knew better. You’d seen the version the world never got to see.

The one who braided a little girl’s hair in the pediatric wing because she missed her mom. The one who kept your favorite tea stocked in his office. The one whose silence was never empty, but filled with a love so steady you could feel it in your bones.

You didn’t know that the board of directors had been planning a new mascot for the pediatric wing. Or that every single person in the room had immediately, unanimously, said his name. Zayne. Beloved by patients. Respected by interns. The silent strength behind Akso’s brilliance.

So when you walked into the hospital that afternoon, expecting nothing more than a quick lunch date with your snowman of a boyfriend, you weren’t prepared for the way your world stilled.

Because there—tucked between informational brochures and pastel signage, under the soft hum of the hospital lights—

Was a plushie. Of Zayne. Your Zayne.

Your breath caught in your chest.

It was so small. Maybe the size of your palm. But the craftsmanship was unreal—his pale beige three-piece suit, stitched to perfection. His crisp white shirt. The tie you knot every morning as his eyes find yours, and he leans in—quiet, close—to kiss your forehead like you’re his first breath of peace for the day. A miniature stethoscope rested on his tiny chest. His neatly styled jet-black hair was captured in soft tufts, complete with that single familiar swoop at the front. And his expression—gentle, smiling, just a little—was so unmistakably him, it felt like someone had reached into your chest and sewn your feelings into fabric.

His embroidered green eyes were thoughtful. His blushing cheeks were subtle, like warmth just beginning to bloom.

Your fingers trembled as you reached out, brushing the plushie’s cheek with your thumb. And suddenly—your chest felt too full. Was it the hospital lights? Or your hormones? Or just the impossible, overwhelming truth of how much you loved him?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, hands lifting to your mouth. “Is this... Zayne?”

The nurse nearby laughed gently. “Yeah. New pediatric mascot. The kids adore him. Honestly, so do the parents.”

You were already at the counter before she finished speaking, your heart soft and stormy all at once. You held the plush like it might shatter in your hands. It was just… so him. And something about seeing him this way—gentle, warm, huggable—made your chest ache with a pride too big for words.

Then, a small voice near you pulled you out of the moment.

“That’s Dr. Zayne,” a little boy said to his mom, pointing. “He was really nice to me when I had to stay here. He let me listen to my own heartbeat.”

You nearly choked on a sob.

Crouching down, you held the plushie out to him. “Would you like one?”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

You nodded and bought one without hesitation, handing it to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’d want you to have one. He’s… pretty special, huh?”

The boy hugged it tight. “Yeah. He is. He’s my hero!”

And somewhere behind you, footsteps padded softly down the corridor. Zayne had just stepped out of his office, clipboard in hand, his white coat fluttering gently behind him. He stopped the moment his eyes found you—kneeling beside a child, handing him a plushie version of him, your face aglow with so much love it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

And then he saw it—the plushie pressed to your chest, your touch light and reverent, like you were holding more than just fabric and thread. He saw the way your fingers paused over its stitched little smile. The way you looked down at it with a softness so achingly full of devotion, he could barely stand still.

And for a long, suspended second, Zayne forgot the beeping monitors, the lab reports, the surgeries waiting to be reviewed. Because in that moment, standing quietly in the hallway, he realised— No professional honour had ever made him feel like this. No accolade, no award, no headline about his “exceptional precision” or “gifted hands” had ever made him feel the way you did.

Like he wasn’t just someone who knew the rhythm of a heart—but had become the reason one beat at all.

He stepped closer. You looked up, startled—but then you softened. And smiled.

You lifted the plush slightly. “Look who I found.”

Zayne let out the smallest laugh, something caught between amusement and awe. “You bought a plushie of me?”

You stood, hugging it gently to your chest. “I bought two, actually. Gave one to a little boy who said you helped him listen to his heartbeat.”

His eyes lowered. “I remember him.”

“I’m really proud of you,” you whispered.

His hand came up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I thought it was ridiculous, honestly,” he murmured. “Being made into a mascot. I didn’t think it meant anything. But…”

His fingers brushed against yours, just where they rested on the plush’s sleeve.

“…seeing you hold it like that—it feels like it does.”

Your voice trembled with tenderness as you whispered, “It does.”

And right there, in the middle of Akso Hospital, surrounded by laughter and life and the quiet hum of machines—he kissed your forehead.

Soft. Lingering. Like he was stitching the moment into the very fabric of his soul.

You didn’t say anything more. You didn’t need to.

A single, quiet “I love you” passed between you, unspoken, but felt in the brush of his lips against your skin.

The plush stayed in your hands the rest of the day—clutched to your chest, warm and cherished. Like a tiny, stitched promise of everything the real him already was.

Yours. Completely.

[lamaery]

Looking for a stormy or colorful summer beach read? @priscellie and Ihad way too much fun creating some romance novel versions of Rhythm of War and Warbreaker. I made the illustrations and Priscillie made them look like actual books – beautifully ridiculous, curly typography, mock-up and all. I hope that there will be more :D

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Image description: (by Priscillie) Photomanipulation of two battered paperback pulp romance novels that look straight out of a thrift store bargain bin in the 1980s. The books are RHYTHM OF WAR and WARBREAKER by Sandra Branderson. RHYTHM OF WAR features an illustration of Navani and Raboniel experimenting with light, Raboniel looming behind Navani and leaning in, their faces almost touching. Raboniel streams voidlight from her image-left hand, which travels like lightning through Navani's tuning fork and into the sphere in Navani's gloved safehand. It's the primary source of light in the scene, and the background is nothing but murky darkness. Raboniel focuses intently, her red eyes alien and unknowable, as she focuses on her work. One of Navani's unkempt locks of hair just brushes the corner of Raboniel's mouth, and I'm not normal about it. Navani looks like she's gone three days without changing clothes and that she's slept in her hairstyle a similar number of nights. The collar of her havah is open, revealing her collarbones. Her expression is a mix of amazement, fear, and exhaustion, her mouth slightly open and her head tilted back slightly. Her face is lit from below by their experiment. The title and author's name are angled at a sharp diagonal, with strong capital letters and the occasional flourish. At the top is the tagline "In the Heart of War... Passion and Honor are Fused!" In one corner is some publication information, with a little logo of a seal and the words "A 'Sealed With a Kiss' Paperback," the fake ISBN 17S-631-1123-1210 (the last two sets of numbers being our birthdays), and prices in America and Canada. The other book is Warbreaker, also by Sandra Branderson. The illustration depicts Susebron and Siri in a ridiculously overblown, windswept Fabio-style cover, with a shirtless Susebron holding Siri so she's half sitting on his chest, one knee up with her thigh along his chest, her legs off to one side, and with her body twisted so she's facing him with her upper body, leaning down to him, a breath away from kissing him. She's wearing a teal dress with a Mesoamerican vibe that reveals her midriff and leaves her shoulders bare, but with a long train that blows off to the side. Her arms are painted in looping gold shapes. Her hair is blonde for most of its length, but it's beginning to change to a vivid red at the scalp. It's wrapped in teal ribbon to match her dress. Susebron has long, sleek black hair caught by the wind, chunky gold earrings and a slim gold cuff at his upper arm, and is wrapped in long white strips of awakened cloth that snake through the image in an energetic explosion of fabric. He gazes at her in handsome adoration and abandon, and she gazes back in love tempered by concern. The title has the same diagonal and italicized design with the same typeface and flourishes, but the title is jazzed up with shimmery, iridescent type. At the top is the tagling "She was forced to marry a god... Then she took his breath away!"

[kenzdolls]

STORMY HEARTS . 5.7k

⌗ synopsis: after blowing up on your boyfriends, they decide to “ignore” you out of hurt.

⌗ pairing: katsuki bakugo + eijiro kirishima x fem!reader

⌗ sent in by: anonymous

⌗ trigger warnings: arguments/conflict, emotional distress, mild anxiety, mentions of crying, brief reference to nightmares, use of (y/n).

the alarm blared for the fifth time that morning, and you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed with a groan. nothing was going right today. you'd stayed up until 4 am finishing a report for midnight's class after spending hours helping uraraka with her quirk training. your muscles ached, your eyes burned from lack of sleep, and the dull throb of an oncoming headache pulsed at your temples.

"just get through today," you muttered to yourself, stumbling toward the bathroom.

in your exhausted haste, you knocked over your coffee mug, sending the hot liquid cascading across your freshly ironed uniform. you stared at the brown stain spreading across the white fabric, and for a moment, you thought you might actually cry.

"you've got to be kidding me," you hissed, frantically dabbing at the uniform with a towel. all you managed to do was make the stain larger.

by the time you'd changed into your backup uniform (which was slightly too small after the last growth spurt), you were running terribly late. you sprinted across the ua campus, your bag slapping against your back with each step. the spring morning that would normally lift your spirits only seemed to mock your misery with its cheerful birdsong and golden sunshine.

you slid open the classroom door with seconds to spare before aizawa's arrival, drawing curious glances from your classmates.

"hey, babe! we missed you at breakfast!" kirishima's bright voice called out as you slumped into your seat. he bounded over with that sunshine smile that usually melted your heart. today, it just made your headache worse. his red hair was perfectly styled as always, those sharp teeth gleaming in a grin that screamed energy you simply didn't have.

"yeah, we waited for fifteen minutes," bakugo followed behind him, his usual scowl softening slightly when his eyes met yours. he was wearing the special earrings you'd given him for his birthday – small explosive shapes that complemented his quirk. any other day, the sight would have made you smile. "tch. you look like shit. rough night?"

any other day, you'd have laughed at his blunt concern. but today, everything felt like an attack.

"obviously," you muttered, rummaging through your bag for your textbook only to realize you'd left it in your dorm. "great. just great."

"you can share mine," kirishima offered, already pulling his chair closer. his warm thigh pressed against yours as he scooted over. "i even wrote notes in the margins for once! bakugo's been helping me with that whole 'being a good student' thing."

"i don't need your help," you snapped, immediately regretting your tone but too frustrated to apologize. you shifted away from his touch, creating a small but noticeable gap between you. "i'm not a child who needs to be coddled."

kirishima's smile faltered, hurt flashing across his face like a lightning strike. his hand, which had been reaching for yours under the desk, retreated to his lap.

"the hell is your problem?" bakugo growled, protective over kirishima as always. his crimson eyes narrowed dangerously, and a few small pops emanated from his palms – a sure sign he was getting agitated. "he's just trying to help. no need to bite his head off."

"my problem is everyone acting like i can't handle myself for five minutes!" your voice was louder than intended, causing nearby classmates to turn and stare. midoriya and todoroki exchanged concerned glances from their seats. "i'm having a bad day, okay? is that allowed, or do i have to be perfectly fine all the time?"

"fine! handle it yourself then!" bakugo shot back, grabbing kirishima's arm with more force than necessary. "let's go, shitty hair. she wants space, she can have it. all the fucking space in the world."

"guys, maybe we should—" kirishima started, his voice uncharacteristically small.

"no," bakugo cut him off. "if she doesn't want us around, we're not gonna beg."

you watched them retreat to their seats as aizawa entered the classroom, yellow sleeping bag in tow. the pit in your stomach grew heavier with guilt, but pride kept you from running after them. besides, aizawa was already starting attendance, his bloodshot eyes promising detention to anyone who disrupted class.

throughout the morning lessons, you could feel kirishima's concerned glances boring into the back of your head. unlike bakugo, who resolutely stared ahead with his jaw clenched tight, kirishima had never been good at holding grudges. once, during english with present mic, you caught him writing something on a scrap of paper – probably a note to pass to you. but when bakugo noticed, he whispered something that made kirishima's shoulders slump, and the note disappeared into his pocket.

by lunch, the tension was unbearable. you gathered your courage and approached their usual table, tray in hand.

"can i sit—" you began, but bakugo cut you off before you could finish.

"tables full," he said coldly, despite the two empty seats beside him.

"come on, bakugo," kirishima said softly. "that's not manly—"

"it's fine," you interrupted, pride once again getting the better of you. "i'll sit with mina and the others."

as you walked away, you heard bakugo mutter, "see? she doesn't care anyway."

if only he knew how much you did care. how the lump in your throat felt like it might choke you as you forced yourself to smile at mina's table.

"lover's quarrel?" mina asked, her black and gold eyes filled with genuine concern as you sat down.

"something like that," you mumbled, pushing food around your plate without appetite.

"they'll come around," tsuyu said matter-of-factly. "kero. boys just need time to cool off."

but as you glanced over at your boyfriends, seeing kirishima's forced laughter and bakugo's stormy expression, you weren't so sure.

--

the next three days were excruciating.

your boyfriends weren't outright ignoring you, but they had clearly taken your outburst to heart. whenever you entered a room, conversations became strained. lunch found them sitting with kaminari and sero rather than saving you a spot. kirishima's daily good morning texts stopped, and bakugo didn't wait for you after combat training like he usually did.

the distance between you grew with each passing hour until it felt like a chasm.

on wednesday, you paired with ochako for combat exercises while kirishima and bakugo immediately gravitatedtoward each other. the sight of them working together seamlessly, complementing each other's quirks with practiced precision, sent a pang of loneliness through your chest.

"you're distracted," ochako noted gently after you failed to dodge a simple attack. "is everything okay with you and the boys?"

"i'm fine," you insisted, wiping sweat from your brow. "just tired."

but you weren't fine. that night, you lay awake staring at your phone, thumb hovering over your group chat with kirishima and bakugo. the last message was from three days ago – a silly meme kirishima had sent about hero costumes. you started typing several messages, only to delete them all.

i'm sorry i was such a jerk.

delete.

can we talk?

delete.

i miss you both so much it hurts.

delete.

pride and fear kept you from sending anything. what if they'd decided they were better off without you? what if your one bad day had shown them that dating two people at once was more trouble than it was worth?

thursday morning brought no relief. in homeroom, you noticed bakugo had switched seats to sit farther away from you. kirishima still occupied his usual spot, but he seemed deflated, his normally spiky hair slightly less enthusiastic, as if reflecting his mood.

"trouble in paradise?" mina whispered during modern hero art history, nodding toward where kirishima and bakugo sat together, pointedly not looking your way.

"it's fine," you lied.

"well, you better fix it soon," kaminari leaned over to add. "bakugo's been twice as explosive in training. he nearly singed my eyebrows off yesterday."

"and kirishima keeps breaking things because he's hardening unconsciously when he gets upset," mina added. "he crushed three pencils in math alone."

it wasn't fine. the classroom had become a minefield of awkward silences and avoided glances. even your classmates had begun to notice, exchanging worried looks whenever the three of you were in proximity. at one point, you heard iida lecturing mineta about "respecting the delicate dynamics of polyamorous relationships" – a sure sign that your love life had become a topic of class discussion.

that afternoon, you spotted kirishima alone in the common area, a rare sight these days. gathering your courage, you approached him.

"hey," you said softly.

he looked up, surprise and something like hope flashing across his face. "hey."

an awkward silence stretched between you.

"how have you been?" you finally asked.

"good! fine, totally fine," he responded too quickly, his forced smile not reaching his eyes. "just, you know, busy with training and stuff."

"right," you nodded, heart sinking. "me too."

before you could say more, bakugo appeared in the doorway. his eyes narrowed as he took in the scene.

"kirishima. we're supposed to be studying," he called sharply.

kirishima glanced between you and bakugo, conflict written across his expressive face.

"coming," he finally said to bakugo, then turned back to you with an apologetic look. "i gotta go. but, um, it was good talking to you."

as they walked away, you heard bakugo mutter, "what were you thinking? she made it clear she doesn't need us."

kirishima's response was too quiet to hear, but the slump of his shoulders told you enough.

by friday afternoon, you couldn't take it anymore. sitting alone in your dorm room, you hugged your knees to your chest and finally let the tears fall. you'd messed up. one bad day had potentially ruined the best relationship you'd ever had. the charm bracelet they'd given you on your two-month anniversary felt heavy on your wrist, each small charm – an explosion for bakugo, a hardened fist for kirishima, and a symbol representing your quirk – a reminder of what you stood to lose.

you fingered the charms, remembering how bakugo had pretended to be annoyed about shopping for "sentimental crap" but had been the one to spot the perfect bracelet in the store window. how kirishima had insisted on charms that represented all three of you "because we're a team!"

the memory only made you cry harder.

a soft knock at your door startled you.

"go away," you called, hastily wiping at your tears. you didn't want anyone to see you like this, especially not mina or tsuyu with their well-intentioned advice.

"(y/n)." it was kirishima's voice, uncharacteristically serious. "please open the door."

your heart leaped to your throat. had he heard you crying from the hallway?

when you didn't respond, another voice cut in.

"open the damn door or i'll blow it off the hinges." bakugo, as subtle as ever.

"dude, we talked about this," you heard kirishima whisper harshly. "that's not the approach we agreed on!"

"well, she's not answering, is she?" bakugo shot back. "we've been standing out here for five minutes!"

with a heavy sigh, you pulled yourself up and unlocked the door, quickly wiping away any remaining tears. you weren't prepared for what greeted you on the other side.

--

kirishima stood there clutching an enormous bouquet of your favorite flowers, his crimson eyes wide with concern. the blossoms were slightly crushed on one side, as if they'd been held too tightly by nervous hands. beside him, bakugo held a bag from your favorite bakery in one hand and what appeared to be a small wrapped gift in the other. his usual scowl was present, but there was uncertainty in his eyes that you rarely saw.

"can we come in?" kirishima asked softly.

you stepped aside wordlessly, and they entered. bakugo immediately began pacing the small confines of your dorm room, while kirishima stood awkwardly by the door. the silence stretched between you for a long moment before all three of you spoke at once:

"i'm sorry—"

"we shouldn't have—"

"i was being a jerk—"

the tension broke as kirishima let out a relieved laugh.

"we've been complete idiots," he said, setting down the flowers to take your hands in his. his palms were warm and slightly calloused from training, the familiar texture making your heart ache with longing. "we should've known you were just having a rough day."

"i saw you spill coffee on your uniform that morning," bakugo admitted gruffly, still pacing. "should've realized you were already having a shitty day instead of making it worse."

"yeah, and we know you were up late helping uraraka," kirishima added. "deku told us."

"you guys were asking about me?" you questioned, a tiny spark of hope igniting in your chest.

"of course we were," bakugo stopped pacing to look at you directly. "just because we were pissed doesn't mean we stopped caring."

"i should've handled it better," you admitted, looking down at your and kirishima's joined hands. "i had no right to snap at you like that. you were just trying to help, and i was… i was just so tired and frustrated and taking it out on you wasn't fair."

"and we had no right to ice you out for days," kirishima replied, squeezing your hands. his eyes were suspiciously bright, as if he too might cry. "that wasn't manly at all."

"it was my idea," bakugo confessed, the admission clearly costing him. "i told kirishima you needed space. but i was just being stubborn and hurt."

"i should've stood up to him," kirishima added. "i knew it was wrong."

bakugo stepped forward, awkwardly thrusting the bakery bag toward you. "here. your favorite. the old lady at the bakery says hi, by the way. asked where you've been."

you peeked inside to find an assortment of pastries that made your mouth water – custard-filled taiyaki, melon pan, and the red bean mochi you loved so much.

"you went all the way to mrs. sato's bakery?" you asked, touched. it was at least a thirty-minute train ride from ua. "in the middle of the school day?"

"we may have skipped last period," kirishima admitted with a sheepish grin. "but all might is pretty understanding! we told him it was a relationship emergency."

the mental image of your boyfriends explaining to the former symbol of peace that they needed to skip class to buy you pastries almost made you laugh despite the tears threatening to spill again.

"we've been following you around all day trying to find the right moment to apologize," kirishima confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. "but you always looked so sad, and we weren't sure if you even wanted to talk to us anymore."

"plus hair-for-brains here kept chickening out," bakugo added, earning a protest from kirishima.

"me? you're the one who kept saying 'the timing isn't right' every time we saw her!"

"because it wasn't!"

"of course i want to talk to you," you whispered, cutting off their bickering and feeling fresh tears spring to your eyes. "i've been miserable without you guys. i tried to text so many times, but i was afraid you'd moved on. that maybe you realized having a girlfriend was more trouble than it's worth."

bakugo's expression softened, and he reached out to brush a tear from your cheek with surprising gentleness. "don't be stupid," he said, but his voice held no bite. "as if we'd give up that easily."

"we were miserable too," kirishima admitted. "bakugo blew up the microwave when kaminari mentioned your name yesterday."

"i did not!"

"you totally did. and i crushed my phone when i saw your name pop up in my memories app."

"is that why you have a new phone?" you asked, noticing the unfamiliar device poking out of his pocket.

"yeah," he smiled sheepishly. "hardening quirk and emotional distress don't mix well with electronics."

bakugo handed you the small wrapped package he'd been holding. "here. this is… from both of us."

you carefully unwrapped it to find a small velvet box. inside was a delicate silver necklace with a pendant that matched the charms on your bracelet – the three symbols intertwined into one design.

"kiri picked it out," bakugo mumbled, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

"we both did," kirishima corrected, beaming now. "we wanted something to remind you that even when we fight, we're still connected. the three of us, together."

"plus," bakugo added, avoiding eye contact in that way he did when being sincere embarrassed him, "you're always touching that bracelet we gave you. even this week when you were ignoring us. so we thought…"

your heart felt like it might burst as kirishima took the necklace and moved behind you to fasten it. his warm breath tickled your neck, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. when he finished, his lips brushed against your shoulder in a featherlight kiss before he moved back to face you.

"i'm really sorry," you said again, looking between them and touching the new pendant resting against your collarbone. "for everything. i promise i'll try to communicate better next time i'm having a bad day instead of bottling it up and exploding."

"that's my job," bakugo said with a smirk, referring to his quirk. the familiar joke made warmth bloom in your chest.

"we are too," kirishima replied, pulling you into a warm hug. you sank into his embrace, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne and the faint smell of cinnamon that always seemed to cling to him. "we should have checked on you instead of assuming the worst."

after a moment's hesitation, bakugo joined the embrace, his strong arms encircling both of you. it was rare for him to initiate this kind of physical affection, making the gesture all the more meaningful.

"if you ever feel like that again," he murmured against your hair, "just tell us to back off instead of bottling it up, got it? say 'bakugo, kirishima, i need space today,' and we'll give it to you. no questions asked."

"and if you need help," kirishima added, "just say that too. we're not mind readers."

you nodded against his chest, feeling the weight of the past few days finally lifting. "i promise."

the three of you stayed like that for a long moment, simply holding each other and reconnecting without words. finally, kirishima pulled back slightly, his trademark sharp-toothed grin back in full force.

"so," he said, his voice bright with hope, "movie night in the common room? i think we all could use some cuddle time."

"as long as we don't have to watch another one of those action movies where the heroes do everything wrong," you teased, feeling yourself smile for the first time in days.

"only if i get to pick the movie," you teased, feeling yourself smile for the first time in days.

"as if," bakugo scoffed, but the arm around your waist tightened affectionately. "it's my turn."

"we'll negotiate," kirishima laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple.

--

the common room was already bustling with activity when the three of you arrived, your hands interlinked with kirishima on one side and bakugo on the other. conversation died down momentarily as your classmates took in the sight of the three of you together again, expressions ranging from relief (midoriya) to knowing smirks (mina).

"thank fucking god," kaminari whispered loudly to jirou, who elbowed him in the ribs. "what? i'm just saying what everyone's thinking! i couldn't handle another day of bakugo being even more explosive than usual."

"shut it, pikachu!" bakugo growled, but there was no real heat behind it. his thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, a subtle gesture of affection he probably thought no one noticed.

"movie night?" todoroki asked from his spot on one of the couches, his mismatched eyes taking in your joined hands with quiet approval.

"yeah, if that's cool with everyone," kirishima replied with his usual enthusiasm. "we were thinking something chill."

"as long as it's not another documentary about mountain climbing," sero groaned. "i still have nightmares about that last one iida made us watch."

"the educational value of understanding extreme environments is not to be underestimated!" iida protested, chopping his hands through the air emphatically.

the familiar banter washed over you like a soothing balm. mina gave you a thumbs up from across the room, mouthing "told you so!" with a wink.

"i guess we were pretty obvious, huh?" you whispered to kirishima as the three of you claimed the loveseat, which was just barely big enough for all of you if you didn't mind being squished together (which you certainly didn't).

"extremely," tsuyu confirmed from nearby. "the whole class was walking on eggshells. kero. aizawa-sensei even asked if there was something wrong with the three of you."

"he did not!" you gasped, mortified at the thought of your homeroom teacher discussing your love life.

"he totally did," uraraka confirmed, floating a bowl of popcorn over to your group. "he said, and i quote, 'fix whatever's going on because your performance in joint exercises is suffering.'"

kirishima laughed, the sound warming your heart. "sorry about that, guys! everything's manly and awesome now!"

"yeah, yeah, just keep the makeup pda to a minimum," kaminari teased. "some of us are single and bitter about it."

"you're just jealous because you can't get a date," bakugo shot back, but there was almost a hint of playfulness in his tone.

as the lights dimmed for the movie (a compromise selection that had something for everyone), you found yourself sandwiched between your boyfriends on the small loveseat. kirishima's arm draped around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with your hair. bakugo's thigh pressed against yours, warm and solid, his hand finding yours in the darkness.

"this okay?" he asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"perfect," you whispered back, giving his hand a squeeze.

as the movie played, you felt bakugo's foot nudge yours under the coffee table. when you looked his way, he was staring straight ahead at the screen, but the corner of his mouth was quirked up in a small, private smile meant only for you.

with kirishima's radiant warmth on one side and bakugo's protective presence on the other, you knew that no matter what bad days might come, the three of you would weather them together.

later that night, after most of your classmates had drifted off to their dorms, the three of you remained cuddled together on the loveseat. kirishima had fallen asleep, his head resting on your shoulder, soft snores escaping his slightly parted lips. bakugo was still awake, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on your palm.

"hey," you whispered, careful not to wake kirishima. "thanks for not giving up on us."

bakugo looked at you, those fierce crimson eyes softening in a way they only did when he was with you and kirishima. "as if that was ever an option," he murmured. "just don't scare us like that again, got it?"

"got it," you promised, leaning over to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "next time i need space or help, i'll just say so."

"good," he nodded, then added quietly, "i missed you."

coming from bakugo, those three simple words meant everything.

"i missed you too," you whispered back. "both of you."

"we know," he replied with that rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. "now get some sleep. shitty hair here has already drooled on your shirt."

sure enough, there was a small damp spot on your shoulder where kirishima's head rested. somehow, even that was endearing.

with a contented sigh, you closed your eyes, surrounded by the warmth of your boyfriends. the last thought that crossed your mind before sleep claimed you was that maybe, just maybe, bad days weren't so terrible when you had people who loved you enough to chase after you with flowers and pastries, even when you pushed them away.

and maybe next time, you'd just ask for that hug you needed right from the start.

the next monday, the change in atmosphere was palpable. as you walked into class flanked by your boyfriends, kirishima's arm draped casually over your shoulder and bakugo's hand intertwined with yours, a collective sigh of relief swept through the room.

"thank god," kaminari whispered loudly to jirou. "i couldn't handle another day of bakugo being even more explosive than usual."

"shut it, pikachu!" bakugo growled, but there was no real heat behind it.

mina gave you a thumbs up from across the room, and even todoroki seemed quietly pleased by the restored harmony.

"i guess we were pretty obvious, huh?" you whispered to kirishima as you took your seats.

"extremely," tsuyu confirmed from the desk behind you. "the whole class was walking on eggshells. kero."

kirishima laughed, the sound warming your heart. "sorry about that, guys! everything's manly and awesome now!"

as aizawa shuffled in to start homeroom, you felt bakugo's foot nudge yours under the desk. when you looked his way, he was staring straight ahead, but the corner of his mouth was quirked up in a small, private smile meant only for you.

with kirishima's radiant grin on one side and bakugo's quiet affection on the other, you knew that no matter what bad days might come, the three of you would weather them together.

and maybe next time, you'd just ask for that hug you needed right from the start.

taglist: [open]

mutuals

@https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @gh0st-g1rll @luvseraphh

© property of kenzdolls — do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my work

[ghostyuri]

just can’t resist you

hiii

pairing…post-rescue!natalie scatorccio x fem!reader

in which…nat is only your friend. she plans on keeping it that way, because she swears a girl like you would never be into her.

before you read…angst with comfort. sexual and vulgar language. reader is described to be girly! nat thinks you’re straight. creepy guy being a weirdo. wc 3.4k.

the trailer smells like burnt popcorn and spilled beer.

you had burnt the popcorn; nat’s spaghetti-o-stained microwave is nearing its end, and apparently, three minutes had meant burning the kernels to a nearly inedible crisp. natalie didn’t complain, she grabbed a bowl and snacked on it with pleasure.

not surprising, she's also the same woman who picks black licorice in a candy store.

natalie had spilled the beer, knocking it over on your cherry red skirt when she moved in closer to you on her couch, peppered with small circular burn holes and fur from a stray cat she lets sleepover during stormy nights. she apologized immediately and with an insane amount of worry, like the liquid would cause you to melt.

you were fine, you told her that again and again, even when she was wiping the fabric of your skirt with the nearest dirty laundry on the floor and a rushed hand—you had grabbed hers softly with your own to stop her.

she looked at you with those gleaming puppy eyes that always made you weak.

it was a miracle you made it seven months on the dot with her—just like this. two people who somehow fit in this dull town like pieces from different puzzles, that still managed to click. natalie had even called you her friend. and she didn’t use that word lightly…it made you blush. whatever this was, it wasn’t something she could have with just anyone.

it’s special.

you are too fucking sweet, and initially that made her want to vomit.

when you fluttered your eyes at her at the diner, offering her the special pie of the day with a kind smile she didn’t commonly receive. she said ‘no,’ with a lifeless expression; the first time.

the second occasion, the ‘no,’ was spoken above a whisper. she was sitting in the corner and avoided your eyes at that time.

you didn’t pry; you had absolutely no room to. a pretty and mysterious stranger’s problems were not your own.

then came the next week, when you saw her one-of-a-kind face again. she had looked at you, all of you, from the top of your head down to the tip of your white gym shoes. you wore the same inviting smile but spoke with less cheer. natalie had to ask you what pie was on the menu; it had seemingly slipped your mind.

you served her peach pie that evening. next, blueberry. then apple on saturday. it was an unspoken routine, and no wonder why hanging out with her outside of that lonely diner came so fast.

why you’re sitting in her trailer, curled up on the worn brown couch, painting her nails.

“stop fidgeting, natalie,” you warn with no real threat, leaning in closer to angle the brush better. you just barely miss her skin, the black paint still somehow almost perfect despite the woman growing antsy. “alllmost done.”

“shit takes five years,” nat whispers, though the painting itself isn’t why she can't remain still. she’s done this shit time and time again, though less precisely. she'd leave the dark smudges and would shrug it off. natalie is unsure she’s ever even owned a bottle of nail polish remover. what is making her shift so subtly, she doesn’t even know how you notice—is your hand holding hers.

for the past half hour. so incredibly soft to her calloused. they’re consistently scraped, but natalie liked to joke with you, too much at the serious times. she’d say she fought the new jersey devil or ran into the ninja turtles. fucking stupid, and you’d laugh at it. that noise she’d kill a man to hear on repeat.

“got a date or something?” you tease her, doing the last few strokes on her pinky. there’s a strawberry shortcake band-aid on her knuckle, placed by you the night prior.

the cut wasn’t deep enough to warrant worry, just your undying care. she didn’t even feel like washing the dried-up blood off, eager to get really close to you on the sofa without saying it was cuddling. but you’re you. treating her like porcelain. it makes her sick. nauseous with hot and vile love.

but that, that wasn’t allowed. she swallows those forbidden thoughts, pissed at herself for going there again. down the route that allows her to fall for you—just to embarrass herself when you put on that over-friendly voice you first did at the diner while you reject her.

because you…you weren’t any of this. you might be the beautiful wallpaper, but not the yellowing from the smoke that left her lungs.

maybe even the angel figurine abandoned by her mother, placed on a shelf with the rest of her junk. it got damaged in a moving box, and the wings had fallen off. she’d still catch herself studying it when the sun peered through the blinds at the right time, at the right angle.

the dozens of layers of glass within it would make it reflect a rainbow. she never had time to admire that when she was younger.

you’re not a guy she picks up when she’s so pathetically lonely—while you’re probably with some country club dipshit that’ll try to make you his housewife. someone undeserving of you and everything that you divinely are. natalie could not say the same for herself—that prick she distracts from bothering the bartender isn’t all that better than her.

you are. you must know that. the idea this friendship was based on pity filled her mind constantly, but you really fucking good at making it feel genuine. something you want. she wishes you wanted more, then she thinks shes a moron for hoping for such a thing.

she states blankly, “i might. is that a problem?”

“it is if it’s another jason—or something, again,” you respond, natalie taking notice in the way you remembered his name when she’s pretty damn sure it was uttered once in a regretted mumble. he siphoned her gas the morning after. but, she doesn’t know why you even care about who she sleeps with. it irritates her.

“won’t be…” natalie says, almost bitter. you don’t seem to catch it or acknowledge it. you twist the nail polish shut and place it beside her ashtray on the oval table and continue to talk, “or what was it—michael? that literally stole your cash?”

It’s not meant to come out so ill or make natalie uncomfortable. you wouldn’t hide your disdain towards who she was into because nat had some god awful taste. she never kept the good ones, and you wondered from the little details she’s spared about her past lovers, if she was the one who pulled away.

you lean back on the couch, and natalie straightens up at the very same time. any emotion on your face drains—realizing nat is upset. it happened when you asked too many questions; she despised those.

“you keeping track or something?”

the annoyance in her tone is evident, and you’re immediately shaking your head.

“no, i just—i don’t get why you keep doing that.”

“doing what, exactly?” she asks back like it’s a challenge; it’s nat, so it is. there were few times arguments occurred between you two, they never mattered though. it was over tiny things like you making her bed when she’s ‘super capable of it.’

you were always the calmer one; you had to be.

and now, you still are, even leaning in closer with a gentle approach. your perfume hits her in the motion, a warm sugary vanilla she wants to suffocate in. then, her eyes fall to her lap when you reach over, placing your palm on her knee.

“settle for…i don't know…pieces of shit?” your voice is soft, followed by a short chuckle, an attempt to ease the newfound tension. the truth, delivered in a way that wouldn’t have her even more pissed at you.

if only.

“well,” natalie’s mouth opens before her mind can form a coherent sentence, “maybe that’s what i fucking want and you should mind your damn business.”

she barely even pauses, “not like i tell you what prissy daddy’s boy you can go fuck.”

you blink at her.

a painfully heavy silence hangs in the air, thick like the nasty humidity outside. you don’t know if the heat in your cheeks is due to the summer evening or the carelessness of her sentence, which came out so raw. as if it’s something that crosses her mind, you and another.

she angles her body away from you.

“you should go…” natalie says with a hushed voice, and you’re trying to understand why and how the moment with her had been ruined so abruptly. an innocent night tainted by something so minor. she’s right; it’s not your business. anything nat does isn’t. or who she does.

you should’ve just kept your mouth shut.

“okay.”

you get up, adjusting your skirt with her guilty, watchful pupils. she gulps, following you to the door; she never let you walk out alone.

natalie brings you all the way to your car, her fists in the pockets of her ripped jeans and a cigarette already lit when you’re in the driver’s seat. only two words are exchanged. short byes.

you don’t see her the next day.

she doesn’t even stop by the diner the rest of the week. nat, honestly, feels like an asshole. and it itself is another reminder why she picks people like her—she doesn’t have to carry this unbearable weight of guilt with someone else. only you.

and maybe it’s self-punishment to avoid you.

but you hated it.

it is a cool friday night when you drive over to her place, but your knocks are left unanswered. through the cracks in the blinds, you notice it’s dim. only the orange porch light is left on. you even called out her name, worried this was nat really ignoring you.

that’s when you hear a rattling off of a car. it’s not natalie’s. there’s a headlight out, driving down the path to her trailer, the bass pounding to metallica.

you step down the stairs from her door, hugging your arms, kicking yourself for not throwing a jacket over your dress. it’s one of natalie’s favorites on you, a pale yellow that could nearly appear tea green. it’s short and thin for the heated weather, complementing the traces of your skin she sees in her dreams.

though, when the navy car parks and an unfamiliar face gets out of the driver's seat, you wish you wore something else.

natalie exits the passenger side, speed walking towards you while glancing at the dark haired man taking his time behind her. he’s eyeing you in ways that he doesn’t have the right to.

“what is this?” nat questions when she’s stood in front of you, her poorly chopped band tee lifting slightly when she puts her hands on her hips.

“i wanted to se—”

“could’ve fucking’ called, you know?”

“you wouldn’t have answ—”

“exactly,” she cuts you off for the second time, not releasing her eyes from yours, her tone sharp and mean. you have nothing to say back to her. you wish you did call and saved yourself from her hardened eyes and the wandering ones from the stranger.

a typical bar pickup. you could gag.

“is this…?” his voice is rough when he speaks, and not in the way nat’s is when she just woke up or fighting a nasty cold. it brings you shivers, especially when he points between you and natalie, then himself. he chuckles, “shit, i ain’t complaining.”

“no.”

natalie turns her head to the guy, shutting down the disgusting idea he assumed, and regretting her decision to invite him over. she mistakenly thought maybe your face would slip from her mind for the night. that’s all she fucking saw on the drive home.

if anything, she manifested you on her doorstep. she truly has no right to be so angry.

you scoff. “guess i’ll go.”

“the fun’s just starting, princess,” the man laughs through his nose, inching closer. you’re subconsciously clinging to yourself tighter and averting your gaze to the dirt you stood on. nat notices, of course she does.

her knuckles twitch.

natalie drops her purse from her shoulder, digging in the leather bag and finding her keys, placing them in your hands that just barely open in time. with a head tilt, she motions to the door. you don’t say anything, and neither does she. she’s already telling the man to start walking to his car while you’re letting yourself in the trailer.

you shut the door behind you when the yelling begins. or, the yelling begins the moment you shut the door. perhaps nat waited.

you flip the lights on, even tidying some of the mess she abandoned earlier in the day. you’re unaware that natalie has him pressed against his own car threatening his life—a rusty pocketknife taunting his manhood through his pants. she’s done worse than whatever she’d do for you.

the door opens and shuts again when your back is turned, putting a collected pile of dishes in the sink before facing her. she throws her purse on the couch, scratching the back of her head and figuring out what the hell to say. you’re first.

“really know how to pick them, nat.”

“i didn’t fucking know you were here.”

“and that changes what?” you ask her, an already defeated voice while you cross your arms in defense. you’re irritated, not just by tonight, but the fact she’s been blowing off your calls. pretending like she didn’t care and that your absence hadn’t bothered her at all. not when she can just be with someone else.

why can’t you?

“do you seriously not have somewhere better to be?” natalie takes a step closer, pupils blown and canines showing when she speaks, “get a fuckin’ boyfriend already—i know that shit isn’t hard for you.”

nat takes your breath away.

not the good kind where when her touch lingers too long while the credits roll on the tv. or when you sit next to her in the diner booth after flipping the sign on the door to closed, watching her lips curl around the fork when she’s finishing her dessert.

this is nothing like that.

her words are heavier than she surely pictured them in her chaotic brain, and it’s not as though you haven’t heard it before from nat. it’s been casually said in passing: why you’re you and how on earth you’re single.

the same way she avoided your nosy inquiries, you laughed it off sweetly, the answer lingering in the air.

“maybe i will.”

it’s spoken quietly; you almost allowed it to die on your tongue.

“good.”

her nostrils flare and her teeth grind, then the quietness of the trailer starts to swallow you both. you’re unsure if this is the part where you walk out. you fear if you do, you won't be back for a long, long time.

that was the last thing you wanted.

this is all so fucking stupid because what you want is standing a few feet away from you—with hurricane eyes that you’re drowning in the longer you hold this unspoken staring contest.

natalie chews the inside of her cheek. you fold in your bottom lip then gnaw at it, your heart picking up speed and thumping loudly in your ear. you’re both waiting for something from the other.

she’s expecting you to exit with the slam of the door behind you. nat often pictured the worst outcome first, and she's searching for the strength to prevent that. she’s so pathetically desperate for you to stay here. even if that means this awkward as fuck standoff you're having.

at least you’re looking at her through your long lashes. and she can still smell the heavenly perfume you showered in. it’s all over that pretty little dress you’re wearing. probably wore it just for her.

she mutters a ‘fuck’ to herself, squeezing her eyes tightly and running her fingers through her unbrushed hair, before looking at you again.

she says a lot without saying anything at all. the light brunching of her brown brows and her mouth parted slightly, glancing at the soft skin of your lips. you do the same to her—and she takes a timid step closer. giving you time to say something, do anything.

you don't.

then, nat is closing the space between you.

fast and at once.

her hands find your waist first, gripping the material of your dress and slightly clawing the skin beneath it. she could break the fabric, and you wouldn’t care. natalie could tear it off of you, to unrecognizable shreds, and you’d watch her with admiration.

with zero patience, she pulls you into her. one palm on the back of your head while her rough lips crash against your smooth ones. you taste like a strawberry shake, topped with your cherry chapstick that's now coating her tongue.

it's messy, but unrushed. she's simply greedy, satisfying the constant craving she’s had for you. a lazy yet precise tango with your tongue, taking you all the way in.

nat isn't the only one hungry.

you’re pushing yourself into her, taking the hand she had on your waist and traveling it down to the lower side of your back. natalie does the rest without your guidance, resting it on your ass, listening to the beautiful noise of you moaning into her mouth. you feel on fire. unable to tug away and put yourself out, her lips burn so fucking good against yours.

you've never been with someone like her. a woman you loved so intensely in your head—that she was almost the only soul you thought about. yet, you couldn't show her how you felt in all the ways you possibly imagined. and that hurt more than any heartbreak you’ve ever experienced.

to hold her hand fondly. trace love letters on the bare skin of her back. you want to give her a lovely bouquet on a random thursday morning solely because you could. you didn't need a special reason. loving her and her letting you, was enough. she'll let them die and still keep them.

little do you know, natalie had the idea first.

it’s the next saturday night when you're closing up the dead diner, a wet rag in your hand as you drag it across the counter. kate bush plays throughout the restaurant; you're humming along when the bell above the door rings. you don't pay attention, not until you hear her dramatically clearing her throat.

“i believe these are for you?”

you look up to natalie, your wrist stilling and pupils widening on the yellow lilies and pink roses wrapped neatly with brown paper at the base.

the ribbon keeping it together is pale and twisted into a pretty bow; you almost forget to speak amid the trance of admiration. she reaches out to give them to you over the counter, her own cheeks flushing red as she does so.

you take them, bringing them to the tip of your nose, breathing them in. like a thriving meadow on the world's most perfect day. when you peek at her over the flowers, you could almost giggle at the contrast from the pastel colors to her leather jacket and midnight eyeliner. that grin she's unable to hold back reminds you just how gentle nat is despite it all.

she slides onto an empty stool, and you tilt your head at her sweetly, “apple pie, on the house?”

“s' long as you're the one serving it,” natalie says lowly, elbow on the counter and holding her chin up with her fist. you roll your eyes at her, turning around and disappearing into the back. with a sway of your hips that she does not fail to notice.

when you come back out, you place a plate in front of her, humming again in harmony to the upbeat song over the radio. nat watches you walk around the counter, swiftly pulling the stool beside her closer with her foot. you don’t realize, sitting on it and allowing your knees to touch, her dark and worn denim against your sheer tights.

nat takes a bite, nodding her head in bliss.

she manages with a mouthful, “wouldn't taste this good if someone else served it.”

“you're stupid,” you playfully mumble, a fidgety hand finding her thigh, fingers fiddling with one of the many rips, twirling one of the stray threads. you wait for her, and when you look up again, she's licking the fork.

there's filling on the corner of her mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb instead of pointing it out.

embarrassed, she licks her lips, gawking at you when you slip your finger into your mouth. your teeth scrape against your skin while you suck away the delightful cinnamon. her throat dries, and she blinks dumbly—you had done it so casually. innocently.

even holding to her thigh again, tenderly, with your irises twinkling beneath the fluorescent lights.

natalie gulps. she's only had you, all of you, for a few days. and she swears you're already the death of her. a death as sweet as candy.

[mandoalorian]

the mechanic's girl [mechanic!bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: When your car breaks down, you pull into Barnes Auto Fix, and encounter Bucky, an older-looking man with a metal arm and a haunted past. As he works on your vehicle, you notice the way his sweat-soaked vest clings to his chisled frame and can't help but let your neediness and desire get the better of you.

Warnings/Rating: 18+ explicit content, no minors, smut, age-gap (reader is in their 20s), dom!bucky, he’s rough and possessive with you & talks you through it, unprotected p in v, m receiving oral, cunnilingus, spanking, biting, choking, allusions to cheating, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise kink, sex-tape, this is just pure filth, also the reader doesn’t have a clue about car stuff lol, she’s not dumb she’s just like me<3

Word count: 3800>

Masterlist

You pushed open the creaky door of Barnes Auto Fix, the bell above jangling weakly as a gust of swelteringly unbearable air followed you inside. The day had been a scorcher, the kind of hot, humid hell that made your clothes cling to your skin like a second layer, sweat beading on your forehead and dripping down your spine. 

The air inside the garage wasn’t much better. It smelled of motor oil and metal, with an undercurrent of gasoline, and the faint hum of an old radio playing a scratchy rock tune filled the space. Your car had sputtered to a stop just a hundred yards down the road, and you’d barely managed to roll it into the gravel lot outside, your thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, leaving you peeling yourself off it with a grimace.

Behind the counter, a man looked up from a greasy engine part he’d been inspecting. His stormy blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch, pinning you in place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead and a scruff of stubble along his jaw.

His white vest was soaked through with sweat, the fabric clinging to his chest like it had been painted on, outlining every ridge of muscle, every dip and curve of his torso. The humidity had left a sheen on his skin, droplets of sweat rolling down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of the vest. A faded denim jacket hung open over the vest, and his left arm, shimmering metal from shoulder to fingertips, caught the dim light of the garage. Bucky Barnes, the name stitched on his jacket told you, and the way he looked at you, like a predator sizing up its prey, sent a shiver down your spine despite the heat.

“Car trouble?” he asked, his voice low and rough, carrying an edge of authority that made your stomach flip. He set the engine part down with a deliberate thud, wiping his hands on a rag, his movements slow and controlled. The motion made his biceps flex, and you caught a whiff of him—a heady mix of sweat, motor oil, and something unexpectedly delicious, like cedarwood and leather, a scent that made your mouth water despite the oppressive heat.

You nodded, brushing a strand of sticky, sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Yeah. It just… died. I don’t know what’s wrong. Can you take a look?”

His eyes raked over you, slow and unapologetic, before he gave a sharp nod. “Bring it around front.” The command in his tone left no room for argument, and you found yourself moving to comply, your heart racing as you felt his gaze on you the whole way.

By the time your car was in the garage, the afternoon sun had dipped low, but the humidity hadn’t let up, the air thick and heavy, pressing against your skin like a damp blanket. Bucky popped the hood and got to work, his hands moving with a quiet confidence that spoke of years of experience. You sat on a stool nearby, sipping a lukewarm soda he’d pulled from a mini fridge in the corner, the can slippery with condensation in your hand. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the clink of tools and the occasional grunt as he worked.

You couldn’t stop watching his hands—those strong, capable hands, one flesh and one metal, as they worked with precision. His fingers, smeared with grease, wrapped around a wrench, tightening a bolt with a deft twist, and you found yourself imagining those hands on you, the way they’d feel, firm and unyielding.

The thought sent a wave of heat through you, pooling low in your belly, and you shifted on the stool, pressing your thighs together to ease the ache. His white vest was practically obscene now, the sweat making it stick to him like a second skin, and every time he leaned over the engine, you caught another whiff of that delicious scent, a mix of hard work and raw masculinity that made your head spin.

“Fuel line’s shot,” he said abruptly, straightening up and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. More sweat rolled down his temple, catching in the stubble on his jaw, and his vest clung to his chest, the damp fabric outlining his pecs, the faint outline of his nipples visible through the thin material. “I can fix it. But it’s gonna take a while,” He announced, taking a step back from the vehicle, his gaze locking onto you. “You got family? A boyfriend to come pick you up?” 

The way he said it wasn’t a question—it was a statement, or an assumption, even. And the weight of his gaze made it clear he wasn’t waiting for an answer. But regardless, you gave him one. You swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay,” you said, testing the waters. Bucky didn’t shift, his blue eyes like steel, boring into you like you were some sort of spectacle. “Family is on the other side of the country, and no, no boyfriend.”

You hopped onto the edge of the counter, legs swinging beneath you. Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing and just went back to work. You felt the shift in the air, the way his presence seemed to fill the room, commanding every inch of space. You tried to make small talk, asking about the town, the garage, but his answers were curt, his focus on the car unwavering.

He’d bought the garage a few years back, he said, after getting out of the military. Didn’t like people much. Preferred the quiet.

The hours passed, and you found yourself helping him with small tasks—handing him a wrench, holding a flashlight while he tightened a bolt. His hands brushed yours more than once, the contact leaving a smear of grease on your skin, the warmth of his touch lingering even in the stifling heat, and each time, your breath caught, the intensity of his proximity making your pulse race.

By the time he finished the repair, the storm had arrived, the storm that you both had known was forecasted. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain began to fall, a steady patter that quickly turned into a downpour. You stood at the garage door, watching the water stream down the gravel lot, the rain a welcome relief from the oppressive humidity, though it did little to cool the heat simmering beneath your skin. There was no way you were driving in that.

You heard the faucet turn off as Bucky had finished washing his hands, dropping a towel haphazardly by the sink. A signal that the work was complete.

Your eyes were locked onto the brewing storm outside, a flash of lightning making you jump slightly, and you realised you were holding your breath.

“You’re not leaving,” Bucky said, his voice a low growl as he came up behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. The scent of him hit you again, stronger now, a delicious mix of sweat and cedarwood that made your knees weak, and you noticed his vest was still clinging to him, the damp fabric outlining every inch of his torso in a way that made your mouth water.

You turned to face him, your back against the doorframe, and his eyes were dark, predatory, as they locked onto yours. “I… I guess not,” you managed, your voice trembling under the weight of his stare.

He stepped closer, crowding your space, his broad frame towering over you. “Good,” he said, his voice rough with intent. “Because I’m not done.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as he reached out, his metal hand gripping your waist, pulling you away from the door and into the garage with a force that made you stumble. He didn’t let you fall—his metal hand caught your arm, steadying you, but there was no gentleness in his touch, only a raw, commanding strength that sent a thrill through you.

“With the car?” You asked, biting your lip incredulously. 

“With you.” He replied, his voice dark like honey. Before you could process what was happening, he had you backed up against the workbench, the edge of it digging into your lower back as he pressed himself against you, his body a wall of heat and muscle.

“Bucky—” you started, but his lips crashed into yours, cutting you off, the kiss hard and demanding, like he was claiming you.

His metal hand stayed on your waist, holding you in place with an iron grip, while his flesh hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back to deepen the kiss. You gasped against his mouth, your hands grabbing at his shoulders, feeling the slickness of his sweat-soaked vest, the hard planes of muscle beneath it, and he growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you.

“You’ve been watching me all day,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a rough rasp as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You want this, don’t you?”

Bucky brought his hand down to his belt, undoing it and unlacing it through the loops of his light-washed, oil-stained jeans. You glanced down, a knot in your throat forming when you noticed his bulge pressing against the denim. 

You nodded, breathless, your body trembling under the intensity of his gaze. “Yes,” you whispered, and that was all he needed.

He lifted you onto the workbench with a roughness that made your breath hitch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks as he stepped between your legs, forcing them apart. His lips moved to your neck, his stubble scraping against the sweat-dampened curve of your throat as he bit down lightly, drawing a whimper from you.

“That’s what I thought,” he growled, his hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one swift motion, leaving you exposed to the humid air and his hungry eyes. “What’s a young thing like yourself doing this far out of the city, alone?”

His metal hand pinned your wrists above your head against the workbench, the coolness of the material a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he pressed himself closer, his hips grinding against yours. 

“Fight with my boyfriend,” you mumbled, ducking your head down as warmth crept across your cheeks. "Needed to get outta there."

“Ah,” Bucky let out an airy chuckle. “You told me you had no boyfriend.”

And yet, he didn’t step back. If anything, he pushed closer to you, his frame towering over you. There was no room for running. No room for escape. 

“I’m going to break up with him.” You announced, your eyes nervously meeting his, anticipating a reaction.

“When did you decide that, doll? When you were watching me hunched over, fixing your car?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, almost in disbelief. Almost like confusion was masking itself. Was he impressed?

Yes. Yes. You’d watched Bucky working meticulously in the heat, his skilled fingers doing laboured things that your boyfriend wouldn’t have the first clue about. When you didn’t reply, Bucky grazed his teeth over your neck. You gasped, fingers curling around the edge of the workbench. 

“You’re mine now,” Bucky said, his voice low and commanding, and the possessiveness in his tone sent a wave of heat straight to your core. “You ever been fucked by a man as old as me?”

His hand found your neck, his thumb brushing over your jaw as he admired your face. You felt a pool of heat coil into your abdomen. God, you could burst just from the way he looked at you. 

“Just how old are you?” You asked.

Bucky laughed darkly before turning his back on you, like he’d vetoed the question. Fine, he didn’t have to answer, but from the look of him, he had to be mid-40s. You briefly considered the age gap, but ultimately, you were definitely okay with it. 

“I want to remember this,” he said, his voice dripping with dark promise as he reached into a drawer on the workbench and pulled out a small, battered camcorder—the kind that was popular in the late ‘80s, with a clunky lens and a red record button. Your heart skipped a beat, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding through you.

“You’re gonna look so good on camera,” he said, setting the camcorder on a tripod nearby, angling it to capture the two of you against the workbench, the storm outside framing the scene like a gritty, intimate movie. The red light blinked on, and the air felt heavier, the moment charged with a new kind of intensity. You felt exposed under his gaze, under the lens, but the way he looked at you—like he owned you—made you want to give him everything.

He released your wrists, but his hands didn’t stay idle. He tugged at his own vest, peeling the soaked fabric off and tossing it aside, revealing the sweat-slicked expanse of his chest, the dark hair dusting it, the scars that told stories of a hard life. His scent enveloped you completely now—cedarwood, leather, and that delicious musk that made your head spin—and you couldn’t help but lean forward, pressing your lips to his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.

He let you, but only for a moment. Then his hands were on you again, rough and insistent, one gripping your thigh to pull you closer, the other tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back, forcing you to look at him. “Not yet,” he growled, his voice a low rumble. “I fixed your fucking car. You’ll do what I want first.”

He kissed you again, hard, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as his hands roamed your body, possessive and unyielding. Then he pulled back, his eyes dark with intent as he pushed you down onto your knees in front of him, the concrete floor rough against your skin.

“Show me how much you want this,” he ordered, his voice rough with desire as he unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his ankles. 

No fucking underwear. Holy shit.

You looked up at him, your breath coming in short gasps, and the sight of him—towering over you, his chest heaving, his white-hot intensity burning in his gaze—made your pulse race. Your hands trembled as you reached for him, pressing soft kisses along the taut skin of his lower abdomen, feeling the lingering heat of the day on his skin.

He was fucking huge, thick, a distinguised vein running up the base of his cock. You already felt full just from the sight of him, and you suppressed a moan as your core clenched around nothing. His muscles tensed under your touch, and he let out a low groan, his hand resting on the back of your head, guiding you with a firm grip. You parted your mouth, and he nudged himself against your lips, asking, no, begging for entry.

You could barely take half of him before you were gagging, unshed tears glossing over you as you looked up at him with big, doe-like eyes. Obscene sounds filled the room as you sucked, the taste of his sweat and precum leaving a saltiness on your tongue. 

His grip tightened in your hair, a silent command for you to open wider, and you obeyed, your hands and lips working in tandem, drawing out every shudder, every growled curse that fell from his lips.

Eventually, your nose was pressed against his stomach as he’d pushed himself down your throat. The sounds he made—low, guttural, almost feral—sent heat pooling in your core, and you felt a surge of power, even as he dominated the moment, knowing you could affect him like this.

You pulled off him with a wet pop, gasping for air as a string of your saliva connected your lips with his cock. But before you even gave him time to adjust, you were back on him, this time licking a stripe down the underside of him before palming at his balls. He was loaded, and as you took him between your lips again, he made you feel small.

“Agh!— fuck,” he hissed, his hips twitching and bucking into you. 

The camcorder’s red light glowed in the corner of your vision, a silent witness to the way Bucky’s chest heaved, the way his metal hand flexed against the workbench as he braced himself.

Bucky grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you off his cock with a groan, not wanting to finish yet. No, not before he had the chance to feel your pussy.

He yanked you back up to your feet, his hands rough on your arms as he spun you around, bending you over the workbench with a force that made you gasp. The edge of the bench dug into your hips, and his metal hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so damn perfect like this,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, and the praise, paired with the roughness of his touch, made your knees weak.

Your breath hitched, fingers scrambling to hold onto the edge of the bench as he kicked your legs apart with one boot. You gasped, but he was already behind you, already shoving your skirt up and groaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, large hand smoothing over your ass—before he brought it down with a sharp crack that echoed through the garage.

You cried out, thighs clenching. “Bucky—”

“Say it again.” Another slap. “My name, sweetheart. C’mon.”

“Bucky,” you whined, louder this time, desperate, humiliated, soaking wet.

He chuckled low in his throat, and then he leaned down, biting your shoulder, hard. “You wanna act like a needy little brat, I’ll treat you like one.”

You could barely breathe as his fingers slid between your legs, rough and unrelenting, no teasing this time. “So wet for me already,” he growled, almost to himself. “Bet none of those boys your age ever touched you like this.”

“N-no,” you stammered, rocking back onto his hand.

“That’s right,” he said, dragging his fingers down again, slower this time. “You’re mine now. You get that?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look over your shoulder at him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed you then—filthy, biting, possessive—his hand still between your legs, the other wrapped around your throat like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go.

“Good girl.”

And then he turned you around, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and laid you flat on the bench.

“Now keep those pretty legs open, sweetheart,” he said, undoing his belt with one hand, the clink of it making you shiver. “Daddy’s gonna ruin you.”

Your back hit the cool metal with a clatter, tools shifting around you, but you didn’t care—not with the way he was looking at you. Like he was starved. Like you were the one thing he wasn’t supposed to touch, and he was gonna do it anyway.

“Look at you,” Bucky muttered, tugging your thighs wide open, eyes locked on the mess between your legs. “So fuckin’ wet already and I haven’t even gotten my cock inside you yet.”

You whimpered, hands gripping the bench behind you for balance. “Please—”

His hand came down hard across your inner thigh. Crack.

“Did I tell you to beg, baby?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“That’s right,” he said, dark and smug as he palmed himself, already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around his cock, giving it a few rough strokes, eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t beg unless I say. You take what I give you. And you’re gonna thank me for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless, almost crying with need.

"Yes?"

"Yes Daddy." you huffed, correcting yourself.

He didn’t wait any longer—he lined himself up, dragged the head through your slick folds once, twice, and then thrust in with one brutal stroke.

You cried out, head thrown back as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck,” he growled, both hands on your hips now, holding you still while he stayed buried deep. “So tight for me, sweetheart. This little pussy’s never gonna be the same.”

He pulled out almost all the way—then slammed back in hard, making the workbench rattle beneath you.

You moaned his name, over and over, each thrust driving it out of you like a prayer. Your legs trembled around his waist, but he just gripped you harder, biting your collarbone and fucking you rougher.

“Take it,” he snarled, one hand slapping your ass while the other squeezed your throat. “Take all of it like a good girl.”

You were already unraveling, eyes glassy, brain gone. Every time his hips slapped against yours it sent sparks shooting up your spine. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t speak.

But he wasn’t done.

He bent over you, pressing his chest to yours, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, filth in every syllable. “Gonna fuck my cum into you so deep it’s all you’ll feel for days. That what you want?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed, clutching at his shoulders.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Daddy—thank you, thank you—”

He kissed you then, deep and messy, swallowing every sound as he fucked you into the workbench like he was trying to break you open. Your name was a growl on his lips as he came, hips jerking, cock twitching inside you while he held you down and moaned against your throat.

The camcorder captured it all—the way his hands roamed your body, the way you arched against him, the way the fluorescent lights flickered above you. It was raw, messy, intense, and as the storm raged on outside, you surrendered to him.

Your legs were shaking.

Your back was sore.

And your thighs were soaked—dripping with his cum, your release, sweat, and something so much filthier it made your cheeks burn.

You barely noticed when Bucky pulled out, cock still hard, chest still heaving like he hadn’t even begun to slow down. He watched you for a second—just stared at the mess he’d made of you, spread out on his workbench like something for him to tinker with.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

You whined softly, trying to close your legs, but his hands shot out—rough and fast—grabbing your knees and keeping you spread. “Ah ah. Don’t hide from me, baby. Let Daddy see what he did.”

You turned your face, embarrassed, only for him to grab your chin and force your gaze back to his. “You wanted this, remember?” he said with a smirk. “You begged for it.”

“I know,” you breathed. “I know—I just—”

“You did so good,” he said suddenly, softer this time, but still wrecked, still growling at the edges. “So fuckin’ good for me. My perfect girl.”

That made your chest flutter.

And then he stepped back, grabbed one of the old, half-clean shop rags from the nearby counter, and started cleaning you up—gentle now, but still firm, still his.

You gasped when the cloth dragged over your thighs, and he grinned.

“Sensitive already?” he teased, kneeling between your legs, his eyes flicking up to yours with that dangerous gleam.

You nodded, lips parted, completely fucked out—but glowing. His gaze dropped back to your thighs, admiring the mess he’d made, before he reached for the rag again and gently finished wiping you down. He was quiet for a moment, almost focused, but the tension hadn’t left him—it just simmered lower now, heavy under the surface.

“You took it so well,” he murmured, tossing the rag aside and smoothing his palms over your thighs. “Didn’t think a pretty little thing like you could handle my cock like that. Guess I underestimated you, huh?”

You huffed out a small laugh, still face-down on the bench, your cheek resting against cool metal. “I could barely walk before. I’m definitely not walking now.”

“Good,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Means I did my job.”

He helped you up carefully, guiding your body until you were wrapped in his arms, your legs slung around his waist as he carried you across the garage, like you weighed nothing. He set you down gently on the old couch tucked in the corner, grabbing his flannel from the hook nearby and draping it over your bare shoulders like it was instinct.

You melted into the warmth and the scent of him, blinking up through your lashes as he sat beside you, one arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers playing with your hair.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, a little hoarse now. “Wasn’t too much?”

You shook your head instantly, leaning into him. “No. It was perfect.”

His eyes darkened again, like just the memory of having you like that made him want to drag you back onto his lap.

But instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “You ever show up in that little skirt again,” he muttered, voice sinful and teasing, “I’m bending you over the hood of my car next time. Right in front of the open garage door.”

Your whole body reacted—heat flooding your cheeks, thighs clenching.

He chuckled darkly, watching you squirm. “Yeah. That got your attention.”

“Maybe I will,” you said, half-daring.

He looked at you, all rough affection and smouldering hunger, and smiled like a man who knew you were already his.

“Daddy’s not done with you, baby,” he whispered, tugging you closer. “Not even close.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[alohajix]

𝐒𝐢𝐫, 𝐘𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚'𝐚𝐦

Description: he’s my bodyguard—tall, strong, and always in control. Until the door closes behind us. Then he kneels. He begs. And he takes everything I give him. He lives to be used, to be praised, to be ruined—just for me. And tonight, I don’t plan on going easy.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, sub!harry x dom!y/n, praise kink, degradation kink, light choking, spitting, orgasm denial, overstimulation, implied face sitting, dirty talk, begging, light bondage & aftercare. Readers +18.

Word count: 5K.

author note: another day, another one shot. this one's also a request I loved writing about. there’s something about sub!harry that always gets me. anyway, i hope this is what you were waiting for babe. and i hope everyone enjoys it 🫶🏻

*****

The car ride back from the gala is quiet, the kind of silence that buzzes with tension—like the sharp edge of a blade pressed against soft skin. Harry sits across from me in the blacked-out SUV, legs wide, hands resting on his thighs, jaw tight. His hair is still tied back the way I asked—half-up, loose tendrils curling at the base of his throat.

He hasn’t looked at me since we left the event. Not really. Not the way he had all night. But I’ve seen the way he watches. The way he moves closer when other men get too near. The way he presses his hand into the small of my back just a second longer than necessary. Always the professional. Always in control. Except when we’re alone. He adjusts his cuffs. I cross my legs, dragging the hem of my red silk dress up a little higher.

“Something wrong?” I ask, tone syrupy sweet.

His eyes flick up to meet mine in the dark. Stormy green. Hungry.

“No, ma’am,” he says lowly. A pause. Then I smile.

“Good.”

The elevator ride to the penthouse is painfully slow. I don’t speak. Neither does he. He walks behind me like a shadow, one step off my heel, every movement perfectly measured. But I hear the shift in his breathing. I feel the heat pulsing off him. I know what he’s thinking. And when the suite door finally closes behind us with a soft click, I drop the keys on the entry table and turn around slowly. He’s standing there like he always does—shoulders squared, arms behind his back, eyes trained on my face. That unreadable expression he wears for everyone but me.

“Take off your jacket,” I say softly.

He obeys immediately, sliding the black fabric off his shoulders, folding it without a word. But when he looks back at me, the tightness in his jaw has returned. I raise an eyebrow.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Harry?”

He swallows. His voice is quiet. “You looked… distracting tonight, ma’am.”

“Distracting?”

His gaze flicks down to my legs, then back up. “Yes, ma’am.”

I take a slow step toward him. Then another. Until we’re chest to chest and I can smell the faint mix of cologne and leather lingering on his shirt.

“You kept staring,” I whisper.

“I didn’t mean to.”

I hum, fingers reaching up to unfasten the top button of his shirt. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

His breath catches as I undo the second button. His hands stay behind his back. He knows better.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me all night? Like you were ready to drop to your knees in the middle of that ballroom?”

His eyes flicker with something dark and desperate. “I would’ve. If you’d asked.”

My hand slides over his chest, down his stomach, to the belt around his waist.

“I’m asking now,” I say quietly. “Kneel.” And he does. Instantly. Like he’s been waiting all night.

He kneels like it’s second nature—spine straight, knees apart, hands resting on his thighs. But it’s the way he looks up at me that makes my breath catch. That quiet devotion in his eyes. That subtle, barely-there tremble in his jaw. I love him like this—brought to his knees by nothing but my voice.

I move slowly, circling him. The heels of my stilettos click softly on the hardwood as I drag a single finger across his shoulder, letting my touch trail over the back of his neck and down his spine. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. But his breathing changes—sharper, shallower.

“Take your shirt off.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Fingers move fast, unbuttoning what I didn’t finish, sliding the fabric off until it pools around his knees. His bare chest rises and falls with each breath, tattoos dancing over his skin in the low light.

“Now your belt. Just the belt.”

He fumbles slightly this time—only for a second—but I notice. I always do. The soft clink of metal fills the room as he unfastens it, hands falling back to his thighs once the task is done.

“You nervous?” I murmur, running my fingers over his shoulder again, nails just barely scratching his skin.

“A little,” he admits, voice rough and low. I stop in front of him, looking down.

“Why?”

He blinks. “Because I know what I need, and I know you’ll give it to me.”

A sharp pulse runs through me. God, he says things like that and doesn’t even realize what it does to me. Or maybe he does.

“Say it.”

He swallows. “I need you to take control.”

My hand tilts his chin up until he’s forced to look me in the eyes.

“And if I decide to ruin you tonight?”

His eyes flutter closed for a beat. When they reopen, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“Then ruin me, ma’am.” I smile.

“Take your pants off. Leave the briefs.”

He moves quickly this time, standing just long enough to slide them down his thighs before kneeling again. He looks so good like this—broad chest bare, collarbones sharp under the skin, thighs spread wide. And between them, the outline of his cock straining against his tight briefs. I run a hand over the bulge, watching him twitch.

“You’re hard already?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“For what?”

“You.”

“Always for me,” I whisper, applying just enough pressure to make his hips jump. “Never for anyone else.”

“Never,” he swears.

I tug on his hair. Just a little. Just enough to tilt his head back.

“Good boy.” He exhales shakily, lips parted, eyes glassy. “You want to touch me, don’t you?”

His voice cracks. “So bad, ma’am.”

“But you won’t, will you?”

“No, ma’am.”

I step closer until the toe of my heel is nudging the inside of his thigh. His breath hitches. His eyes never leave mine.

“Take my dress off.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then brings his hands to my waist, carefully sliding the zipper down. The silk falls to the floor in one smooth motion, and his breath catches when he sees what’s underneath—black lace, nothing else.

“Look at you,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

I arch a brow. “That sounded a lot like talking out of turn.”

His lips part. “I—I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t apologize. Open your mouth.” His eyes widen slightly, but he obeys. I lean down just enough to spit past his lips, watching it drip onto his tongue. “Swallow it.”

He does. Without a sound. Then licks his lips like he’s proud of it. I hum approvingly.

“On the bed,” I command. “Flat on your back. Hands above your head. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

He scrambles to his feet and climbs onto the bed without question, cock now straining against his briefs, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. This is my favorite version of him—obedient, desperate, silent unless spoken to. He looks wrecked already—and I haven’t even touched him properly. Flat on his back, arms stretched above his head, long curls fanned out across my pillows like he was made to ruin them. His chest rises and falls fast, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Not until I give him permission.

I take my time climbing onto the bed, crawling up over him with my palms pressed to the mattress on either side of his ribs. He watches me like I’m divine. Sacred. Untouchable. I lower myself down until my lips hover just above his.

“You want to come?” I ask, voice sweet like honey, laced with venom.

His throat bobs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You think I’ll let you?”

He exhales shakily. “No, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

He moans—just from the praise. Just from the sound of my voice. I shift lower, straddling his hips and grinding down against the outline of his cock through the thin fabric. He gasps, bucking up instinctively, and I press one hand flat to his chest, the other wrapping lightly around his throat.

“Ah, ah. Don’t move.”

“Sorry—fuck—sorry.”

“You really are desperate, huh?”

His eyes flutter closed like he can’t take being seen like this. But I want him vulnerable. I want him trembling under my control. I roll my hips again, slow and steady, until I feel the twitch of his cock and hear the quiet whimper he tries to swallow. I lean in, lips brushing his ear.

“You gonna beg for it, baby?”

“Please,” he breathes. “Please let me feel you. I’ve been good, I—fuck—I need it so bad, ma’am.”

I hum, pleased. “You’re not even inside me yet, and you’re already falling apart. How pathetic.”

He lets out a broken little sound, equal parts pain and arousal. I sit up and slide my panties to the side, pulling his briefs down just enough to free him. He’s rock hard, flushed and leaking, the head glistening in the low light.

“You wanna come inside me, sweet boy?”

He nods eagerly. “Yes, ma’am. Please—please, I’ll do anything—”

I cut him off by sinking down onto his cock in one slow, controlled movement. He cries out, hands gripping the headboard like he might float away if he doesn’t anchor himself.

“Shhh,” I whisper, curling my fingers tighter around his throat. “You take what I give you. Nothing more.”

He nods again, nearly frantic. “Yes, ma’am—fuck—it feels so good—”

I ride him slow, grinding my hips with purpose, watching his mouth fall open, eyes glassy and wet.

“Look at you,” I murmur, dragging my nails down his chest. “So big, so strong… and still you let me use you like this. Let me fuck you till you cry.”

His head falls back against the pillow. “M’close—please—I can’t—”

I clench around him and still my hips.

“Don’t you dare.” He whines, hips twitching, trying to hold still. His entire body’s shaking now. “I said you don’t come unless I tell you to. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am—yes—fuck—I’m sorry—”

“You’ll be sorrier if you keep testing me.”

I roll my hips once—deep, slow, enough to make him shudder—and his breath catches.

“You’re gonna hold it,” I tell him. “You’re gonna lie there and take every second of what I give you. You’re gonna thank me for using you like the filthy little plaything you are. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gasps. “Thank you—thank you, I—”

But his words break off into a cry as I start to move again, harder now, rhythm building with purpose. His fists are white-knuckled on the headboard. His thighs twitch under mine. He’s panting, desperate, so close he’s practically vibrating. I lean down again, teeth grazing his jaw, breath hot in his ear.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes—please—I can’t—I need to—”

“Beg.”

“Please, ma’am—please let me—been so good—need to feel it, need you to—”

“Now,” I whisper, clenching around him.

He sobs as he comes, back arching off the bed, hands flying to my hips without thinking. Thick and hot, he spills inside me with a broken moan of “Thank you—fuck—thank you, ma’am—”

And I don’t stop. Not yet. He’s trembling. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat, and his hands are still gripping my hips like he doesn’t know how to let go. His eyes are wide and unfocused, mouth parted as if he wants to speak but can’t form the words.

I keep grinding down onto him, slow and deep, making sure he feels every aftershock. Every throb. Every second of overstimulation that drags little gasps and broken moans from his throat.

“Please,” he breathes, voice barely audible. “I can’t… it’s too much—”

“You’ll take it,” I whisper, cupping his jaw. “You’ll take it because that’s what you’re made for.”

He nods, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Not pain—never pain. Just complete surrender. Pure submission.

“I’m yours,” he whispers, like a prayer. “Always.”

I slow down then, easing off him gently, watching him twitch beneath me, his entire body shaking from the release. I can feel the mess between us—his cock softening, his cum leaking out of me, soaking his thighs. He looks so good like this. Fucked out. Devoted. Mine.

I climb off of him and stroke his chest softly, dragging my fingers down the center, tracing every inch of inked skin like it belongs to me. Because it does.

“You did so well for me,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. “Such a good boy.” He whimpers at the praise, tilting his face toward me, eyes heavy, lips still parted. “Let’s clean you up, yeah?”

He nods, and I guide him into the en suite bathroom. He leans on me, muscles loose and shaky. I sit him on the edge of the tub and run warm water over a cloth, wiping his chest first, then the mess between his legs. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches me with soft, glassy eyes like he still can’t believe I’m touching him. When I’m done, I kiss the inside of his knee, his hip, the center of his chest—small, slow kisses meant only for him.

We crawl back into bed together, and he buries his face in my neck, curling his arms around me like I’m the only solid thing left in the world.

“You okay?” I ask softly, running my fingers through his hair, loosening the tie so it spills down over his shoulders.

“Mmhmm.” He’s nearly asleep already. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For… everything.”

I smile into his curls. “My sweet boy.”

A beat passes. Then, in the quietest voice, he whispers—

“Yours.” And I believe him. Because he always is.

*****

hope you love this one babes 🫶🏻

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk199o @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee

[eviesaurusrex]

tale as old as time | X. Riorson

Xaden Riorson x Aurelia Melgren (OC)

summary: Usually, he’s the dangerous, unapproachable wingleader in public, but since a few days, Xaden Riorson can’t bare to be apart from Aurelia Melgren.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: none really, mentions of past injuries, dragons, Xaden being touch-starved after admitting his feelings, Xaden’s shadows, Tairn being Tairn, two idiots in love, childhood friends-to-lovers, not entirely proofread

author’s note: Lately, I really am all over the place with my writing for fandoms lol. This could turn into a series of oneshots if people are interested—I can also switch this up into a typical reader-insert starring YN, just let me know!

divider by @enchanthings-a

It started right after Threshing.

First, she almost didn’t heed it no mind, not even realizing a change in his daily routines. Sometimes, she felt his eyes lingering on her whenever they passed one another in the hallways of Basgiath on their way to classes or formation in the morning. Other times, she felt him walking closely next to her, the backs of their hands brushing against one another, letting sparks of electricity travel through her bones, dancing on her skin.

All of those incidents, Aurelia categorized as mere blips in reality—undoubtedly enjoying them, but knowing they would not be present for the remainder of their days at the War College.

But then, the shadows started to act up.

Rea knew how masterfully Xaden wielded his signet, being in total control of it; she had watched him train with Garrick and the others and had even gotten a taste of his skills herself. So, for them to act up all of a sudden as soon as she was near a particularly dark corner?

Highly unlikely.

The day on which she woke up with one of those shadowy, smoky tendrils almost lovingly wrapped around her wrist like a delicate bracelet? She knew something had shifted, that something was certainly different than prior to Threshing. And she started to notice more and more:

Xaden casually walking down the hallway of her dorm floor by utter coincidence when she opened her door to head out for breakfast? The way his hand almost naturally found its spot on the small of her back, resting heavily and comfortingly there until they reached the door to the dining hall, his fingers pressing softly into the fabric of her uniform before letting go?

His long-lingering glances across the tables atop the leader platform now so obvious, she had to be blind (or dead) not to notice them?

The way they sat in comfortable silence on the parapet on a particularly starry night because he knew how much she loved stargazing? Hands brushing against one another on the withered stone, one finger wrapped around the other’s? The heavy feeling of his gaze on her profile while she watched the spectacle in the dark-tinted sky in awe and wonder?

She really had to be blind not to see it.

On this particular morning, Aurelia cradled a cup of coffee between both her hands, eyes focused on the dark-haired wingleader as he ate his scrambled eggs while being in deep conversation with Garrick. Taking a revitalizing sip, she patiently waited, smiling softly as Tairn seemed to wake up and growled in her mind. “Your thoughts of the wingleader disturbed my sleep, Stormy One. Keep this up, and I might not be inclined to continue to tolerate him near me.” The Melgren rolled her eyes at that. “Oh, please. I wouldn’t wager my marital bliss because I keep on fantasizing about incinerating the rider of my mate,” she shot back with a humorous tone down their bond, still letting her smile like a fool.

It was exhilarating to be chosen by a dragon, and Aurelia was sure she would keep on grinning like an idiot until the day of her last ride.

The black dragon huffed into her mind. “First: The bond of mates is far more superior to the human concept of marriage, girl. And second: Do not dare think of your last flight—already. We have years upon years, Stormy One. Your skills are too refined to be wasted on an early death. Instead, continue to dream of the rider who is now staring at you—it’s far less insulting.” It was almost as if Tairn chuckled deeply as her eyes fell on Xaden again, watching his onyx eyes soften ever so slightly as he reveled in the attention she granted him.

A small smile danced across her lips as she took another sip of her cooling coffee, her eyes never leaving his handsome face, remembering his whispered words after Threshing when the healers had worked on her bruised and battered body, thinking she wasn’t conscious enough to recall any of it. Until the day before, she had accounted those words to the delirious state she had been in due to the blood loss, but now, with the shadows accompanying her and the expression on his face? The evidence of his shift in person toward her? Aurelia was sure she didn’t dream up his confession.

They held each other’s gazes locked until most of the cadets had left for classes and training, and only then did the woman rise and leave for Battle Brief herself, waiting for him in the hallway. Leaning against a wall, she had her arms crossed loosely in front of her black-clad chest, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as he finally made his way out as well, spotting her instantly. Xaden walked over to her with long, purposeful strides, graceful and lethal as ever, fingers gently twitching as his stare fell from her eyes, raking over the lower part of her face.

“How are you feeling? Is the soreness bearable?”

His question was asked quietly, his voice soft and filled with a warmth barely anyone would receive within these walls, and that knowledge made the butterflies in her stomach whirl like a tornado. He had always been soft to her, ever since their first meeting as children, and he had continued to be like that until they had been separated by fate. Perhaps he still was the boy she once knew—just buried beneath everything he had to be for everyone else.

“Good. Better. It still somewhat aches when I get up too fast, but other than that…” She trailed off when his hand crept closer and touched the spot right next to her navel where she had been run through with a sword during Threshing, a scar now left behind. “But…,” she started again, making him look her directly in the eyes, a teasing smile creeping onto her lips. “I would feel much better if you’d explain this.” And with that, she pulled one of her arms out of their hold across her chest, holding up the wrist with the shadow still in place.

She watched Xaden swallow, eyes lingering on the black, translucent bracelet before he stared down at her again. A hand rose and softly wrapped itself around her fingers, pulling her hand close until it landed on his chest, right above his steadily beating heart. It pushed all the air out of her lungs; her breath hitched as she witnessed the vulnerability the fearsome wingleader showed her at this particular moment.

Xaden watched her intently as he murmured: “Do you mind it? Do they… disgust you? Bother you?” Without having to think about it, Aurelia slowly shook her head, never leaving him out of sight. “Why would you think that? I think they’re beautiful. Immaculate. Watching you wield them is like watching art,” she confessed, still slightly breathless, eyes wide with curiosity and… doubt. Did she never show him what she thought about him, about his talents and skills? Perhaps it had been drowned out by everything happening around them, and a pang of guilt settled in her chest. “Art, hm?” Blinking, Aurelia watched his smile grow, and the guilt lessened for now, making her slap his broad shoulder playfully. “Don’t tease me about my choice of words.”

The Riorson chuckled quietly before his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against his high-towering form. “So, you want an explanation?” His voice had turned into a raspy whisper, and all Aurelia could do was to nod, eyes enthralled by his gaze, her heart beating against her ribcage, trying to escape. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right, Rea, day and night, when I’m here and when I’m not. I wanted to feel close to you at all times, reminding myself every hour of the day that you’re still here, with me.” The fingers pressed against his chest gripped onto his uniform, burying themselves into the midnight black fabric, holding herself up at his steady confession. “Threshing made me realize something I have forgotten for a while: I cannot lose you. I cannot live without you, Aurelia Melgren. If you wouldn’t have made it, it’s safe to say I would have succumbed alongside you. You…” He took a steadying breath with closed eyes before he bent at his waist, coming closer and closer until their foreheads were gently pressed to one another, onyx black crashed against periwinkle blue.

“You are the keeper of all that I feel, of all that I am. One word and I will never speak of it again. One word and I will lock everything away, remaining your friend as I have always been. But…” And with that, he pulled her even closer. “But if your feelings have changed over the years and I was too stupid or blind to see it… Please, tell me and put me out of this… this… misery.” His voice broke at the last word, and it almost hurt her physically to hear his suffering she never knew about.

When has everything between them changed? Aurelia knew when it had changed for her—years ago during a sparring session with him and Garrick back in Aretia when no one had thought about needing to separate. Yes, her father never liked her association with the Riorson’s, but her mother had been from Tyrrendor and called Fen Riorson one of her oldest friends. And on that day, when Xaden had beamed at her proudly for shooting her first arrow successfully, she had known and protected that little secret of hers until… today.

Softly, almost lovingly, Aurelia let the tip of her nose rub against his, staring into his deep eyes and seeing all the emotions she had always hoped to witness on his face, swimming there, freely visible. “Perhaps stupid, perhaps blind, perhaps a bit of both,” the Melgren chuckled, making him roll his eyes at her but turning serious for this particular moment. “You were never just a friend to me, Xaden. You were never just my most trusted companion and confidant—there was always something different between us. I felt… safe with you, protected even. I could be who I was, not the one others desperately wanted me to be. I was… free. You gave me freedom.”

And freedom was the one thing Aurelia had longed for her entire life.

Xaden stared at her unmoving; he almost didn’t dare to breathe when one of her hands cupped his cheek, the pad of her thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“I have always loved you, Xaden Riorson, and I will always love you until my last dying breath as a dragon rider. If you’ll have me…—”

She couldn’t ask the question, not with his lips crashing against hers without restraint, without fear. He was as wild in his claim as he was in his fight, making her his then and there, incinerating every trace of every other man she had allowed to touch her in her life. He unraveled her in a dark corner and put her back together, infusing her with love, passion, and freedom with every move of his lips, with ever raspy sound escaping his throat when her fingers tangled themselves in his dark strands, tucking him closer and closer, until they where almost one.

With a gasp for air, Xaden parted with a heavy breath, chest heaving and heart galloping under the palm of her hand. “If I could, I would make you a Riorson on the spot,” he mumbled, lips pressing kisses to her cheeks and her swollen lips with utmost tenderness. “Slow your dragons, love,” Aurelia’s chuckled words followed. “Let us survive this death sentence of a War College first before we enter a far less superior bond they will most definitely mock.” The man started to grin at her words, pulling her close into his chest. “Did you already get that lecture, hm?” Nodding, she gently pushed back his hair, trying to make it presentable again. “Oh, I have. And I imagine there will be more coming sooner rather than later now that we…” She didn’t dare say the words, but Xaden wasn’t as hesitant—not in the slightest.

“Now that we are in a relationship, mo chroi? You can say it—the title won’t bite you.” Shoving him away, Aurelia showed him her tongue, but letting him take her hand in his, allowing him to hold onto it. “Whatever. Those dragons are menaces, and I’m afraid he will take over the fatherly talk in lack of a present father to do that. And I’m not sure what alternative I would prefer.” As if Tairn had only waited to share his input, his voice echoed through her mind. “I do not know what you dare to imply there, Stormy One, but mind you, I would only propose exceptional measures in order not to procreate ahead of your time. We have goals to accomplish, rider, battles to win, wars to end. No time for… frolicking with your shadow wielder.”

She couldn’t hold back the laugh at the growled words and let go of Xaden’s hand in order to wrap her arm around his waist, claiming her spot at his side, his arm instinctively snaking around her shoulders. “Tairn warned me not to frolic with you, shadow wielder,” she explained at his cocked eyebrow and smiled with closed eyes as he bent down to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “I will keep that in mind, but don’t you think I won’t put my hands on you, Stormy One.”

Walking beside him felt good. Freeing. Empowering. It got into her head, she thought, but it did not matter. She had rarely felt this wonderful.

“Has Sgaeyl spilled Tairn’s secret?” Xaden chuckled humorously as they walked the empty hallways toward Battle Brief. “She did—unintentionally, I think. But it is fitting. You are a tornado, a force of nature to be reckoned with. And with that dragon at your side now? With me? We will be unstoppable, love.” Teasingly, Rea nudged his hip with hers as they stopped in front of the massive double doors leading into the largest classroom Basgiath offered. “Do not over-exaggerate, Xaden darling. You sound like you have an appetite for conquering the world,” she whispered as he bent down again, lips ghosting over hers. “Oh, I have an appetite for many things, mo chroi. And I’ll show you each and every single one of them.”

Kissing Xaden, Aurelia silenced him with flushing cheeks before opening the door to slip inside the now-settling-down cadets. She intended to make her way down toward her usual seat next to her best friend, Merope. Xaden had different plans, though.

His hand snatched hers, and without uttering another word, the tall man tugged her after him, making his row scoot up a seat to create room for her next to Garrick, who watched the interaction with gleaming interest. His cheeky grin was oh so prominent, Aurelia hit his cheek with the flat side of her quill, shaking her head slowly, almost threateningly. “Don’t you dare utter a single word,” she whisper-hissed at him, cocking an eyebrow when he dared to open his mouth, watching him reconsider his next move. “I just wanted to say I told you so, but whatever.” Grinning triumphantly, Garrick winked at her, chuckling when her hand hit him multiple times on his shoulder. “You are unbelievable,” was all she huffed in slight annoyance, forcing herself to look in front, trying to ignore all the stares and the whispers at her new spot. They seemed to increase in volume when everyone bore witness to Xaden Riorson moving his hand in her direction, grabbing her thigh under the small table each seat had sat in front of it, squeezing it tenderly, and leaning in her direction.

“Forget about them, all of them. It doesn’t matter what they think, okay?” He knew her too well, but in their case, she couldn’t give a fuck. Leaning closer herself, Aurelia pressed a lingering kiss to his jawline—it was the only part of his handsome face she could reach without making a fool out of herself—and smiled with a teasing gleam in her eyes. “You won’t get rid of me that easy, Riorson,” the Melgren promised, making him hum in contentment, his hand settling heavily on her thigh—and it would stay there for the remainder of this class and every other they shared.

“I intend to keep you, Melgren. I intend to keep you for a very long time.”

Thank you all for reading! Please consider leaving a like, a comment, and a reblog. Tell me your thoughts about this fic and/or ideas for potential new fanfictions ♡

[astrcmoni]

⊹₊ ⋆ loved by you⋆ ₊⊹

MASTERLIST

synopsis: you come home after a long day out and noticed that your girlfriend seems a little stiff and frustrated, you take it upon yourself to bring her to relaxation…amongst other things.

genre: smut, fluff.

pairing: fem!reader x billie eilish

wc: 6.7k

warnings: cussing, reader!has some tattoos, belly piercing, and acrylics, soft top!reader & soft bottom!billie, fingering (billie receiving), scissoring, talk of cum, finger sucking, tender aftercare.

authors note: y’all i love me some tender aftercare, but let me know what you guys think, it’s my first time writing smut so i hope you enjoy💋

you wrap your fingers around the cool brass of the doorknob, pushing the door open with a gentle shove. bags in hand, you step inside, carrying the weight of a day spent pouring into yourself—a quiet symphony of self-love and solitude. the faint scent of vanilla and cashmere clings to your skin, trailing behind you like a whispered promise of peace. it mingles with the air as you move through the house, slipping off your shoes and setting your belongings carefully aside. a soft hum of satisfaction radiates from your chest, a quiet melody to the much-needed reset you’ve granted yourself.

the house greets you in half-light, bathed in the golden glow of scattered lamps that cast long shadows on the walls. it feels still—almost serene—until your eyes fall on billie, slouched on the couch like a storm waiting to break. her hoodie is tugged halfway over her head, dark fabric cloaking her features, while her fingers dig into her hair as if trying to pull thoughts free. her jaw is clenched, the sharp line of it catching the light, and her knee bounces in a restless rhythm, a tell of untamed energy searching for release.

the soft shuffle of your steps makes her glance up, her stormy gaze meeting yours. for a fleeting moment, the tension in her eyes eases, her guarded walls thinning as if your presence alone could calm the tempest. but just as quickly as it appears, the warmth fades. she exhales sharply, her lips pressed into a tight line, and turns her face away, retreating from the silent comfort you might offer.

“hey,” you call out softly, your voice a gentle ripple in the charged air. concern blooms in your chest, delicate but insistent, as you step further into her storm. “what’s going on?”

she glances up at you, her blue eyes clouded, the usual spark buried beneath layers of frustration and exhaustion. “nothing. it’s fine.” her words are clipped, brittle, a poor disguise for the weight pressing down on her. the sharpness in her tone, the tight set of her jaw, and the rigid line of her shoulders betray her. she’s unraveling, spiraling into the chaos of a day that’s clearly been too much.

you don’t press her. instead, you step quietly into her space, lowering yourself onto the couch beside her. the silence between you is thick but not unwelcome, a moment to let her gather herself. your hand moves instinctively, resting gently on her bouncing knee. the motion is small but deliberate, your thumb brushing slow, steady circles against her skin. her leg stills under your touch, but she doesn’t turn to look at you. her gaze remains fixed ahead, lost somewhere you can’t follow.

“billie,” you murmur, your voice soft and even, like a thread pulling her back to the present. “i need you to breathe.”

at first, she resists, the huff she lets out carrying a faint edge of defiance. but you don’t push. you stay where you are, leaning just close enough for her to feel the quiet, grounding weight of your presence. slowly, like the tide retreating, her breathing begins to shift. the jagged edges smooth out, each inhale and exhale growing steadier, softer. her shoulders, once drawn tight as a bowstring, begin to ease, the tension melting away bit by bit.

you don’t say anything else. you just stay there, your touch and the unspoken comfort you offer doing all the speaking for you.

once she’s calmer, you reach for her hand, the rough, calloused texture of her fingers grounding against the softness of your own. there’s something soothing in the contrast, a silent exchange of warmth and reassurance. you guide her toward your shared room with unhurried steps, the quiet between you filled only by the soft rustle of fabric and the faint rhythm of your breaths.

once inside, you ease her out of her hoodie, the heavy material slipping from her frame to reveal the tautness still lingering in her posture. replacing it with something softer, you move with care, your fingers brushing her skin in fleeting touches, each one meant to chip away at the tension clinging to her. her guard remains up, her body stiff under your hands, but you’re patient.

she sinks onto the bed with a quiet exhale, her movements deliberate and slow. sitting there, she looks up at you, her brown brows drawn together in confusion. the crease between them feels out of place on her face, a mark of the weight she carries, and that’s exactly where you begin.

your right thumb presses gently to the space between her brows, brushing slow circles there. “relax, baby,” you murmur, minding the delicate edge of your french tips as your left hand cups the side of her neck, your palm warm against her skin. her eyes flutter shut, and her brow smooths under your touch, the tension there melting as if coaxed away by your presence.

“you’re always frowning lately,” you whisper, your voice soft, a tender tease woven into your words. the corner of your lips lifts into a light laugh as your thumbs shift, tracing the sides of her temples with gentle precision. her sigh is barely audible, but it reaches you, a sign of the weight beginning to lift.

she lets her head fall forward, resting against the soft curve of your belly, her face buried in the quiet comfort you offer. your hands slide lower, fingertips grazing the base of her neck, exploring the edges of her tension with care. then, almost instinctively, your nails trace the faint, abstract lines of the tattoo peeking out from beneath her shirt. the designs feel alive beneath your touch, and though her body remains still, the small shift of her breathing tells you she’s beginning to let go.

her hands slide to your sides with unspoken intent, her fingers squeezing your skin gently, as if grounding herself in the moment. a soft moan escapes her lips when your fingers find the knot tucked beneath her skin, your touch firm but deliberate as you knead the tension away. her breath hitches, her body subtly leaning further into you.

"that feel better?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, warm and intimate. she nods slowly, her hair brushing against your shirt with each movement, leaving strands untamed and wild. her lips find your stomach in soft, fleeting kisses-her quiet way of saying thank you without words.

your hands find their way to her cheeks, cradling her face as you gently lift her head so her gaze meets yours once again. her eyelids are heavy, lashes fluttering as her hazy eyes lock onto you. her lips, slightly parted, curve into a small, sleepy smile that sends warmth cascading through you. a faint blush dusts her cheeks, soft pink against the cool tones of her skin, as her gaze turns warm and pleading—a silent invitation, a wordless request for more.

your thumbs move instinctively, stroking slow, rhythmic patterns along the base of her throat and the sides of her neck. her skin feels warm under your touch, and you savor the quiet hum she releases, a low sound of surrender. with another soft moan, she reaches for you, her hands finding their place at the back of your neck as she pulls you closer.

her lips meet yours in a tender collision, slightly chapped but desperate, the press of them catching you off guard enough to draw a quiet gasp from your own. the kiss deepens, her lips enveloping yours with a neediness that feels almost fragile. her tongue swipes along the curve of your lower lip, tasting the sticky sweetness of your gloss. a faint but familiar flavor of honey and vanilla lingers, and she lets out a contented sigh as the taste floods her senses. it's intoxicating—her favorite indulgence—and in typical fashion, she chases it, unable to get enough of you.

breaking the kiss, you pulled back slightly, both of you breathing heavily as you tried to catch your breath. a delicate string of mixed saliva lingered between your lips, glistening in the low light like an invisible thread, refusing to sever the connection between you. still slightly hunched over her, you gently guided her onto her back, her body sinking into the bed as you crawled over her, the soft weight of your presence making her exhale deeply.

you leaned down, pressing light, lingering kisses along the curve of her cheek, trailing them down to the delicate slope of her collarbone. the gold chain of your necklace swayed with your movements, the small diamond 'B' charm—her initial—dancing above her skin, catching the faint light in its tiny movements.

her hands reached up instinctively, fingers curling around your necklace as though grounding herself in its presence. the cool metal of her own chains slid across her collarbones, clinking softly as they shifted to the side. her grip tugged you closer, and she kissed you again—deeper, slower this time, the desperation tempered by a quiet intimacy.

she was the one to break the kiss this time, her lips parting from yours as she dipped her head into the curve of your neck. her kisses were deliberate but messy, open-mouthed and soft, scattering heat along your skin. your eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, delight unfurling in your chest.

but when her lips lingered too long, you gently cupped her jaw, easing her away from your neck with soft insistence. her gaze found yours, her spent, half-lidded eyes searching yours for clarity, a flicker of confusion flashing across her features. you silenced her silent question with a kiss—light and tender, a reassurance of your closeness. her shoulders relaxed beneath you as she melted further into the moment, trusting your pace completely.

"let me take care of you for once," you whisper, your voice a quiet blend of confidence and tenderness. she doesn't argue. instead, she sinks further into the bed, letting her body surrender to your featherlight kisses and gentle caresses, her breaths coming slow and steady beneath your touch.

you start at her stomach, planting soft kisses along her skin, your lips brushing over the smooth, warm surface as you slowly lift her shirt. the fabric gathers in your hands, revealing more of her as you work your way upward, your mouth leaving a trail of heat along her abdomen and up to her chest.

her hands find their way to you, slipping beneath your own shirt. the chill of her rings grazes your skin, stark against your warmth, sending shivers coursing down your spine. her fingers move deliberately, seeking out the band of your bra. when she finds it, she tugs on the strap with a low whine, her silent plea clear in the way she pulls, urging you to shed another layer.

you pause, meeting her gaze for a moment before sitting up to grant her request. your movements are slow, deliberate, as you pull your shirt over your head, letting the soft fabric fall to the side. you're left in your black bra, its cups dusted with subtle, shimmering gems that catch the faint light like tiny stars. the diamond—encrusted clasp at the front glints as it rests against your sternum, adding an almost regal touch to the simplicity of your look.

your golden necklace settles against your chest, the 'B' charm now still against your skin, a quiet symbol of the intimacy you share. the faint contrast between your bra and the black sweatpants you still wear from earlier makes you feel both casual and vulnerable, a quiet kind of beauty that seems to captivate her. her eyes trace over you with a mix of admiration and hunger, and though her lips remain parted in silence, her body speaks volumes in the way her hands move instinctively to pull you closer again.

her eyes flickered to the fresh ink adorning your right side, the design still vivid against your skin. curiosity flashed across her features, but before she could fully register the image, your lips were back on her stomach, trailing heat along her sternum. your fingers moved deftly, slipping up to cup her right breast through the fabric of her bra, your touch firm yet deliberate. the faint graze of your belly ring against hers drew a sharp intake of breath from her, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating between you.

her hands returned to your sides, her grip tightening as her fingers sank into your skin, eliciting a slight furrow of your brows at the intensity, still, you didn't pause. instead, your hands moved to the hem of her shirt, easing it up and over her head, the fabric sliding away to reveal her bare shoulders. her hair spilled messily onto the pillow beneath her as your fingers worked quickly at the clasp of her bra, the tension snapping free with a practiced ease.

with the last barrier gone, you leaned back into her, your lips finding hers in a kiss that was slower this time, more deliberate. her hand slid up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, her fingers tugging just enough to send a pleasant shiver down your spine. her other hand rested on your hip, pulling you closer as though the space between you was unbearable.

your knees pressed into the bedding for balance, the soft mattress sinking under your weight as you tried not to topple onto her completely. the thought of it—of gracelessly falling and squishing her-flashed through your mind, and an involuntary giggle slipped past your lips. the sound broke the moment just enough to lighten the air, the vibration of your laugh brushing against her lips.

the corner of her mouth quirked up in response, and a faint moan escaped her, the sound low and rough as if pulled from the deepest part of her. her hands tightened their grip on you, her body arching slightly, and you could feel the soft hum of amusement mixing with the heat between you. it was intimate, raw, and completely her—a moment where even the smallest things felt like a quiet kind of magic.

you refocus, your gaze drifting to her chest before leaning down to press slow, open-mouthed kisses around her left areola. the heat of your breath lingers on her skin, and her body reacts with a subtle arch beneath you. finally, your lips close around her nipple, your tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles over the pink bud. her taste is faintly salty, her skin warm as it yields under your mouth.

your free hand moves to her right breast, fingers molding over the soft curve as you begin to gently roll her other nipple between your fingertips. the contrast of sensations—the warmth of your mouth and the coolness of your touch—draws a shaky sigh from her lips.

"mm-fuck," she breathes, her voice low and rough as her head falls back against the pillow. her neck stretches, exposing the delicate line of her throat, her body surrendering fully beneath you. the sound of her voice sends a rush of warmth through you, and you can't help but smile against her skin.

you switch sides, your lips finding her other nipple as you repeat your actions, tongue flicking and swirling with the same deliberate care. the soft, wet sounds of your movements fill the quiet, her breath hitching with each flick of your tongue.

when you finally let go, it's with a light, teasing pop, the faint suction leaving her skin glistening. your lips curve into a smile as you glance up at her, her chest heaving with each shallow breath, her lashes fluttering as she blinks hazily down at you. there's something intoxicating about seeing her like this— completely undone, her vulnerability offered to you with quiet trust.

lifting yourself up slightly, you shift your focus lower, your lips trailing a delicate path back down her stomach. your fingertips follow close behind, the tips of your nails ghosting over her skin as they trace lazy figure eights along her abdomen. her muscles tense and quiver under your touch, a subtle but telling reaction to the sensations you're leaving in your wake.

as you reach the waistband of her grey sweatpants, your hands settle on either side of her hips. your thumbs begin to draw slow, teasing circles on her pelvic bones, the pressure just light enough to make her body squirm. her breath hitches, and the quiet desperation in her movements only draws a soft smile from your lips.

"please," she whispers, the word so faint it's almost lost in the shallow rise and fall of her chest. but you catch it—her voice trembling with raw need, vulnerability spilling out in that single syllable.

"hm?" you hum softly, your tone low and teasing as your eyes flick upward to meet hers. your eyebrows arch in playful curiosity, your movements never faltering as your thumbs continue their lazy strokes. her blue eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and pleading, the kind of gaze that could bring you to your knees if you weren't already so close.

you tilt your head slightly, your lips curling into a faint smirk as if to say, you're going to have to say that again. her chest rises sharply, her mouth opening, but no words come out-just another shaky exhale as her hands clutch the bedding beneath her. the tension in the air between you feels electric, her silent plea only making you take your time, savoring every second of her unraveling.

"please, please. i-i need you," she stammers, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush, her usual confidence completely stripped away. the rawness in her voice stirs something deep inside you, a thrill at the vulnerability she's offering. her cheeks are flushed, the soft pink hue spreading across her skin, and her eyes are wide, pupils blown with need, the blue of her irises almost swallowed by the intensity of her desire.

you know your teasing is torture for her, and the thought only excites you more. her body reacts instinctively, hips arching up into yours in a desperate attempt to create some friction. but you're prepared for it. without missing a beat, your palm moves to her hip bone, pushing her gently but firmly back down onto the bed, holding her in place. the contrast of her warm skin against your hand sends a thrill through you, the subtle pressure making her whimper beneath you.

her breath quickens, and for a moment, the air between you is thick with tension. she looks up at you, eyes heavy and pleading, her chest heaving with each shallow breath. you can see the fight in her—the way her body yearns for more, yet she remains completely at your mercy. And, for the moment, you intend to savor every second of it.

“my baby wants me here?” you taunt as you cup her cunt, rubbing her slightly through the material of her sweatpants.

“yes, please..." she breathes out with need, her voice trembling, chest rising and falling erratically under your touch. the sound of her desperation echoes in your ears, and it stirs something deep within you.

you can feel the intensity building between you, and as much as you've enjoyed the teasing, you decide it's time to stop. with a slow, deliberate motion, you untie the string of her sweatpants, fingers brushing the soft fabric as you slide them down her plush thighs, savoring the curve of her skin under your touch.

not bothering to remove her panties entirely, you simply shift them to the side, your fingers grazing over the delicate lace as you expose her. the soft warmth of her sex meets the cool air, a delicate shiver running through her body at the sudden change. she lets out a sharp gasp, her back arching slightly as the coolness of the air kisses her skin, her body reacting instantly to the touch.

"look at that," you coo softly, your voice a low hum of satisfaction as you slide your left middle finger down her slit, coating it with her essence. the warmth and wetness of her response leaves you feeling a rush of anticipation, each movement slow and deliberate, savoring every second.

"oh-god," she breathes, sucking in a sharp breath as her eyes flutter, hazy with desire. she watches you through half-lidded eyes, her gaze fixed on your every movement, her chest rising and falling with shallow, erratic breaths. the sight of you biting your lip, the concentration in your expression, seems to send a shiver down her spine.

your finger moves languidly, tracing her slit with unhurried precision, the subtle pressure and teasing rhythm making her hips twitch slightly in response. each brush against her sensitive skin is calculated, drawing out her reactions, leaving her a little more undone with every passing second.

"my baby's so wet for me." you whisper, your voice thick with desire. she nods in agreement, her breath shallow and quick.

"yes, so wet just for you. my god, please," she pleads, the words slipping from her lips with a sense of urgency.

and you obliged, slowly entering your index into her, being mindful to not poke her. you take a slow, deliberate moment, allowing her to adjust to your touch. the atmosphere between you crackles with tension as you fingered her while your thumb rubbed against her clit simultaneously. every movement measured, every breath shared. your fingers trace a gentle path, mindful and careful, as you draw closer to the feeling of complete connection.

"mmm-you're so sensitive, my love," you whisper softly, the words leaving your lips like a caress, your voice thick with satisfaction. her hands find their way back into the roots of your hair, fingers threading through the strands, pulling you closer as her grip tightens, a silent plea for more.

you quicken your movements in response, white rings of her cum forming around your fingers as you continue. your fingers pressing into her with a steadier rhythm, each stroke drawing a louder gasp from her lips. her breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, her voice a tangled mess of words and moans, a symphony of pleasure that mixes with the desperation in her tone. each sound she makes only drives you further, urging you to keep going, to bring her closer to the edge.

bucking her hips into your fingers, she lets out a soft whine, the sound trembling in the air as your movements begin to slow, the shift in rhythm intensifying her frustration. her body is aching, needy, and she craves more, her fingers still tangled in your hair as she pulls you closer, urging you to keep going.

"please, don't stop—please," she pleads, her voice breaking with desperation, the words escaping in a breathless rush. her eyes are wide and pleading, filled with a raw vulnerability that pulls at something deep inside you. she's unraveling beneath your touch, and she can't seem to hold herself together any longer.

"i'm not, baby, just wait," you console, your voice gentle but firm as you slowly withdraw your fingers from her.

she watches you with spent eyes, her chest rising and falling unevenly, her lips parted as she tries to catch her breath. you take a moment to untie the string of your sweatpants, the fabric slipping down your hips as you shimmy them off, leaving yourself in nothing but a pair of black panties. the movement gives her a better view of your new tattoo, a pair of delicate hummingbirds perched around a cherry blossom tree. the ink swirls across your skin, the rest disappearing into your back in an intricate design.

her fingers reach for the fresh ink, the cool touch of her rings against your skin sending a soft shiver through you. you gasp quietly as she traces the delicate lines of your tattoo, her touch both tender and reverent.

"pretty." she whispers, the word slipping from her lips like a quiet reverence, her gaze lingering on the fresh ink as if she were memorizing every detail.

you lean down to kiss her once more, her lips swollen and red, still slightly parted from the intensity of your previous kisses. the taste of her lingers on your tongue as you move, savoring the way her breath catches against your lips.

your fingers move with purpose, slipping under the waistband of her panties, the fabric soft against your fingertips as you slowly slide them off, exposing her to you fully. you do the same for yourself, sliding your own panties down, the fabric brushing against your skin before they're discarded onto the floor.

with a slow, deliberate movement, you align yourself with her, your body hovering just above hers, a breath away from the contact both of you are craving. the air between you is thick with anticipation, your heart pounding in your chest as you pause, just for a moment, to savor the closeness.

both of you breathed out a moan as you rubbed your pussy against hers, her cum sliding on your skin while you grinded on her slowly.

her hands rest on your waist, fingers digging lightly into your back as her hips buck up to meet yours, the throbbing pressure between you intensifying, desperate for more friction. the heat between your bodies is palpable, and her urgency makes your pulse race.

reaching down, your fingers gently grip the side of her neck, your thumb brushing lightly back and forth over her lip. she opens her mouth, eager, and latches onto your thumb, her movements slow at first, then gradually faster, bobbing her head up and down as she tastes you. her tongue swirls around your skin, the roughness of it contrasting sharply with the smooth glide of your acrylic nails, sending a shiver through you.

she lets go with a soft plop, her lips lingering against your thumb before it returns to rest against her lip, her eyes heavy with desire, a silent invitation for more.

you grazed your finger over her pink lips, the softness of her skin a stark contrast to the heat of the moment, before you gently turned her head to the right. the body mirror on the wall caught your eye, framed in sleek black, reflecting every intimate detail. you could see everything—the way her body reacted to your touch, the slight tremble in her breath, the hunger in her eyes.

"fuck—look at my pretty baby. you're so beautiful when you're not overthinking," you murmur, brushing your thumb tenderly over her jaw, your voice thick with admiration and desire.

sure, you'd fucked in front of mirrors before, the reflections always a part of the experience, but this time it was different. this time, she was beneath you, her body writhing with pleasure, and you couldn't help but drink in the sight of her. every movement, every subtle shift of her body, only made you love her more. you were lost in the moment, savoring every second of this connection, this intimacy, this power dynamic.

billie watched the both of you in the mirror, her hands resting on your thighs, both of your tattoos visible as you moved over her. your belly piercing swayed with each movement, the delicate clink of your bracelet, necklace, and anklets adding a soft rhythm to the moment. the sight of you above her, being so tender, so focused on her, was enough for billie to release the tension she'd been holding.

“ma, i’m gonna—” she hiccuped out as she orgasmed, her cum hot and warm as she released her built up pressure.

"i know, baby, i know." you coo softly, your voice low and soothing, as your hands find hers. the cool band of your promise ring clinks gently against her own, a quiet reminder of the bond between you. you keep your rhythm steady, guiding her through the waves of her release, feeling her pulse beneath your touch as you hover on the edge of your own. the tension in your body builds, the electric connection between you both drawing closer to its peak.

your movements come to a slow halt as you lean down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her head, before trailing light, almost reverent kisses along her flushed cheek. with a contented sigh, billie collapses fully into the sheets, her body surrendering to the moment as her eyes flutter closed, savoring the warmth of your presence, the lingering touch of you on her skin.

as billie's breathing evens out, soft and steady, you gently shift your weight, easing off of her. her hands fall limp at her sides, the faint tremor of the moment still lingering in her fingers. you take one of her hands in yours, brushing your lips softly over her palm, savoring the quiet intimacy between you. her eyes slowly flutter open, the exhaustion from her release softening her features. a slow, sleepy smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she gazes up at you, her expression a mix of peace and satisfaction, as if the world beyond the two of you has faded into a distant hum.

“don’t move,” you murmur, your voice soft but firm. she nods, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion as she watches you, too tired to protest. you lean over, gently tucking a blanket from behind her over her body, picking up her oversized t-shirt from earlier and tugging it onto your body—leaving her bare beneath the cool blanket, before slipping into the connecting bathroom.

the bathroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of the overhead light casting a calming ambiance as you move with quiet intention. you plug the bath drain, the gentle sound of water beginning to fill the basin, creating a peaceful rhythm in the otherwise still air.

reaching under the sink, your fingers brushed against the cool glass bottle of lavender epsom salt. with a soft sigh, you unscrew the cap and sprinkle it generously into the tub, watching as the grains dissolve, leaving a faint shimmer in the water, releasing their calming scent.

you then grab a handful of delicate lavender flower petals, their purple hue soft and delicate, letting them slip from your fingers as you scatter them over the surface of the water, the soft fragrance mixing with the warm steam in the air. next, you reach for a bottle of soap, squeezing a generous amount into the growing pool, and watch as the water turns a soft, inviting shade of milky white. you swirl your hand in the water, stirring it gently, creating soft bubbles that float lazily to the surface, the scent of lavender and vanilla hanging in the air, blending perfectly with the warmth that’s beginning to envelope the room.

reaching into a drawer, your fingers graze the familiar coolness of the lighter, the flickering flame catching the night’s stillness. you carefully light a few candles, setting them on the smooth, black marble base of the bathtub. their gentle glow dances in the dim room, casting soft shadows that seem to whisper secrets. the warm scent of vanilla rises in the air, mingling with the calming lavender, creating a quiet, tranquil atmosphere. with a contented breath, you turn back towards the door, ready to return to her.

when you return to the bedroom, she’s just where you left her—curled beneath the sheets, the rhythm of her breathing slow and steady, a soft lullaby that pulls at your heart. “billie…” you murmur, your voice a tender thread that weaves through the silence. your fingertips trace shapes across her cheek, the touch delicate, coaxing her from the realm of dreams.

“hmm?” her voice is soft, dreamy, as if the weight of sleep lingers in her words.

“come on, love, time to get cleaned up,” you whisper, your eyes finding hers. her blue gaze flickers open, the haze of sleep softening into a warm, sleepy smile at the sight of you. she meets your eyes with a quiet, trusting warmth, her features bathed in the soft glow of the candles.

she hums, barely audible, “okay,” her voice a sigh of surrender, her body pliant as you gently guide her up. there’s no resistance, only a quiet trust as you lead her towards the bathroom, her steps slow and uncertain, but still, she follows. the warmth you’ve prepared beckons, and she lets you carry her there, one step at a time, beneath the soft weight of the night.

“you didn’t have to do all this,” she whispers, her voice soft and hoarse, a trace of vulnerability lacing her words as you gently sit her in the tub, the warmth of the water surrounding her like a soft embrace.

you smile, the touch of your thumb against her cheek tender, as if trying to soothe away every ounce of weariness. “yes, i did. you deserve it,” you murmur, your words a quiet promise. reaching for a black hair tie, you gather her hair into a loose bun, fingers brushing the strands with care. you press a gentle kiss to her forehead before you step away.

you move quickly, the rhythm of the evening pulling you in its quiet flow. downstairs, you wash your hands, then start the water for pasta, the soft hiss of it filling the silence. you make your way to the linen closet, pulling out fresh sheets and a soft comforter, the fabric cool against your fingers. replacing the old with the new, the bed now seems like an invitation, waiting.

you dig through your drawers, gathering pajamas for both of you, and return to the bathroom, where she sits waiting for you. her eyes follow your movements, a small smile curving her lips as you shed your shirt, your skin exposed to the dim light. she shifts, making room for you behind her, her fingers absently playing with the delicate purple petals floating in the water.

the candlelight dances around her, casting a soft glow across her face, and for a moment, she looks like something from a dream—beautiful, ethereal, a goddess bathed in warmth. everything in this quiet moment feels like it has slowed to match the rhythm of your heart, and you’re grateful for the stillness, for her.

as you settle into the warmth of the bath, billie leans back, her head gently resting against your chest, the two of you melting together in the soft embrace of the water. your legs, tangled beneath the surface, form a quiet connection, grounded in the silence between you. for a while, neither of you speaks. the only sounds are the soft crackle of the candle flames, a steady whisper in the room, and the occasional ripple of water as your feet shift, the delicate sound of your anklets grazing against the porcelain tub.

you let your fingers wander, tracing light patterns along her arms, the movements slow and tender, as if giving her space to breathe, to gather her thoughts. patience is something you’ve always had for her—something she’s always admired. even in the tense, unspoken moments, you remain still, waiting for her to speak when she’s ready.

after some time, she sighs, a soft exhale of air that carries the weight of everything unspoken. her voice, when it comes, is quiet but steady, the vulnerability in it a tenderness that wraps around you. “it’s not just the project,” she confesses, her words fragile but honest. “i feel like i’m always trying to prove myself, like no matter what i do, it’s never enough. and then i think about what people expect from me, and it’s just… a lot.”

her voice fades softly, her heart laid bare, and in that silence, you hold her, letting her feel your steady presence as she breathes through the weight of her words.

you hum softly, the sound a gentle lullaby, and press a kiss to her temple, a moment of quiet connection between you both. with a tender motion, your left arm drapes over her, and she nestles into it, resting her head on your forearm. her fingers graze your skin, tracing the delicate cursive lines of the tattoo that wraps around it, each stroke of her touch like an intimate conversation between her and the ink.

“i get it,” you murmur, your voice low and soothing, a soft breath against the stillness of the room. “you’ve got so much on your shoulders, but you are enough. i don’t ever want you to think otherwise. but i need you to know—you don’t have to carry it all alone. i’m here, okay? whenever you need me, just let me know.”

she nods, a small, quiet movement, and her legs shift, resting gently over yours beneath the water. her fingers curl around yours, pulling them into her touch, tracing the new french tips on your nails with a delicate reverence. “i know. and i don’t say it enough, but… i’m really grateful for you. for this. i don’t think i could get through half of this without you.”

her words flutter around your heart, soft and tender, and something inside you swells—something warm and full, as though the weight of everything between you is lightened in that moment. you pull her closer, holding her a little tighter, as if to make sure she knows that, in this world, she is never alone.

as the water cools, you gently lift her from the tub, your hands moving with the same tenderness that has defined the night. wrapping her in a soft towel, you dry her skin, each motion slow, careful—treating her like something precious, like a secret only you know. the faint scent of lavender lingers on her skin as you moisturize her body, the warmth of your hands gliding over her, bringing her back to the moment.

with a soft hum, you dress her in the fresh pajamas you’d brought in earlier, each fabric fold smoothing over her skin like an act of quiet love. reaching for a brush, you run it through her damp hair, each stroke almost meditative, before weaving it into two neat french braids, the rhythm of your fingers threading through her hair like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

once you’ve dressed yourself, you lead her downstairs, her hand finding yours as you move. at the kitchen island, she sits, watching you with soft eyes as you finish preparing dinner. the soft clink of utensils and the rhythmic chop of vegetables fills the space, but the most prominent sound is the ease of your conversation, light and easy, as you tell her about your day—about the small moments, the little victories, and the quiet things that mattered. she listens, her gaze never leaving you, her hands folded in her lap, tracing the soft lines of your self-care routine with a quiet reverence.

when dinner is ready, you turn off the stove, and with a practiced hand, plate the pasta, the steam rising like a promise. you sprinkle it with cheese before presenting it to her with a quiet smile. you settle into the chair next to hers, a chuckle slipping from your lips as she pulls the leg of your chair closer to her own, the movement playful, the connection simple, but full of a thousand unspoken words. the evening, now wrapped in warmth, feels like the calm after a storm—everything settled, everything right.

billie curls into your side, her body fitting against yours like it was always meant to be this way. her head rests gently on your chest, the soft rhythm of your heartbeat the only sound that matters as she takes small bites of her food, the warmth of her breath mingling with the quiet hum of the evening. “you really take care of me,” she murmurs, her voice thick with drowsiness, each word a delicate confession.

you smile, a tender curve of your lips, and trace gentle lines up her side with your fingers, the motion almost hypnotic. “and i always will. you’ve got nothing to worry about tonight.”

a contented sigh escapes her, and she sinks even deeper into your embrace, the weight of her body relaxing against you, her warmth becoming a part of you. she feels the truth of your words settle within her, like a quiet promise. she loves you, and in loving you, she has found something so rare and precious—something she never wants to lose. being loved by you is the safest place she’s ever known.

in this moment, she understands something profound: that no matter the distance or the storm, you’ll always find your way back to each other. and just as surely, she knows she’ll always be there for you, too.

astrc’s tag list: hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[arroganceisherfavoritecolor]

i love ur donnie writings so much. he’s sucha perv but if i was reader i’d let him use me anyday (if ur gnna write this no degradation to reader pretty please :))

doll

𝜗𝜚 Donnies feeling a lil bit stressed. What better way to take it out than on you?

warnings: smut, Donnie is a bit angry n aggressive, reader is a sweetheart

You understood that Donnie had his issues. Any other girl would've turned him down, thats probably why he loved you so much. It wasn't all that bad though. He was just like any other teenage boy, except the fact he was schizophrenic and occasionally enjoyed vandalism. He'd get angry, frustrated, annoyed. Just normal human things.

One day it got a bit too much. The two of you were studying in your cute little bedroom, laying atop of the stuffed animals scattered along the sheets. You were jotting down notes about genotypes and phenotypes when you heard a noise akin to a growl. You turned your head to see Donnie pick himself up from the bed, his brows furrowed in defeat. "Whats wrong, Donnie?" you asked, sitting up straight. Donnie just shook his head and sat on your vanity chair. "Stupid fucking math..."

Donnies calculus homework had been consuming his thoughts for days now, the complex equations and abstract concepts twisting his mind into knots. It's not that he wasn't smart enough, thats the furthest thing from the truth. Its just that Donnie didn't really know how to deal with things he didn't understand.

Now, what kind of girlfriend would you be if you just let Donnie go unnoticed? It wasn't like his moods weren't obvious, because they definitely were. He'd pout like a little boy who's mom said no to a new action figure. His mouth would curl up into a frown, his usually stormy demeanor booming with thunder.

So, you stood up in front of him. He looked up at you with his blue eyes, swirling with irritation. "Um, maybe I could help you?" you said, hands clasped together politely in front of you. Donnie furrowed his brows. "What do you mean? You gonna do all this bullshit for me?" he was obviously still on edge. Obviously had some pent up stress that needed to be released.

"Well, no...but I could help you in a different way." Thats when it clicked in his head. Donnie slowly rose up from the chair. "Oh, yeah? Like how?" he asked, backing you up slowly. "I could help you get your anger out," you said meekly, looking up at him with a hint of fear in your pretty eyes. You began rethinking offering yourself up to him. You knew Donnie would never truly hurt you, he loved you. But with him it was always a gamble. "You want me to take it out on you?" Donnie inquired, looking down at you with a vicious smirk on his face. You nodded your head, too scared to speak real words.

Donnie pushed you down onto the bed, his tall frame looming over yours as he attacked your neck with kisses and bites, marking your flesh with the imprint of his lips. His hands roamed your body greedily, squeezing and groping every dip and curve.

Donnies mind was consumed by a haze of lust and desperation as he tore at your clothes. He popped your blouse buttons open and almost ripped the fabric of your skirt. You hadn't ever seen him like this, so desperate and rough. Donnie's large hands gripped your wrists tightly, pinning them above your head as he grounded his rock-hard cock against your soaked panties. You could only lay there and whimper.

His eyes flashed with a feral intensity as he tore your panties off your body, the flimsy fabric no match for his strength and desperation. He tossed the pink shreds aside carelessly, not caring about the cost, only caring about the prize now laid bare before him. "Donnie! Those were new," you whined, wrists still above your head. Donnies eyes met yours, torn away from the sight of your bare pussy. "You said you wanted to make me feel better, didn't you?" you nodded your head silently. "Then be good for me 'nd take it."

Donnie fucked into you with a feral sense. his thick cock stretched your tight walls around his throbbing shaft. He set a brutal, punishing pace as he pounded into you again and again like a dog in heat. There was no gentleness, no tenderness, only the urge to let out all that pent up anger.

Despite his harsh touch, Donnies words were sweet and loving. You couldn't hear exactly what he was muttering in your ear, but it was something about how perfect you are and how much he loves you. "So pretty 'nd perfect, you're like my personal little doll," he grunted. You could only moan in response, as your brain and self respect had leaked out of you long ago.

"You like that? You like being my doll?" Donnie asked as he pushed your legs up towards your ears. The stretch in the back of your thighs stung but soon turned into pleasure. You nodded your head, of course you liked being Donnies doll. You loved it.

You could feel your pussy clench and shake around Donnies cock. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in, moaning loudly into his shoulder. You held on for dear life as he continued to pound into your cunt. "Ple- please! Please Donnie!" you squealed. You didn't know what you were quite begging for. It was either for Donnie to slow down or for him to spill his cum into your pussy.

With a loud groan and a sequence of slow, messy strokes, Donnie spilled into your warmth. You felt your eyes roll back into your skull, warmth enveloping your entire being. Donnies hips and cock twitched as the final sparks of his released faded out. He collapsed on top of you, both of your sweaty bodies molding together.

Once you had both caught your breath, Donnie lifted himself up. He stared down at you, your forehead sweaty and your eyes watery. Although barely awake, you could feel the shift in Donnies aura. He seemed calmer, more relaxed.

Your cunt was better than any stress reliever.

(GUESS WHOS BAAACK😼 tysm sooo much to @weirdogirl888 for requesting!! sorry if its a lil bit short lol. lmk if ygs want a second part to this scenario or sum :3)

[cerise-angel]

Will graham x fem!reader

dont know if this is smut? pre smut? something like that. maybe ill do a part 2 if i ever stop being lazy (i wont)

Will is crowding your personal space since he got back from work. It bothers you, mostly because you, and apparently him, had a long fucking day outside the warm cabin, and you wish nothing more than a long hot shower and a comfortable bed. Will is tense and in a awful sarcastic mood, but he tries to fall back into your graces by following you around the house like one of the dogs. You are also tense and a little annoyed at his "pushing you away verbally but pulling you in physically" antics, plus the whole mess you had to deal at your job today. Will seems to enjoy annoying you when he's annoyed. It seems he actually craves the banter that it turns into a heated argument and ends up with you panting under him. Not that you don't enjoy it the same. Will has a need to prove himself right, and by needing to prove yourself right, you have the need to prove him wrong. You're not engaging in any bickering today though. You already had an exhausting day full of meetings and arguments at work and even though you do like to counter whatever comes out of his mouth just to spite him, you decide not to play games tonight. Plus, it's a very toxic behavior you both have, and you promised your therapist (not Dr. Lecter) that you would not indulge it.

Will is not very happy with your avoidance and blatant neglect of his sarcastic tone and words, he does like to hear you whine and argue back. He crowds you again, right as you leave the bathroom wrapped in a towel. You roll your eyes knowing exactly what he's about to quarrel about. Usually, you leave the door open and unlocked when showering, since he has the habit of jumping in or just chatting with you while you get clean. Today you did left the door unlocked, but closed. Semi-closed actually, you like some privacy while peeing, you assume the wind has closed it. It's not your fault really, and you shrug when he gives you those stormy eyes. Will frowns, his mouth opening to say something when you leave him in the corridor, walking straight into your shared bedroom and, purposefully, closing the door. Will rolls his eyes and sigh, deciding you're done for. Inside the room you can't help but let out a small laugh. Even though you said you weren't going to engage in any discussions just out of spite, you realize that ignoring him just out of spite its a better game. This one you intend to play, and you think you could win.

Will storms inside the room shortly after your realization, and you cover your mouth to hide a smile. The dogs tried to follow you both, but he effectively locked them out with a small "tsk" and hand gestures. You put your nightgown on, and there he is crowding your space again. Will is right behind you, you can feel him trough the sheer fabric and see him trough the vanity mirror. He wraps his arms around you closing and locking you against him. It's so sudden and tight you end up gasping. Will smirks while resting his head on top of yours, and you chastise yourself for giving him the upper hand. He ducks his head down, breathing in your scent, before placing his head on your shoulder, looking at your anxious face trough the mirror. You know he can feel you panting and the mocking smirk he gives you is more than confirmation. You avert your eyes from his and try to get out of his cage. He tsks at you the same way he does with the dogs and you stop. He scoffs "Good girl." You give him an annoyed look paired with a mouthed "fuck off". He plays an offended act, teeth nipping at your neck. Will smirks, knowing he's about to win whatever new game you made. It's not his fault you make it so easy, for him at least, to see right through you. "What are you playing tonight, hm?" He mutters while dragging his nose against your neck, and you push him away slightly. That does seems to fuel him. "Nothing. Don't wanna argue, that's all." You answer in half truth, trying to walk to bed. It's quite difficult, since Will still has you locked in his arms, but he follows your lead anyway.

He laughs at your poor excuse, and turn you to face him in his embrace. You have to control yourself to not let whatever lustful needing emotions are growing inside you, focusing only on winning your own game. Ignoring him. Will drop his arms from you and sit on the bed. Without any need of instruction you place yourself between his thighs, while his hands decide to slide up and sown at the side of yours. He looks up at you with mischief in those puppy eyes and a fake pout and you want to punch him. "You know I don't like being ignored." He says before resting his chin on your tummy, and the way he looks at you is enough to have you whining. Which you do, embarrassingly, earning yourself another wolfish grin. "Seems like you don't like it either." You huff, pulling away slightly, still trying to win. Will falls dramatically on the bed, his hands rubbing on his eyes and then tangling in his hair. You go around the bed, but he stops you the middle, a hand pulling you by the thigh to lay down on top of him. You straddle him, sitting up as he props himself in his elbows. "Quit playing." His tone is a little desperate which has you smirking. You shift on top of him purposefully. "I'm not playing." Will rolls his eyes and you can practically smell the annoyance growing on him. He sighs audibly before squishing your cheeks together with one hand, the other rests, respectfully, at the end of your spine. "Quit it." you look at him with what you hope is defiance and not utterly need. You realize it was the later one when he places his mouth on yours, again and again, until his hand releases your cheeks and you give him a sheepish smile. "So annoying." He mutters with nothing but honey on his tone, before dragging his mouth to worship the column of your neck and the plateau of your chest. You whine again and both his hands slide down your body, one squeezing your ass and while the other rest at the base of your jaw, keeping your face tilted to expose it. Will looks up to you, his eyes still daring you to keep going. You shake your head, sighing in defeat. As the little motherfucker he is, Will smirks against the valley of your breasts. "Smart girl."

[mommykye]

Domestic Rebellion

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

Summary: Ambessa takes it a little too far with your patience

request are open

masterlist

The estate of House Medarda hummed with a quiet, domestic energy, a stark contrast to the clang of steel and the strategic pronouncements that usually echoed within its fortified walls. Sunlight, thick and golden, filtered through the heavy, crimson drapes, painting broad stripes across the polished obsidian floor of the main sitting room. Ambessa, even in her early years already possessing the broad shoulders and commanding presence that would through each day define her as a formidable war general, sat across from her wife, Y/n. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone against steel, a familiar sound in Ambessa’s capable hands, punctuated the otherwise still air.

Y/n, her belly now a proud, rounded testament to the life blossoming within, reclined against a plush velvet cushion on the low divan. Her once regal bearing, a quiet confidence honed in the intricate and often treacherous courts of a now-distant kingdom, had taken on a sharper edge in these last few months. The gentle sway of her hand as she instinctively cradled her stomach held a new firmness, her eyes, the swarming of a stormy sea just before a squall, possessed a flicker of impatience that Ambessa found utterly captivating. Even the delicate curve of her neck seemed to hold a newfound tension, a subtle indication of the simmering frustration beneath her usually serene surface.

"The steward,” she states, quiet frustration brewing inside of her. “dares to suggest I limit my intake of those spiced plums?" Y/n's voice, usually melodic and laced with a hint of courtly refinement, now carried a distinct snap, like a silken thread suddenly breaking under pressure. Her brow furrowed, the delicate lines etched there deepening with indignation, casting small shadows above her sharp, intelligent eyes. "Does he not understand the… needs of our child?" The emphasis on the word 'needs' was unmistakable, a clear indication of the gravity of the steward's perceived transgression.

Ambessa, who had been meticulously sharpening a whetstone against the formidable blade of her ancestral sword, the steel gleaming dully in the filtered light, looked up, a slow smile spreading across her strong features. The steward, a man whose very existence seemed predicated on avoiding Ambessa’s displeasure, a man who visibly quivered at the mere sight of her stern gaze, had likely approached Y/n with the utmost trepidation, his words carefully chosen and his demeanor appropriately subservient. The fact that he had dared to voice any form of restriction, however mild, spoke volumes of Y/n’s current… temperament, a volatile landscape Ambessa was still charting with a mixture of amusement and cautious respect.

"Perhaps he is merely concerned for your well-being, my heart," Ambessa rumbled, her voice a deep baritone that usually sent lesser nobles scrambling for polite agreement, a sound that resonated with authority and unwavering resolve. But Y/n was not a lesser noble in this house. She was its anchor, its quiet strength, the unwavering center around which Ambessa’s often turbulent world revolved.

"Well-being?" Y/n scoffed, a delicate snort escaping her lips, a sound that held none of its usual amusement. "My well-being is directly tied to the uninterrupted supply of spiced plums! Does he think this babe will be satisfied with bland gruel?" She gestured dramatically to her swollen abdomen, the movement causing the rich fabric of her gown to ripple. "This is a Medarda child, Ambessa. It demands flavor!" The conviction in her voice was absolute, leaving no room for argument.

Ambessa chuckled, the sound a low vibration in her chest, a warm rumble that usually soothed Y/n’s anxieties but now seemed only to fuel her indignation. It was true. Even in utero, their child seemed to possess a certain intensity that mirrored its mother’s current disposition. The kicks and stretches Y/n often described were anything but delicate flutters. They were robust, almost forceful movements, leading Y/n to often joke, with a wry twist of her lips, that their little one was already practicing battle maneuvers within the confines of her womb.

"And you, my war general," Y/n continued, her gaze sharp as a honed dagger, unwavering in its intensity, "you allow this insolence to stand? A mere steward questioning the cravings of the mother of your heir?" The accusation hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations.

Ambessa set aside her sword and whetstone, the clink of metal against stone echoing in the sudden stillness, her full attention now focused entirely on her wife. The playful glint in her eyes intensified, a spark of mischievous affection dancing within their depths. It was a familiar dance they engaged in, this subtle testing of boundaries, a playful power dynamic that had always been a source of both friction and profound connection between them. Before the pregnancy, Y/n had been a picture of poised diplomacy, her sharp wit often veiled in layers of courtly charm, her strength a quiet, steely resolve. Now, the veil was gone, replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty, a primal protectiveness that Ambessa found both challenging and utterly irresistible.

"And what would you have me do, my love?" Ambessa asked, her voice laced with amusement, a hint of teasing underlying the deep timbre. "Shall I have him flogged for his audacity? Drawn and quartered for his ignorance of prenatal cravings?" The hyperbole was deliberate, a gentle attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.

Y/n’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile playing at the corners, a fleeting glimpse of the woman Ambessa knew and loved beneath the surface of her current hormonal tempest. "Perhaps a stern reprimand would suffice. A reminder of who truly holds power in this household." The words were spoken with a playful edge, but the underlying seriousness was clear.

"And who might that be, my queen?" Ambessa purred, rising from her chair. Her large frame moved with a surprising grace, each step deliberate and silent as she closed the distance between them. She knelt before the divan, her gaze unwavering, her large hands resting on her own powerful thighs, her posture one of respectful supplication.

Y/n met her gaze, her stormy eyes alight with a mixture of defiance and something akin to anticipation, a familiar spark of playful challenge. "You know very well who it is, Ambessa."

"Do I?" Ambessa’s smile widened, a flash of teeth that held a hint of predatory affection. "Perhaps you need to remind me, my darling." The air thickened, charged with a playful tension that had become a hallmark of their long and passionate marriage, a silent language of dominance and submission that both understood intimately. Ambessa had always admired Y/n’s strength, the quiet resilience that had allowed her to navigate the treacherous currents of her former royal court, to emerge unscathed and with her integrity intact. But this newfound assertiveness, this almost aggressive protectiveness fueled by the life growing within her, was a fascinating evolution, a blossoming of a fierce maternal instinct that Ambessa was still exploring, still learning to navigate, and utterly enthralled by.

"I am the mother of your child," Y/n stated, her voice firm, brooking no argument, a declaration of undeniable truth. "And in my current state, my whims are law."

"Is that so?" Ambessa’s hand reached out, her large fingers gently tracing the curve of Y/n’s swollen belly, her touch feather-light despite their size. She could feel the firm bulge of their child beneath her touch, a constant, tangible reminder of the miracle they were creating together, a silent promise of the future. "Such power you wield, my love."

Her hand then shifted, moving lower, settling on the curve of Y/n’s hip. The rich velvet of Y/n’s gown felt soft and luxurious beneath her palm. Ambessa’s eyes darkened, the playful glint now edged with a more primal desire, a familiar hunger that always stirred in her presence.

"And how should a ruler deal with such… insubordination?" Ambessa murmured, her voice a low rumble against Y/n’s ear, the warmth of her breath a subtle caress.

Y/n’s breath hitched, a faint blush rising on her cheeks despite her defiant posture, a delicate flush that betrayed the intensity of her emotions. She knew this game, knew the unspoken rules that governed their intimate interactions, the delicate balance of power that shifted and swayed between them. Ambessa, for all her formidable presence and military might, possessed a playful streak, a fondness for gentle dominance that Y/n, in her own way, often indulged, finding a strange comfort and thrill in surrendering a measure of control.

"Perhaps… a demonstration of authority is in order," Y/n suggested, her voice a little breathier now, the playful defiance tinged with a hint of anticipation. She stands, aiming to continue her explanation if needed or rather to just step away from Ambessa’s heated gaze.

Ambessa’s smile returned, wider and more knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken desires that simmered between them. She rose to her full height, her shadow falling over Y/n, enveloping her in its comforting darkness. "Indeed."

With a swift, practiced movement, Ambessa’s hand dropped, landing with a firm thwack on Y/n’s rounded backside. The sound echoed in the sudden silence of the room, a sharp punctuation mark to their playful exchange.

Y/n gasped, a sharp intake of breath that was quickly followed by a stunned silence. Her eyes widened for a fleeting moment, surprise flickering within their depths, quickly replaced by a spark of something far more potent. Then, a surge of indignant anger ignited, burning brightly in their stormy depths.

Before Ambessa could fully register the swift and dramatic shift in Y/n’s expression, before she could savor the flush that was now rapidly creeping up her wife’s neck, Y/n’s hand shot out with surprising speed and force. Her fist, small but surprisingly solid, connected squarely with Ambessa’s nose.

The crack of bone was sharp and sickeningly loud, a sound that instantly shattered the playful atmosphere. Ambessa staggered back, a surprised grunt escaping her lips, her hand flying instinctively to her face. A warm, thick liquid immediately began to flow, staining her upper lip crimson, dripping onto her fingers. Her vision swam for a moment, a haze of pain and disbelief clouding her senses.

Y/n, her chest heaving with rapid breaths, glared at her wife, her eyes blazing with a fierce, almost primal, a raw display of untamed fury. She pushed her way past Ambessa to move around the divan, her movements surprisingly agile and swift despite her advanced pregnancy, her body radiating a potent mix of outrage and fierce determination.

"Do not mistake my current state for weakness, Ambessa," Y/n spat, her voice low and dangerous, each word laced with a sharp edge. "I may be carrying your child, but that does not make me a docile plaything. You will not treat me like some… recalcitrant recruit!"

With that, her hand protectively cradling her stomach a silent shield against any further perceived transgression, turned sharply and stomped away, her regal bearing somehow amplified by her pregnant silhouette and the sheer audacity of her wife’s actions. The heavy fabric of her gown swished angrily behind her as she disappeared through the arched doorway, leaving Ambessa standing in stunned silence.

Ambessa stood frozen, one hand instinctively clutching her now throbbing nose. Blood dripped onto the polished floor, forming a small, dark puddle that seemed to mirror the confusion swirling in her mind. Her mind struggled to process the rapid turn of events. A playful spank… a broken nose… her pregnant wife storming off in a fit of righteous fury. The sequence of events felt surreal, almost comical in its unexpectedness.

And then, a slow, utterly besotted smile spread across Ambessa’s bloodied face. It was a lopsided, slightly painful smile, but genuine nonetheless.

"By the Eternal Will," she murmured, her voice thick with a mixture of pain and adoration, a profound sense of wonder coloring her words. "She is magnificent."

The sheer lack of fear, not that she should be in any, in Y/n’s defiance, the raw, untamed spirit that had been unleashed by her pregnancy, the fierce protectiveness that extended even to defending herself against the War General of Noxus, filled Ambessa with a profound sense of love and admiration. This was her wife. A woman of unwavering strength, a force to be reckoned with in her own right, carrying their child with a fierce protectiveness that resonated deep within Ambessa’s own warrior heart.

Ambessa chuckled, a wet, gurgling sound that made her nose throb even more, but the pain was a distant second to the surge of affection she felt. Healers would need to be summoned. But in this moment, all Ambessa could feel was an overwhelming surge of love and respect for the woman who had just rearranged her nose with a single, well-aimed punch.

She watched the empty doorway where Y/n had disappeared, her heart swelling with a love. It was a love forged in mutual respect, in unwavering admiration for the other’s strength, and in the shared, often tumultuous, journey of building a life together in the heart of Noxus.

With a sigh, Ambessa wiped the blood from her upper lip with the back of her hand, smearing it further across her cheek, leaving a crimson streak against her dark skin. "I suppose," she mused aloud, her voice still thick and slightly nasal, "that spiced plums are now a matter of national security."

She would find Y/n. She would apologize, not for the playful punishment that had been her initial folly, but for underestimating the fiery spirit and the potent protectiveness of her pregnant queen. And she would ensure, with swift and decisive action, that the kitchens were overflowing with the requested spiced plums, lest she face another, potentially more damaging, demonstration of royal displeasure.

The thought made her smile again, a genuine, heartfelt smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, even as her nose throbbed in protest. Life with Y/n was never dull. And with a child on the way, Ambessa suspected it was about to become a great deal more… interesting, a chaotic symphony of hormones, cravings, and unexpected acts of defiance. She only hoped the nursery was well-padded. Just in case.

The afternoon sun continued its slow descent, casting long shadows across the room, painting the scene in hues of deepening gold and rich crimson. The scent of blood mingled with the lingering aroma of the beach, a strange but somehow fitting olfactory portrait of the Medarda household in this moment, a testament to the unique and often volatile dynamic between its two formidable inhabitants. Ambessa, still slightly dazed but utterly enamored, finally moved, her large frame lumbering towards the door, ready to face the delightful chaos that was her pregnant wife.

The estate, usually a bastion of Noxian order and discipline, now held a subtle but unmistakable undercurrent of domestic rebellion, a testament to the powerful forces at play within its walls, the potent combination of pregnancy hormones and a fiercely independent spirit. And Ambessa Medarda, the fearsome War General, wouldn't have it any other way. Her queen had spoken, with a fist and a fiery glare, and Ambessa, ever in love and now nursing a throbbing nose, was more than ready to listen. The reign of spiced plums, it seemed, had well and truly begun.

[fanged-fanfics]

☆ But The Night, He Calls Me — Bruce "Batman" Wayne x GN Civilian!Reader Fic ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

It was hard to imagine a time where anything noteworthy in Gotham didn't happen during a dark and stormy night. The city was a pretty big pull for raincoulds, low hanging fog, and a general morose look. But above all else, it was your home, though you didn't prefer to walk out at night these days. With the notoriously shoddy work of the GCPD and crime rates almost triple as high compared to the neighboring cities, you didn't exactly feel the wet concrete and dark alley corners beckoning you anytime soon.

The roof, however, was a different matter. Your roof— or, well, the roof to the apartment complex you lived at— became a frequent spot to the one man who could ever make a dent in Gotham City crime. The very same man you could see perched on the edge of the parapet right now. You approached slowly, taking careful steps as to not make a sound. After painfully long moments of inching, you were almost close enough to reach out. You shuffled just a bit more, preparing to make yourself known-

"Go back inside" the dark figure cut in, low gravelly voice clear and familiar. You sighed deeply, giving up and moving to step up to the vigilante's side "How do you always do that?". "I'm a detective, it's my job" the Batman said flatly. You leaned against the parapet he was standing atop "It's uncanny is what it is. After all these months you'd think I'd be able to get the drop on you at least once". "Villains who have been chasing me since the beginning of my career haven't managed it either, don't be too discouraged" Batman replied.

You chuckled a little, looking over the edge of the roof. The crime fighter's dry humor was a reason the two of you got along so well. After meeting by chance a few times, it became a more regular occurrence to meet up like this. Sometimes you'd get to see him spring into action, or maybe even return from a fight. But tonight, it seems, was uneventful. "Slow day?" You asked. "There's never a slow day in Gotham," Batman responded "You just need to know where to find the action". You couldn't help but snort a little at the claim "Okay, tough guy, so why haven't you set off yet?". "There's no point to a stakeout if you jump in before the crook" Batman said, and you gave a thoughtful nod in reply.

"You should really go back inside" the caped crusader spoke up "It's late. You've got work, I'm sure". "Got the day off, actually, detective" You responded "And I can't sleep knowing there's a bat on my roof". That got a faint hum from the dark knight, the closest you got to an amused reaction from him. The wind picked up from the just-passed storm, bringing a chill that bit your cheeks and clung to your clothes in one large wave. You couldn't help but shiver, tugging your jacket tighter around your pajamas.

Batman kept his gaze on the streets below, watching as puddles rippled with the last few drops from the sky and lamps flickered from lack of care. He was in tune with every foot of concrete road, attuned to any and every movement. The only thing that pulled his attention was when feeling his long billowing cape being tugged. His head looked over, seeing you wrapping the inky black fabric around your shoulders. "What- what are you doing" Batman asked, mildly confused. "It's not really fair that you're the only one that gets to wrap up in this thing" you said, scooting closer to him for more coverage.

"I do that to cloak myself" Batman countered, sliding off the parapet to be standing on the top of the roof beside you. "Right. And I'm using it to warm myself" you said casually, shuffling to his side. You honestly expected him to give some gruff, witty comment and snatch the cape back. If it were any other situation, with any other person, maybe he would have. But instead, he just looked back to the streets, using an arm to hold out more of the martial for you. You smiled, tucking fully into his side and now being fully wrapped up. "Better?" Batman asked, avoiding looking down at you. You nodded, leaning on his shoulder "A lot, yeah. Thanks, Bats"

Batman gave a short 'hm' in response, going back to being silent. But he kept an arm around your lower back, keeping you held close to his frame. As much as he was trying to avoid it, it did poor things to his heart to see you shivering in the cold because of him. He very briefly placed his chin atop your head, using his free hand to tap your shoulder. "Ten minutes. Then you're going back to bed"

"Fine, fine" you said, nuzzling up to him a bit more "Ten minutes". Batman hesitated a little, before allowing himself to wrap his arms around you fully. He gave you a brief but strong embrace, letting you soak up his warmth just for now. He could spare ten mintues. It's not like any villain could outrun him for long, anyways.

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — the light is coming . . . mean!chris

in which . . . the light returns after the darkness nearly ruins you.

warnings . . . smut , resolved angst , making out , makeup sex , rough sex , unprotected sex , wall sex , creampie , chris is lowk toxic uhh

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #2

he’s been cruel before—cold, cocky, dismissive. that’s just chris. you’re used to the eye-rolls and backhanded compliments, the sarcastic jabs and passive-aggressive smirks. most days, you can take it. give it right back, even.

but lately? he’s been mean.

not the usual teasing kind. not the charming kind. just mean for the sake of it. insults that feel like knives. silence that stretches too long. eye contact that feels like daggers instead of comfort. and you’re sensitive, you know you are—but that doesn’t make your feelings any less real.

so you pull away.

tell him you need a break. that his energy’s been too dark lately and you need space to breathe. he scoffs when you say it, says “whatever”, but he doesn’t stop you.

and then three days go by.

no contact. no calls. no texts.

nothing.

until tonight.

you hear the knock before you see him—loud, urgent, relentless. and when you open the door, he’s just standing there, eyes all stormy and jaw clenched tight, like he hasn’t slept or so much as relaxed in days.

“you really gonna ghost me now?” he spits. “that’s cute.”

you stare, arms crossed. “chris, you deserved it.”

he exhales hard through his nose. doesn’t even try to argue. instead he mutters, “i can’t do this shit. not with you. not like this.”

you blink. “so stop being a dick.”

“i know.” it comes out fast. harsh. like it hurt him to admit it. “i know. i’ve been a dick. i’ve been…worse than usual.” well, you already knew that.

a beat.

“why?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t answer. just steps inside like he owns the place, slamming the door shut behind him. “because i was scared,” he bites out. “okay? i’ve never—fuck, i’ve never felt this wrapped up in someone and i didn’t know how to deal with it.”

you flinch at the honesty. he notices, grabs your waist. and then it all happens at once.

your back hits the wall, the impact knocking the breath out of you, but not as much as the way he’s looking at you. jaw tight, eyes wild, hands already gripping you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue and frustration, and you can feel the pent-up tension in the way he kisses. like he’s punishing himself for every second he spent away from you. like this is the only language he knows.

his hands are everywhere—gripping, pulling, roaming like he can’t get enough. your shirt rides up, your breath hitching when his fingers skim your bare skin. he doesn’t ask permission. doesn’t slow down. just yanks the fabric over your head and tosses it aside, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to memorize you, as if he hasn’t already. you weren’t wearing a bra since you weren’t planning on having any visitors.

his mouth finds your neck, hot and relentless, teeth grazing that spot he knows makes you whimper. you arch into him instinctively and he groans, the sound deep and wrecked, hips grinding into yours with zero patience. he yanks down your shorts, your black, soaked panties going down with them, leaving you naked and hot.

you’re clawing at his hoodie, shoving it up, needing him closer. when he peels it off, he’s flushed and breathless, chest rising and falling like he’s about to lose it. your fingers trail down his stomach, finding his belt, undoing it with shaky hands while he mouths at your collarbone. his belt falls with a thud, his jeans following soon after.

there’s no talking. no time. just heavy breathing and rushed movements and the sound of clothes hitting the floor. chris wastes no time in tugging his shirt up above his head, tossing down with the rest of his clothing, leaving him in just his boxers now. he lifts you, presses you harder against the wall, and your head falls back with a soft cry when you feel how hard he is against you—thick and throbbing and there. you lock your legs around his waist for extra support.

you cling to him like nothing exists but this moment, nails digging into his bare back, legs tightening around his waist. he ruts his boxer-covered hips into yours once, rough and slow, and you both moan—quiet and choked and needy.

he buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse, and you can feel the apology in his touch. in the way his hands cradle your hips. in the desperate way he holds you like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you ever pull away again.

chris flys down to the waistband of his boxers, pulling his rock-hard cock free from them. he locks his lips with yours once more—starving, desperate. he drags his tip through your sopping folds, lubing himself up with yours juices.

as he slips inside you, he bites down on your bottom lip hungrily to distract you from the pain of the stretch. he sinks his length all the way in, hissing at the tightness. you cry out at the burning stretch, digging crescents into his back with your nails, head falling back against the wall.

“god, i missed you—missed everything…especially this fuckin’ pussy—god, i love you…”chris grunts, starting to plow into you at an animalistic pace. your jaw drops open, a loud moan ripping through you. as his thrusts get rougher, your legs tighten around his waist and you’re sure he’ll have defined scratches all over his poor back by the morning.

“fuck, i love it when you’re loud—“ he groans, shoving his face into your neck and nipping at your flesh. you whimper, tears pricking your eyes at the dual stimulation. your body is hot, on fire even. despite how good it felt to ignore chris for days and gain your power back, there was no denying how much you’d missed his cock and how good he always fucks you.

your eyes roll back, a loud moan escaping your lips at the way he spoke to you. the way he pounded you against the wall. the way you could feel his apology in the way he held you like you’d disappear if he loosened his grip.

chris had trouble verbally apologizing for things. you knew that. so he’d apologize through actions. taking you out places, buying you things, and this. fucking his ‘sorry’ into you.

the tears in your eyes finally spill over as you start to feel the knot in your gut tightening, threatening to snap. you rapidly blink your eyes, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. chris revels in the sight of how good he’s making you feel, and he really starts to realize how much he missed you.

“hated not talkin’ to you. every day felt like shit.” he growls, moving his hands down to your thighs to better support you against the wall. and despite his gritty tone—due to how hard he’s hammering his cock into you—you can hear the raw emotion in his voice. something you don’t get to hear from him very often. at all.

his hands tighten on your thighs, grip a little desperate, a little shaky, like he’s trying not to lose it. he’s still plowing deeply inside you, pressed up against the wall, your back flat to it and his body pinning you there. everything’s messy—your moans, his breath, the way his hips keep stuttering even though he’s trying to keep up the rough pace.

“bed,” he mutters against your neck, already peeling you off the wall like he can’t wait another second.

you don’t even have time to think. his hands tighten their grip under your legs, lifting you easily off the wall and into the air, keeping you filled the whole time. it’s all clumsy and rushed—stumbling a little as he walks you both to the bed, cursing under his breath when your walls clench around him mid-step.

and then he’s lowering you, just barely—just enough to press you into the mattress, your back hitting the sheets as he leans over you. your knees are still up around his waist, and he grabs them, presses them toward your chest like he wants to fold you in half.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes, hips snapping deeper. “you take it so good—always do.” he presses down on your legs, changing the angle to hit even deeper. his thrusts become more brutal, driven by his need to please you. his need to apologize.

the thick drag of one of his more prominent veins makes you flutter around him, a strangled, whiny sound leaving your lips. he feels your warm, velvety walls constrict around his length, eliciting a deep groan from him. he leans down to capture your lips in a rough kiss, swallowing your moans. his pace becomes erratic, his cock twitching inside you.

he breaks the kiss to watch your face contort with pleasure, sweat sheening on his forehead.

“fuck—fuck, i’m sorry,” he breathes out suddenly, like it slipped. like he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. the world stops spinning.

chris

just

apologized

to

you.

mean, asshole chris, just said he’s sorry.

your eyes flutter open. “i—what?”

he groans low, jaw clenched as he thrusts in deeper, harder, like he’s mad at himself. “you heard me.”

you blink up at him, dazed. “s-say it again.”

he rolls his eyes like you’re being annoying, but his hips stutter when you tighten around him. “don’t make me,” he mutters, almost pouting. then, quieter, “you know i don’t do this shit.”

“chris.” you whine.

he exhales hard through his nose. doesn’t slow down, but leans in closer—forehead practically pressed to yours.

“i’m sorry,” he grits, like the words taste bad. “i shouldn’t’ve done half the shit i did. shouldn’t’ve iced you out like that.”

your attempt at a smile is broken into a jaw-dropping gasp when he angles his hips, hitting deeper. he smirks a little, even as his breathing stays rough.

“fuuuck, i—please tell me you’re close—“ he grunts, hips stuttering as his balls draw tight. you just let out a shaky whine, unable to form words. because you are close. dangerously close to that feeling of pure bliss. chris takes the tears falling from your eyes and your trembling body as a yes.

when he lets out a slightly higher-pitched groan, his hot seed spurting itself inside you, you fall over the edge. a violent tremble takes over your body, a loud shriek ripping through you.

and when it’s over, you open your eyes to chris. hot, sweaty, apologetic chris. he releases his grip on your knees, and you let them collapse flat onto the bed.

he stays inside you, hips twitching slightly as he lets out a deep, broken exhale. then his body collapses on top of yours—heavy, flushed, damp with sweat. his face buries into your neck like he’s hiding there, and you let him.

his breathing evens out first. then yours. and for a second, it’s just quiet. still. you’re half-expecting him to ruin it with a joke or some dumb comment, but he doesn’t.

instead, he just mutters, voice muffled against your skin, “you done being dramatic now?”

you scoff, smacking the side of his thigh. “you done being a dick?”

he grins against your collarbone, nipping at it softly. doesn’t say anything.

he doesn’t have to.

he’s still on top of you, still inside of you, still here. and for you and chris, that says more than words ever could.

the light is coming back to your relationship. slow, stubborn, soft around the edges.

and you couldn’t be happier.

author’s note . . . ummm im so bad at writing angst bye it only lasted like 3 seconds..sorry this is ass

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