#Silvery Answers

[silver---linings]

Silver can u use ur powers to stop someone's heart from beating?👀

"..." He just stares at you with this very disturbed look. "I... probably can, but... why would you ask me that??"

[bittsandpieces]

Can we please see the lovely nails?

took this this morning!! I think I did pretty good, considering i did them myself and I've only been painting my nails consistently for a few weeks now

[strawberrystepmom]

Think you could tell your faves apart by their bush alone?

absolutely and undoubtedly……scent too…the way it feels when i rub my cheek against it….

[sapphiredhearts-a]

the infernal devices tag drop

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when the strongest sorcerer, satoru gojo, meets your strongest period mood swings?

a/n: i teared up writing this. i wish men—real, emotionally available, period-bath-running boyfriends—were real.

you don’t know why you’re crying. again. maybe because the blanket slipped off your shoulder or because the strawberries he cut for you weren’t sweet enough or because the stupid commercial on tv had a puppy in it. whatever the reason, your bottom lip wobbles and you sniffle, clutching the heat pack tighter against your abdomen.

satoru is there in a heartbeat. not because he knows what to do—oh no, he’s scrambling. since this morning when you woke up groaning like a medieval knight struck down in battle, he’s been in full red-alert panic mode. he googled “how to handle girlfriend on period” three times, made a list, burned it, then cried a little in the hallway before gathering the courage to come back in. he even called shoko for backup, only to be met with unhelpful laughter and a “good luck, loverboy.”

now he’s crouched in front of the couch like he’s about to disarm a bomb, blue eyes wide behind his stupidly expensive sunglasses that are now pushed messily into his silvery hair. his lips are pursed like he’s concentrating very hard, but the little twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his anxiety.

“operation: spoiled princess is officially in action,” he declares, voice light but eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read the weather. his large hands cradle your cheeks with a gentleness that doesn’t match his usual chaos, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he can physically wipe the emotion away. “what’s wrong, baby? want me to punch the strawberries? i’ll do it. don’t test me.”

your nose scrunches, and despite the tears welling again, a soggy laugh escapes you. “you’re so dumb.”

“and yet so handsome. it’s really unfair to everyone else,” he sighs dramatically. his long legs fold awkwardly as he plops down beside you, then tugs you into his lap like you’re made of glass. your face smushes against the soft cotton of his long-sleeved tee, which smells like laundry detergent and a hint of something sugary—probably from the chocolate he was sneak-eating earlier.

five seconds later, your mood shifts again.

“why would you say that?” your voice rises, sharp. you pull back, brows furrowed. “are you saying other people want you? is that it? am i just some girl to you?”

satoru freezes like someone hit pause on him. “huh? what—no! what are you talking about? i just—i meant it like—baby, no, don’t cry again—”

“i’m not crying because of you,” you snap, already blinking back tears. your arms wrap tighter around your stomach. “i just… i feel gross and my stomach hurts and i hate everyone and nothing helps.”

“okay! okay,” he says quickly, hands held up like he’s facing a wild beast. his tone drops to something soft, coaxing. he leans in, his bangs falling a little into his eyes. “you hate everyone. but not me, right? please don’t hate me, i’ll literally explode.”

you glare. “depends. did you eat the last cookie or not.”

he blinks once. twice. “…i—what? baby, this is not the time for interrogation—”

“answer the question, toru.”

“…no comment.”

you narrow your eyes, pinch his side. he yelps like a kicked puppy.

“okay! okay! i did but i didn’t know it was the last one—wait, don’t look at me like that, please, i’m too young to die—”

satoru’s voice cracks just a little, and he sounds genuinely distressed now. the kind of pitiful panic that only comes from being accused by the person he loves most. “you don’t really hate me, right?” he blurts, blinking rapidly as if he could force an answer out of you by sheer will. “like… not actually? you’re just—y’know—period mad? not ‘i want to leave you and never look back’ mad?”

you sniff, pouting at him with narrowed eyes. the silence stretches just enough to make him squirm. he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, eyes darting from yours to the pillow, to your hand still fisted in his shirt.

“because if you did, i think i’d just crawl into the washing machine and set it to spin cycle,” he mumbles, only half joking. “you’d forget all about me, but the spin cycle wouldn’t forget.”

you break. again. this time with a teary snort of laughter. your face buries into his neck, the tip of your nose brushing his warm skin as your shoulders tremble with exhausted giggles.

he exhales like a man who’s just been handed a stay of execution. his arms wind tighter around you, holding you like he’s scared you might vanish.

“i got you chocolate,” he whispers hastily, like it’s penance. “and those terrible chips you like. and i prepped a warm bath with the glittery bomb thingy you keep hoarding. also, i may have threatened the delivery guy to get here faster. i said i was a government official. please don’t report me.”

he tries to kiss your forehead, but you shove his face away with a palm.

“you smell like cheap cologne. did you use that stupid body spray again?”

satoru reels back, wounded. “excuse me, this is top-tier scent! the internet called it ‘irresistible alpha energy.’”

“more like teenage boy in a locker room.”

“wow,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. his thumb rubs slow circles into your back, his gaze flicking down to your fingers still tangled in his shirt.

finally, you lift your head, your eyes glassy but no longer stormy. your features soften—still tired, but laced with reluctant affection. satoru looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

“you’re the worst,” you whisper.

his grin is crooked, too relieved to be smug. “and you still don’t hate me. noted.”

he bumps his nose against yours, then gently tugs you closer. “c’mon. bath time for my temperamental goddess. i even lit the dumb candle that smells like a bakery.”

he stands, scooping you up with more care than coordination. you press your forehead to his jaw, soaking in the familiar comfort of his scent—minus the cologne.

“your skin glows with divine light… your aura purifies the air… i am but a lowly servant in the temple of your beauty…” he chants dramatically. he slips on your fuzzy socks halfway to the bathroom and nearly eats it, but catches himself just in time, shouting your name like he’s about to perish.

even if he’s overwhelmed, mildly traumatized, and definitely confused by the chaos that is your period mood swings, satoru gojo is nothing if not yours.

[inmutant]

" Where have you been this whole time? "

Busted. Was the first word that Luna thought as soon as she had walked through the door, only for her father to immediately turn on the lights and confront her. Truthfully, Luna was surprised to find herself be caught, she had thought she'd been careful enough to sneak out and come back successfully, but alas it she failed.

"I was out, clearly." Luna huffed with defiance and crossed her arms. "Last time I checked I don't need to tell you everything that I do, of every moment of the day."

@silveriic

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Bisexual Best Friend

Male Yandere x Fem Reader He just wants what's best for you. If he has to tell a few white lies now and again, then so be it.

When you first saw him, he had his tongue down your boyfriend's throat.

It sure as hell would not have been the start of a friendship, except...

He was the one who ran after you when you stormed out of the club, mascara and eyeshadow running in silvery streaks down your cheeks.

He was the one who hugged you and apologised and said your boyfriend was a piece of shit for doing that to you.

He was the one who got you home safe, cleaned off your makeup and left aspirin on your bedside table.

In your half haze of alcohol and tears, you clung to him and nuzzled into his neck and told him you were so grateful, that he was such a nice guy.

It wouldn't have been the start to a friendship and maybe it shouldn't have been. But you called him the next morning.

You apologised for being such a mess, stuttering just a little at the deep gruffness of his morning voice. He laughed and told you not to worry about, that you should've seen what a fool he made of himself when his boyfriend cheated.

You weren't sure how, but a phone call turned into lunch together. Both of you just a little tipsy from bottomless mimosas, his arm tossed across the back of your chair as he sketched out the horror of his last situationship.

"So you're gay?"

You should have noticed it then - the way he narrowed his eyes just a little, the way he let his fingers graze your bare shoulder, the way he seemed to take just a second too long to answer.

"Yeah. I'm into guys."

That was the first lie he told you. Not entirely untrue. He was into guys.

He was just into girls too. And he was especially into you.

He could have been honest with you, he could have told the truth. But you were still reeling from your boyfriend's betrayal, too guarded and hurt to let another man into you life.

And he so desperately wanted to be a part of your life.

The next time you asked him to hang out, you were so at ease. You hugged him when you saw him, your tits squished against his chest. You held his hand and dragged him along behind you. You fell asleep with your head on his shoulder.

He smoothed your hair away from your face and any idea of telling the truth crumbled.

He told himself he just wanted to be your friend. Lord knows you needed one after such a nasty break up. But anyone who looked at you together could tell friendship was the last thing on his mind.

He took you to watch his favourite band performing live and hoisted you up on his shoulder for the encore, his hands inching further and further up your thighs.

He took you to his favourite club and bought you drink after drink until you danced with him, your arms thrown back around his neck and your ass grinding into his crotch. It was only the pulsing neon lights that kept you from seeing his hard on.

He invited you over for a movie night and pretended to lose the AC remote, just so he could share a blanket with you and keep his arm around your waist.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got. You were cute and clever and funny. You could yap together for hours about fashion and music and video games. You brought him little presents every time you came over - small packets of his favourite sweets, a new flavour of ice cream, his go-to Starbucks order.

Could you blame him for wanting you?

He started calling you his wifey, even in front of his friends. Would crack jokes about getting married if either of you couldn't find a guy by next year. And you went along with it. Ran your hands up his chest and fluttered your eyelashes at him and called him your strong, handsome fiancé - oblivious to the way it made his heart race.

When he walked in on you changing, he kept his face deadpan and told you red was definitely not your colour, even as you scrambled to cover up and spluttered at him to get out.

"Why? You aren't exactly my type babe."

Another lie. Not even remotely true this time.

And soon you got used to him walking in on you. Started asking him for fashion advice while you were in just your underwear and heels. Started asking him to tie your bikini tops and unzip your dresses. You didn't notice him always slipping away afterwards, one hand shoved deep in his pocket. You didn't notice the way his hair was always slightly messed up when he got back, his cheeks just a little flushed.

And if there were ever any warning bells - any subconscious instincts that told you he touched you too much, hugged you for too long - they were drowned out by his parade of boyfriends and flings. Why would he be into you when he could be dating a ripped surfer or hooking up with his personal trainer?

You never realised you were the reason his relationships were always so short lived. He couldn't fall for any of them the way he fell for you. They were all just quick fucks to get the frustration out of his system.

He could have continued just like that - fucking a new guy every weekend and getting brunch with you right after.

But then you went and met someone.

He froze when you told him, his smile a rictus, hand clenched so tight around his wine glass that he was lucky it didn't shatter.

He gritted his teeth and managed to choke out a congratulations. You beamed at him, flushed pretty with young love. You squeezed his hand and said it was only a matter of time before he found his love too.

He had to excuse himself after that. Had to splash cold water on his face and fight down the urge to scream. God, why was he so fucking stupid? He should have made a move on you ages ago, back when you first met. If you rejected him then, at least it wouldn't hurt as bad as it did now.

He somehow managed to make his way back to the table and smile at you like you hadn't just clawed his insides to shreds.

"So when can I meet the lucky guy?"

When you got up to wash your hands he slipped your phone out of your bag. He scrolled through your gallery, over analysing every pic of your new boyfriend. Cute, but you could do so much better. And he wasn't even that much taller than you. God, are you really gonna date this loser?

You kissed him on his cheek when he left and he spent the entire walk home rubbing the spot and thinking up ways to get rid of this new... disruption.

Later that afternoon you called him up and asked if he'd like to come to a bar with you and meet your new man. And just like that, the wild ideas in his head clicked into place.

"Sure wifey, I'd love to come."

He showed up late and spilled a drink down your dress before you even finished saying hello. And while you rushed off to try and get red wine out of satin, he scanned the bar for your new boyfriend.

And when he finally found the bastard, he turned on all his pretty boy charm. Bought him a drink and slung an arm across the back of his chair and pretended not to hear when he said he had a girlfriend. Managed to get the guy flushed and stuttering even after he claimed to not be into men.

When he pulled your boyfriend into a kiss, the fucker had the nerve to actually kiss him back.

He was careful with his timing - going in for a second kiss as soon as he saw the flash of your dress through the crowd.

He pulled away just as you reached the table and looked up at you with oblivious innocence.

"What's wrong baby? Why do you look so shocked?"

Your boyfriend shoved him off and stood up to grab you, to claim he didn't kiss someone else, the guy just came onto him swear to God. But the damage was already done.

Who would you believe was at fault? Your best friend who didn't even know what your new boyfriend looked like? Or the asshole kissing someone else while you were gone?

You threw your drink in your boyfriend's face and called him a filthy liar. When you grabbed your best friend's arm and dragged him away, he struggled to hide his smile.

He took you back to his apartment and popped open a bottle. Poured you a drink and kissed your forehead and let his hand settle on your lower back.

"Men ain't shit baby. We're all just manipulative assholes deep down."

He let you drown your sorrows in the bottle and then pulled you onto his lap when you were too drunk to object.

"I'm the only man you need in your life, yeah?"

You sniffled, too drunk and hurt and dizzy to notice his hands moving to your bare thighs.

"Yeah."

"C'mon, say it. Say I'm the only man you need."

"You're the only man I need."

His fingers slipped under the hem of your dress and he pressed his lips against your skin, teeth oh so close to your jugular.

"And I'll take care of you. So just sit still and I'll make it all better."

[aseaunsettled]

tag dump

[mx-monster]

Thinking horny thoughts about Minotaurs so here’s a lazy Drabble

Cw: m/f, breeding kink

Male!minotaur god of agricultural x Female!human offering

your villages crops are failing. If it continues there won’t be enough to store for winter. In the face of a grueling winter and the real possibility of starvation, the villagers turn to the god of agriculture. They choose you as the offering. They lathering you in sweet smelling oils and dress you in the finest scarlet dress the village possesses. Gold necklaces are clasped around your neck, silver bracelets slipped onto your wrists. A crown of wildflowers rested on your brow.

You’re paraded through the village while neighbors, family, and friends gather on the streets chanting prayers and singing hymns to catch the God’s attention.

You’re left standing alone in a barren field One of the many your village had tried and failed to cultivate. The light of the full moon bathing you in its silvery light.

It doesn’t take long before He’s towering over you. He was magnificent.

“Do you know what this ritual entails?”

What do you say to a God? How do you say it? So you don’t answer. At least, not with words. Without looking away from the God before you, you lower yourself to the ground. Dress pooled around your waist, you spread your thighs and bear your sex to His hungry eyes.

He spends hours between your legs. Alternating between opening you up on his thick fingers and dragging his large, hot tongue along the seam of your cunt. He pushes you to the edge of ecstasy, only to reel you back in.

Your thighs are slick with the proof of your need. You feel wetness steadily leak from your cunt onto your ass. He slides his hips in between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock teasing your slick entrance.

“You’re ready. Know that if we do this I will spill inside. My seed will take and you will become pregnant. Do you understand?”

You nod. God, you understood. You wanted it more than you wanted anything else.

“Say it.”

“I want it, please. I-I need it. I need it so bad,” you sobbed, frustrated tears streaming down your cheeks. He had spent so long teasing you, you’d absolutely die without release. You nearly screamed in relief when He began slowly fucking into you. He was so thick. Even with all the preparation you felt every inch of Him splitting you open.

“Such a greedy cunt you have,” He grunted, “taking me so well. Begging for my cock so prettily. I’ll give it to you. Give you anything. Everything.”

It doesn’t take long before you felt an orgasm rip it’s way through you. Your vision blacks out as a wrecked scream tore from your throat. You felt his cock pulse, spilling hot seed into your starved cunt.

When you finally came back to your body you noticed that the once barren field was now filled with healthy vegetation.

“Your village will one day be the capital of a mighty and prosperous kingdom. Our children’s children will sit at it’s head and one day pass their crown to the heads of their children. But that is a conversation for later,” he pulled you close, enveloping you in a strong embrace, “now, we rest.”

[salingers]

HAYRIDE. JOEL MILLER.

your failed, medical internship’s the reason that you’re standing in your childhood bedroom, now. under the guise of needing paint, you tag along on joel’s home depot run.

pairing─ joel miller x reader. warnings─ 18+ mdni. anal fingering. cream pie. f oral sex. implied, legal age-gap. unprotected piv sex. w/c─ 2,629. a/n─ a03. masterlist.

A decade’s fleeted, since the last time that Joel Miller’s arcing, bedroom window’s framed your body; You’re nearly an apparition.

Your mere silhouette’s evoking long-neglected memories for Joel; Your private school’s fussy graduation. Whistling, from the bleacher’s humid, metallic plank. Joel’s abruptly blinking away his proud reverie.

Your haphazard, gauzy curtains aren’t proffering any privacy. Your dresser’s girlish; A dust-ladened and weathered wicker. You’re scrounging the half-dozen drawers, sorting teenaged remnants, Joel’s guessing.

It’s arguably morally awry, that he’s guessing at all. You’ve unearthed an ivory-colored pair of panties. You’re sampling the garment’s width, against your clothed waist; Your index finger’s hooking the pliant underwear and slowly stretching. Joel curses, “Fuck’s sake.”

Joel’s denim-clad groin’s growing taut; You’re unbuttoning your pants. His conscience’s hollering, QuitWatchingQuitWatching. Then, Joel’s belatedly swiping his curtain’s panel shut. The plaid, trembling fabric’s punishing him. You’re right there.

Your peripheral’s revealing that brown, tartan material’s now obscuring Joel Miller’s looming, perusing shadow.

Your phone’s deeply droning, near plummeting from your nightstand’s uneven, wickered top. You answer, “Hi.”

Dad’s beginning, “Hi, you.” Before, “Room ‘lright?” 

You aimlessly nod, “Yeah. Need ‘t paint it, though.”

The flat, stark white’s reminiscent of an operating room. A scalpel amid your dominant, gloved hand; Your abandoned internship. You’re certainly color-drenching this bland, interim room.

Dad’s conveniently chirping, “Y’know, Joel’s headin’ over ‘t The Home Depot. ‘Jus asked if I needed anythin’ for work.”

You humorously say, “The Home Depot?”

Dad amusedly huffs, “The one ‘n only.” Then, “I’ll dial ‘im back. Tell ‘im ‘t bring ‘ya.”

You’re nervously inquiring, “He won’t mind?”

Dad’s chuckling, “Kid, seriously? ‘S just Joel.”

He hasn’t been just Joel, since his absurdly sexy appearance in Dad’s FaceBook album, dorkily titled, ‘Fishin’ Missions’. Dad’s askew lens, recording Joel’s roughened, veiny hand, sizably surpassing his fish’s ample breadth; His arm’s rind, rugged and sun-freckled.

 That heathered-gray muscle-tee; Hued identically to Joel’s own silvery threads. Accentuating. Your horny musing’s interrupted, when the doorbell’s nostalgic ding’s reverberated. A leadened, salacious feeling’s pin-balling your rib’s conical-shaped cage.

You’re descending the stairway’s carpeted tread. A once-over’s rushedly ensuing, amid the entry way’s gritty mirror. You’re timidly turning the front door’s bulbous knob; Your skin’s avidly warming.

Joel’s gruffing, “Waitin’ on an invitation?”

You’re feignedly snark, “Go ‘head, Miller.” 

Joel’s arousingly large. His belt’s leathered and suppled; Tapering his tender waist. You’re deliriously visualizing biting it. Your teeth’s individualized grooving, engraving Joel’s every-day accessory.

He’s beckoning, “C’mere. Settlin’ in okay?”

Your pulse’s embarrassingly hurried, as Joel’s hugging you. Your nose’s upturned, against his collar’s corduroy lapel; His inherent aroma’s autumnal. A heady medley of burnt cinnamon, earthy hay.

You breathlessly retort, “Y–Yes. ‘Jus fine.”

His beard’s deliciously graying and scruffy; Bristling you. Joel’s inching away; A hand’s kneading your elbow’s point, “Grown. Ain’t ‘ya?”

You’re muttering, “Think anythin’ in my ‘ol dresser’ll fit?”

Joel rasps, “Be fittin’ somethin’ ‘a mine. Talkin’ like that.”

You teasingly tut, “Oh? Promise?”

His jaw’s tightening, “G–Get in my fuckin’ truck, ‘lready.”

The retail store’s unmistakingly orange and tan exterior’s materializing onward. Joel’s hushedly threatening, “Got ‘t behave.”

You’re amusedly assuring him, “Me? ‘Course.”

He’s backwardly parking. His arm’s generously imposing against your seat’s cushiony spine, “Lot ‘a clients ‘a mine, in ‘ere.”

His chin’s abutting along his broad, reaching shoulder’s top. Joel’s delectable, lofting nose’s leading his prominent side-profile; His pursed, upper lip’s capped under an impressive, stiff mustache. Your cunt’s pulsating. You need to rabidly rut against Joel Miller’s aging, sun-tinged face.

You’re resignedly sighing, “Fine.”

Joel replies, “Bratty fuckin’ girl.”

His accent’s aggressively Texan; Languid. Syrupy. You’re involuntarily leaking, beyond your underwear’s cottony corral. The archaic radio’s uttering early-seventies Linda Ronstadt, until Joel’s halting the ignition.

You murmur, “Any cute clients?”

Joel’s apparently unimpressed; He’s agitatedly rolling his coffee-shaded eyes. Tutting, “Best be ‘lone, when I find ‘ya.”

You’re unpromisingly shrugging, before evacuating his Ford’s heated interior. Whispering, “See ‘bout that, Miller.”

Your skin’s momentarily rasped, from the atypically frigid, October wind. The store-front’s decorated seasonally. There’s pallets, upon pallets, of pumpkins; A uniformed variety of classic orange and creamy white.

You’re distractedly mulling around carving or painting pumpkins, while Joel’s unexpectedly wrapping his freshly-shedded, heavy chore-coat against you; His hand’s comfortingly scrubbing your shoulder’s taut blade.

Joel’s deeply humming, “Better, darlin’? Hm?”

You’re instantaneously arming the clothing item’s perfectly tenderized sleeves, “M–Much, Joel.”

You’re leaning, subsequently touching his torso’s muscular crest. Joel’s thumbing your collar’s curving bone, “Warm, here?”

You whine, “Yes.”

Joel’s beginning to crane downard, until he’s chinning your shoulder’s trembling shelf. You’re gasping, as he’s fingering your loaner, Carhartt jacket’s bottom button, from behind. His arm’s caging you.

His calloused pinky’s reaching, before flitting your pant’s folded fly, “And, here?” He’s wagering, “Warmer?”

You’re groaning, “Ngh. Y–Yeah.”

Joel carnally scolds, “Filthy fuckin’ girl. A–Askin’ me ‘bout other men? While your pussy’s pre-heatin’ ‘f me?”

His finger nail’s raking your zipper’s aluminum teeth. Joel’s tauntingly whispering, “Ain’t brattin’ much, now.”

You’re begging, “L–Let’s leave.”

He’s instantly moving. You’re incoherently stunned, as Joel’s adopting an orange-colored cart, “Find ‘ya in the paintin’ section?”

You’re spluttering, “J–Joel. ‘S not what I meant.”

Joel’s winking, “Darlin’, I know what ‘ya meant.”

He’s ambling ahead, bypassing the automatic door’s yawning jaw. Your dominant hand’s flexing, electrocuted in palpable pleasure; It’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy. You’re involuntarily summoning an image of Joel, dressed as the aforementioned aristocrat, participating in Halloween.

Joel’s robust shoulders, heaving against an incompletely unbuttoned, wispy shirt. His chest’s foggy-toned, furling hair. His head’s rain-rustled, curly strands. A high-waisted trouser; Ascending his belly’s delectable slope, whilst canopying his cock’s dilating weight. You know it’s big.

You’re unfocused; Footing the hardware store’s threshold. There’s an assortment of motion-triggered, Halloween decorations erected nearby. You’re curiously setting one, an animatronic ‘Boogeyman’. The creepy distraction’s festively futile. Joel Miller’s still permeating your skull.

The paint attendant’s named ‘Ruger’. A gun manufacturer namesake’s befitting, given Ruger’s camouflaged, distressed t-shirt. He’s an Austin, Texas quintessential, twenty-something male; A ‘modernized’ mullet-and-mustache duet? Check. A smothering of ‘patchworked’ tattoos? Check.

He’s flirtatiously greeting, “Sugar. How can I do ‘ya?”

You’re brandishing an array of complimentary paint-swatches, against his counter’s crest, “Do color-matchin’?”

Ruger’s endorsing, “Best ‘round.”

You’re inwardly wincing, but Joel’s abruptly approaching. So, “Ain’t doubt it. Clothes shouldn’t be an issue?”

Your palm’s routing your breast’s pocket; Ruger’s murmuring, “T–That jacket? ‘Moss’ by Carhartt. Got codin’.”

You’re falsely enthusiastic, “Really? You’re the best.”

Ruger tosses an isolated thumb, signaling to his computerized, machine mixer, “Told ‘ya.” Asking, “Color’s goin’ in your bedroom?”

You’re agreeably nodding, “Yep.”

Ruger’s grinning, “Lucky paint.”

You begin, “You? Feelin’ lucky?”

Joel’s reprimanding, “Lucky that I ain’t kill ‘im.” Before, “Passin’ at my girl. Gettin’ paid ‘t do that?”

Ruger’s answering, “N–No, Sir.”

Joel’s deeply repeating, “No.” Then, “Two gallons ‘a Sherwin-Williams. Emerald. Matte finishin’, both of ‘em.”

You’re second-handedly embarrassed and incapable of meeting Ruger’s apologetic, parting peer. Joel’s efficiently emptying his cart’s plastic-composed basin, before rehoming his kindred supplies, upon the check-stand’s laminate surface. You muse, “Emerald’s two-hundred dollars ‘a paint?”

Joel’s genuinely offended, “Ain’t payin’. I’m gettin’ it.”

You’re avidly insisting, “Don’t have ‘t do that, Miller.”

Then, Joel’s rapidly reaching outward; Yanking your belt’s fraying loop. You’re firmly tugged against him. He drawls, “Want ‘t do it.”

His breath’s cinnamony and smoky; An inebriating merging of gum and cigarettes. You dizzyingly respond, “Y–Yeah?”

Joel’s languidly leaning, before brushing his nose’s point against your ear’s lobe, “Yeah.” Whispering, “Paintin’ your bedroom the color ‘a my jacket? What’s that ‘bout, darlin’ girl?”

You’re shyly stammering, “D–‘Dunno.” Accusing, “Sayin’ aloud, ‘my girl’? What’s that ‘bout, Joel?”

Joel’s grinning, “That? Want ‘t find out?”

You’re panting, “Oh?”

His palm’s barreling behind; Stuffing his pant’s pocket. You’re savoring the rattling sound of his key-ring’s recovery. Then, Joel’s rapidly shoving the mixed-metal wad inside your rear-pocket. His bulky hand’s harshly kneading your bottom’s fleshy heft; Your cunt’s thumping.

He demands, “Go ‘head. Right behind ‘ya.”

You’re ocularly rummaging around Joel’s unkempt vehicle. American Spirits. Matches. A thrifted, Patsy Cline cassette. Big Red. Coins. A dog-eared, John Steinbeck novel. The sexual suspense’s dampening your sternum; Sticky. Sweaty. You’re beginning to desperately undress.

The Carhartt coat’s discarded. Your flimsy henley’s unbuttoned. Joel’s egressing from Home Depot’s aromatic interior, before pausing at the Garden Center’s check-stand. No way. A hundred-dollar note’s being thrusted, from Joel’s girthy hand, unto the cashier’s gloved palm.

This broad, burly man’s buying you fucking pumpkins. He’s pensively plucking them. His brow’s furrowing; His forehead’s wrinkling. Joel’s literally examining them, heeding any blemished gourds. You’re bewilderedly blinking, as Joel’s palming them, like they’re… Basketballs.

Your waist’s winding, impatiently rutting against his truck’s benched seat; Your pant’s denimed seam, slotting your cunt’s drooly entry.

Then, Joel’s jerking the back-seat’s door ajar. Asking, “Pick ‘em ‘lright? Did ‘ya see?” His scruffy chin’s jutting, at his quartet of pumpkins.

You’re swallowing, “Y–Yep. Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s gruffing, “C’mon. ‘Course, pretty girl.”

His arm’s effortlessly flexing, tanned and veined, amid transferring his plastic-bagged supplies. Joel’s guessing, “Need ‘t be fucked, in ‘ere?”

You shamelessly moan, “Mhm.”

He’s teasingly whistling, “Yeah? Ain’t far from home, baby.”

You’re grumbling, “T–Too far.”

Joel’s patronizing, “Gettin’ cocked, in ‘ere? ‘S really slutty.”

You sigh, “Don’t care. C’mere.”

The shopping cart’s rapidly returned, before the driver-seat’s groaning under Joel’s jeaned ass, “Needy pussy.” His construction boot’s tamping the brake’s pedal, “Ain’t it? Get ‘t fingerin’. Feed me somethin’ warm.”

Your brassy button’s unhitching; Your toothy zipper’s buzzing. You’re hurriedly shrugging the denimed material downward; Ankling it. His mouth’s prematurely parting. Your underwear’s transparent, flooding in arousal. Joel’s dangerously speeding, departing the feebly-populated parking lot.

He’s feverishly warning, “There’s an empty hay field, ‘round back. Bit ‘a off-roadin’. Yeah?” Directing, “Give ‘em.”

Then, Joel’s toughly tugging your panty’s waist-line. You’re shamelessly obedient; Your fabric restraint’s promptly removed. His beefy, index finger’s impatiently suspended; Pumping. Your pussy’s watering his passenger-seat’s cushioning; Your underwear’s encircling Joel’s commanding digit.

The all-terrain truck’s bumpily impeling, devouring the barren field’s acreage. Eyes involuntarily shutting, Joel’s blindly steering, inbreathing your underwear’s deluged gusset. His nostril’s flaring. His cock’s pitching, prodding below his crotch’s denimed rein; You’re stuffing your pussy’s well.

Joel’s harshly moaning, “Listen ‘t that. Cryin’ fuckin’ hole.”

You’re whimpering, “M–Mm. Ngh.”

He’s greedily ringing your plunging wrist; Yanking. The rapid removal’s obscenely squelchy. Then, Joel’s immediately slurping your index and middle finger’s balmy glaze; Your thumb’s pinning upon his chin’s graying, scratchy underside. The truck’s recklessly slowing.

Joel’s haphazardly parking. The halting, howling tires begin spewing an autumnal confetti; A misting of dry hay and auburn leaves. You’re suddenly hoisting against Joel’s bulging lap; He’s instantaneously hammering, before spitting out your moistened finger’s duet.

And, Joel Miller’s finally kissing you. His groan’s pouring, beyond your esophagus. Licking your mouth’s rippled roof; Siphoning your tongue’s humid pad. Your naked pussy’s pouncing upon Joel’s clad cock. He’s thumbing your cheek-bone’s divot and cupping your jaw-line’s hind; Whimpering.

He’s arousingly exhaling, “Ngh. ‘S fuckin’ tasty.” Then, Joel’s dropping horizontally. Laying, “Fixin’ ‘t guzzle ‘ya.”

His head’s hedging the passenger-side’s door; His boot’s budging the driver-side’s door. You’re drawing upward, as Joel’s guiding you. Your dewy hole’s ramming against Joel’s awaiting face; He’s nosing your clit’s distended mound. Your innard thigh’s twitching, “G–God. Feel fuckin’ good.”

 Arousal’s rigorously sopping Joel’s beard. His mustache’s coated and creamy. Your behind’s leveraging; Ass firmly spreading. Joel’s maneuvering and manhandling you. He’s lapping, nearly pornographically swigging. You’re internally levitating; Your spine’s liquefied, “A–Ahhhh. Joel, Joel.”

Joel’s innocently whispering, “What?” Then, “Asshole’s puckerin’. Need pluggin’?”

You’re deliriously nodding, Yes. His center digit’s tantalizingly traveling below. Brushing your clit’s crest; Scooping your cunt’s slick. Your fluttering, furthest hole’s aching, against Joel’s circling, finger’s pad. He’s beginning to tandemly traverse; Eating. Fingering.

Your stomach’s tightening, as Joel’s knuckling you. His head’s nuzzling; Shaking. His beard’s rigidly whiskering, across your core’s folding, before he’s relentlessly sucking. Your clit’s flickering; You’re blindingly cumming. Joel’s airily humping; His cock’s englarging.

He’s hoarsely speaking, “A–‘Atta girl.” Praising, “Drippin’ inside ‘a my fuckin’ ear?” Sniffling, “Up my fuckin’ nose? Good, wet girl.”

You’re dizzyingly horny, “Miller. PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel’s grinning, “Please?” 

Your puffy pussy’s eagerly lowering, “Yes.” You’re gyrating, against his lap’s ridge, “Fuck. F–Fuck me.”

He’s grunting, “Fuck ‘ya? Fuckin’ slut. Keep beggin’.”

Joel’s leaning upright and sitting upward. Your disoriented shirt’s being tossed away. Licking your throat’s trail; Skimming your nipple’s peak. You’re nakedly stamping atop his torso’s towering mass. Your skin’s goose-bumping, “Ngh. P–Please, Daddy.”

His brow’s amusedly arching, “Y–Yeah?” Demanding, “Who’s.” Thrust. “Your.” Thrust. “Daddy?”

Promising, “You.”

Joel’s approvingly nodding; His driver-side door’s thudding open. His arm’s muscularly solid, whilst effortlessly upholding you. You’re burrowing, at his throat’s protruding, pulsing vein, as he’s regressing vertical. His anterior boot’s pressing upon decaying hay; A gelid gust of wind’s wreathing.

He’s attentively mumbling, “Shiverin’? Let’s warm ‘ya. Hm?”

His beard’s balmy and cunt-scented. You’re being settled, amongst his driver-seat’s aged upholstering. You’re amorously fidgeting, as Joel’s flitting his belt’s metallic prong. The accessory’s yanked from his fading Wranglers, as Joel’s abutting the cushion’s edge; His zipper’s deliciously drawing.

The belt’s noisily plummeting; A leathery slap, against the floor-mat’s rubbery surface. Your waist-line’s eagerly grasped, whilst Joel’s positioning your pussy’s twingeing hole. He’s hissing, during an arousing upheaval, of his cock’s entirety; The seeping tip’s bypassing his belly-button’s nook.

His t-shirt’s becoming translucent, as pre-cum’s dampening it. You’re following the ample shaft’s terse twitching. Blurting, “Need. That.”

Joel’s attractively smug, “This?” He’s robustly swatting his cock, across your clit’s cummy summit, “Think it’ll fit?”

You whimper, “F–Fuckin’ make it.”

He’s lowly whispering, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth.” Then, Joel’s abruptly and aggressively entering, “Go ‘head. Keep mouthin’ off.”

The truck’s boisterously creaking, as Joel’s ruggedly rutting. Your cervix wall’s convulsing, crowning his cock’s head. Your shiny spend’s glossing Joel’s graying, pubic tuft. His groin’s angrily clobbering, striking your cunt’s doused expanse. You’re incoherently stammering, “N–Ngh.”

Joel’s responding, “Can’t hear ‘ya, bratty girl.”

You’re painfully stretching, inside-and-out. His jeaned, lower-portion’s gloriously grating your thigh’s rear. Your right-side leg’s hooking through the steering wheel’s median; Your left-side leg’s perching, against Joel’s widening shoulder’s tier, as he’s weightily falling forward, “Say somethin’?”

Your limb’s achingly pinned vertically; Your body’s contorting, creating an indecent, ninety-degree angle. His focused, sun-wrinkled forehead’s grown moist. His furling, silver-tinged strands begin cascading. The benched seat’s dilapidated stitching’s imprinting, decorating your back’s extent.

Your taint’s repeatedly thwacked, by Joel’s brimming balls. His angle’s hitching, hitting that spot. You’re shrieking, “A–Ah.”

Joel’s accordingly bottoming-out, “Doin’ good. Stretchin’ well. Ain’t it?” His hip’s briskly oscillating, “Good girl. Good pussy.”

You’re shuddering, “D–DaddyDaddyDaddy.”

The pleasure’s pouring. Your cunt’s palpitating; Your spine’s taut. Joel’s resultantly stroking, maintaining his pacing, but drilling harder. He’s licking, crossing your hung jaw-line’s road. His tenderized t-shirt’s feathering, against your exposed nipples, over-sensitively tapering them.

Joel’s rasping, “C’mon. Flood my fuckin’ truck.”

His tone’s arousingly languid. That’s it. You’re breathlessly cumming. Every extremity’s tightening, before blissfully dissolving. Your vision’s brightly impaired. Your climaxing moan’s fractured, as Joel’s ingesting it. His mouth’s restorative, whilst being ruining. You’re whispering, “Flood me.”

He’s whimpering, “Y–Yeah?” A prominent vein’s materializing, against his throat’s girthy rind, “Ain’t wet ‘nough, ‘lready? Greedy hole.”

Then, Joel Miller’s hotly erupting. His length’s flinching. Your fatigued, flittering hole’s wringing him. His aging brow’s bunching; You’re caressing his cinched expression. Your right-side leg’s being removed, amidst the steering wheel’s medial opening. Joel’s comforting, “Hurtin’?”

You’re indifferently shrugging; Joel’s unconvinced. His palm’s expertly massaging your leg’s weary ligament. You’re pathetically sighing, making Joel laugh. He’s kneading your knee-cap’s exhausted muscle, before fingering your calf-tendon’s aspiring knot. You stammer, “T–Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s questioning, “How ‘bout Lowe’s, ‘morrow?”

You’re grinning, “Sure. If ‘ya sleep-over, tonight.”

[halovians]

cw. boothill x f!reader drabble, riding (but really he’s the one in charge), piv penetration, cyborg dick, a hint of dacryphilia perhaps, this is seriously just some major brainrot im having please help, minors dni pls and ty :)

cold metal bites into the supple flesh of your hips.

it’s a stark contrast to the heat your body radiates, icy fingertips clutching you tightly as boothill guides you along his dick, sinfully dragging against the fluttering walls of your pussy.

“ridin’ me so well, cutie. you like being used like this, huh?” sharp teeth graze the sensitive skin of your throat before he laughs, deep and condescending. “i’ll make sure you’re satisfied. can’t have you doubtin’ me again, can we?”

you’re too fucked out to even answer. boothill’s strong hands force you to bounce on his ribbed metal cock, drawing whines and mindless babbles from your lips as you slump against him. your hands pull and tug at his silky hair while you plead, “hol’on, waaait, s’too much..!”

it’s honestly your fault that you’re even in this situation. you had teased boothill about his cyborg body—“you get a dick attachment with that robo-body or what?”—and now you’re paying the price.

“too much now?” boothill sneers, sharp teeth glinting in the low lights of the room as he looks at you. his red pupils drink in your debauched expression, the way sweat beads at your temple and drips down your face.

he suddenly slows, grinding his hips up in to yours as he drags a hand up the slope of your body, leaving a trail of icy nerves in its wake. he grips your face, squishing the fat of your cheeks. silvery tears of pleasure line your lashes, something boothill smugly takes note of. when a tear trickles down your cheek, he’s immediately leaning forward to lap it up with his tongue.

“thought you said i wouldn’t be able to keep up with the real thing. you so sure about that now?”

your attempt to shake your head is stopped only by the way he grips you. he leans in, nipping at your plush lower lip before he continues.

“i do love a challenge, though.” his voice is rough, tinged with heated desire as he grinds his dick further into you. “am i proving ya wrong, sweetheart?”

“yes,” you whimper, thighs trembling as he kisses you, long and deep. boothill moves his hand back down to your waist and takes up his earlier pace, using you almost like his own personal fucktoy.

“that’s a good girl,” he drawls. “let me take care of you, yeah?”

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

[silver---linings]

😴 + Organic (neo bc i need to use ‘em more) metal because i feel like being MEAN /pos, ur choice if this is future grown up silver verse or the normal verse)

Neo was no stranger to getting heckled and barked at by the public. He was no stranger to thise being unhappy with his presence. But he never expected a late-night run to turn into such a hectic bloody mess- He’d been jumped by a pair of mobians he had no knowledge of personally, and it was a damn bloodbath.

Neo, ofcourse, didnt kill anyone- he just fought until he could get away while they were certainly thinking of committing a murder tonight, so- Neo wasnt very proud of himself coming home a bloody mess. But luckily- he hoped silver was asleep- so he could just tend to himself and sleep on the couch. But ofcourse- with being injured the way he was- he wasnt covered in injuries, he knew how to fight to defend himself so ofcourse most blood was from fighting and not getting strucken- but they hit a weakspot. Mainly, his back. Where a stab wound lay, bloody and red. Why was this a weakspot? Well. Chronic back pain. Which made everything hurt so much worse then normal.

Now this all caused Neo to be where he found himself. Falling onto the floor in the living room in absolute agony, and trying his damn best to not make noise to not wake poor silver considering how late it was.

It was so late. How late? Silver didn't know as he tossed and turned in his bed. He groaned in annoyance as he half-opened his eyes.

He wanted to sleep some more, but his body wouldn't let him. "I can't sleep..." Reluctantly, Silver sat up and got out of bed, not bothering to check the time as he started tiredly floating to the kitchen. If he can't sleep, may as well make something that will help him relax.

As he passed by the living room, his own illuminescence faintly lit something on the living room floor up. "Hm?"

Curious, he floated closer to find that it was Neo seemingly passed out on the floor. "Neo? What are you-" He softly gasped when he finally spotted the stab wound. "Neo!"

Without a moments hesitation, Silver rushed to fetch the first-aid kit, then went on to treat the wound. "Neo, what fight did you get into this time?"

Neo getting into fights wasn't anything new to Silver. He's used to it at this point, but it doesn't make him less worried when his partner comes home with injuries like this.

[dollwrites]

ɪɴ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs, ɪ…! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sᴜɴᴅᴀʏ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, innocent!reader & manipulative!sunday, religious setting ( confessional ), mildly dark ( suggested mind control and dub con to cnc fantasies ), dub con, humiliation, masturbation ( him! ). all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ act seven [ masturbation ]

this was the third time.

the third time you’d found yourself sitting here.

the third time within the Cathedral of Morning Dew, perched and squirming uncomfortably in the claustrophobic cubicle, fumbling with your own fingers against the lace details of your skirt as it splayed across your knees— one of them bouncing as a testament to your anxiety and causing your voice to shake.

the third time you were confessing to Sunday.

“I’m sorry,” you feel like you should apologize, so your voice shyly fills the cool air around you. “You must have so many other important matters to tend to—“

“Nonsense.” Sunday replies with an impossibly soft and alluring purr in his gentle baritone. he’s positioned close enough to the lattice partition that he can almost whisper it to you, like a secret for only you to hear. “Penacony’s sons and daughters and their concerns are of utmost importance to me.” though it was meant as reassurance, your cheeks are aflame with embarrassment. to be coddled by a man with as much power as Sunday did make you feel like a helpless child that cries to her father when she’s upset. “Go on, my dear. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

you glance around the cubicle, eyes landing on the candle that endlessly burns beside you, yet no hot wax trickles down on to the pristine floor, nor does heat emit from the flame. even if you blew on it, you doubted that it would go out. as was the whimsicality of the Dreamscape. “It’s these… fantasies again,” you start, timidly bringing up a topic that had been the prompt for you to seek Sunday out every time. gnawing desires for things you knew you couldn’t have— desires for him. “It’s getting harder for me to tell them apart from, well, what’s really happening. The one’s I’ve had recently seem so… immersive.”

Sunday is a quiet for a moment before calmly asking, “Your condition is getting more severe? These fantasies are worrying you?”

“Well, yes.” you answer, choosing your words carefully. “They’re… very…” for all the words there were that could describe what these daydreams about Sunday were ( vulgar, lustful, depraved ), you could force none to breach your lips.

“Naughty?” Sunday offers, and you can almost hear the fond, ghost of a smile that tickles the corners of his lips. it only makes your blush hotter and more furious.

you bite down in your lower lip, rolling it between your teeth as your eyes look towards the latticework. you can only see the outline of his halo, and the glinting of the candlelight as it reflects off the piercings in his wings. squinting slightly, you attempt to make out more details. the softness of his silvery hair, always just so with not a single tendril out of place. the flawlessness of his supple, milky skin, until he turns his head, just a bit, and a glimmering, golden gaze nearly captures yours. with a soft squeak, realizing you’d been staring— wanting, you quickly avert your gaze. “Mhm…!”

you can feel his eyes on you for several more moments, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at him, deciding instead to stare at your bouncing knee.

“And what happens in these naughty, little daydreams of yours?”

a lump forms in your throat, and your mouth goes dry at the prospect of describing to Sunday the way you yearn for him. so, instead of answering right away, you shrink away from the lattice until you no longer feel him gazing at you. the cathedral is eerily silent, and you can hear the flapping of Charmony Dove wings outside. “My dear,” Sunday begins in a calm, patient tone, “you know that you must confess them to me, no matter how deplorable. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Now, don’t be shy. You’re safe here with me. You know this, yes?”

you had always felt safe in the warmth of his presence, so you nod again, though you didn’t think he was looking at you anymore. still, you were naive for thinking so. a perfectly gullible, little prey.

Sunday could hear the trepidation in your voice as you began, and he was smiling to himself, imagining the flustered look on your dreamy countenance as you recall how you fantasize about him. with slow, graceful movements, he pinches the very tips of the fingers of one glove, pulling it from his hand. his fingers wiggle once they’re freed from their cloth confinement, which he drapes neatly over his knee.

“In these… dreams, I come to you late at night, when no one else is around…”

“Do you?” he asks, amused, his bare fingers drumming lightly on his thigh silently. “All alone in secret? For what purpose?” he knows why. after all, he’s the culprit behind these eerily realistic fantasies. however, he wants to hear you say it.

“To— um,” you pause, your sheepishness getting the better of you. “Offer myself to you.”

Sunday exhales through his nose to keep a low sound of satisfaction from filling the air, and alerting you to his arousal. hearing how humiliated you are, it tightens the muscles in his lower abdomen, and a tent begins to form in his trousers, which he promptly rubs against his palm. “Oh…?” he asks, almost in a teasing, condescending lilt, murmuring, “In these fantasies of yours, do I accept the offer? Do I take you for myself? Steal your innocence like a wicked thief in the night?” even though his voice remained even, his heart was thumping. his cock jabbed uncomfortably against the fabric of his clothes, and he was busying himself with the task of freeing it.

“Mhm…. Many times,” you answer, and the way your voice breaks, Sunday can practically see your lower lip quivering. it only makes him harder to think about that, and your sparkling eyes welling up with tears. once his cock springs free, standing at attention, he wraps his bare hand around it in a loose fist, and purses his lips together to suppress a grunt. veins throb beneath his skin, the tip twitching as beads of translucent nectar bubbles up from the eager slit. “In many different ways. Sometimes, you— you’re rough with me.”

the tremors that shake your voice when you say this do not go unnoticed by Sunday, who closes his eyes, bringing the fantasy he’d handpicked to implant deep within your mind to the surface of his own. it was one of his favorites, and he was quite pleased that it affected you the most. though his memory wasn’t tampered with, as yours was, and so he couldn’t conjure all the sensations or watch the fantasy like a movie in his mind, he could imagine the sight of you beneath his wandering hands. how they tore at your delicate, little dress. ripping the neckline open to expose your pert breasts for him to grope and squeeze. the way he would imagine you to whimper and wince, perhaps even squirm, and he would have to spare a hand to wrap it around your throat and hold you down— pin you in place so you couldn’t escape him. he would whisper to you that as long as you’re a sweet, obedient darling, he would be gentle. but this was, of course, a lie. the way you would peer up at his figure as he forces his way between your trembling thighs, and the way you would cry out once he finally got his cock inside you, it would be your way of begging him to break you. your mouth could lie, and whine that he was hurting you, or that you want him to be careful with you, but deep down, you wanted him to dominate you. to decimate and own you. he knew this to be fact because he had designed this little dream to convince you of it.

all whilst his imagination ran wild, his thumb runs deftly along his leaking slit, applying enough pressure to milk the swollen, red tip until his precum begins to dribble down the length of his cock, slickening the skin. his palm glides down his needy length, fingers clamping down, until the side of his fist rests against the base, before he slowly drags it back upwards towards the tip, setting a torturously slow tempo for himself. “And in this daydream of yours,” he purrs, only parting his lips wide enough to allow the words to slip through, lest a sound of ecstasy also escape, “You love it when I’m rough with you.” it wasn’t a question. it was a matter of fact. “I can hear it in the way your voice quivers, my dear, you’re ashamed of yourself. Humiliated because, albeit untouched, your little cunt gets so wet when you think about me abusing it.”

“S—Sunday…”

“Mm?” he taunts in a soft voice, as if daring you to challenge the truth. “It’s true, isn’t it? Deplorable, vulgar, and embarrassing to admit, but impossible to deny that you’ve soiled your panties many a time when you imagine how a man like me could use your body all up, and leave you in a state of ruin.”

“Y—yes…” it’s exactly what he’d expected to hear, and yet his core throbs the second he does. he leans back, just enough to brace his back against the wall of his cubicle, and adjust his feet. spreading them further apart. “I—I can't help it…”

“Poor, little thing.” Sunday croons, his slender eyebrows furrowing as he pumps himself harder and faster. “So helpless.” his fist alternates by squeezing and releasing, in the same rhythm that he imagines your virgin pussy would spasm if he was inside, and the sensations were already driving him to the brink. Sunday tilts his head back against the wall, hissing out a soft groan under his breath. part of him even wants you to hear that little sound of pleasure, to realize what he’s doing— getting off on your distress. on your desperate, wanton lust for him. however, if you do hear it, you’re too shy to draw attention to it. too bad, he thinks, if she had only caught me, i would have the innocent, little thing gagging on my cock right here in this booth…

“Wh—what should I do?” your shy question snaps him back to the moment at hand. “About these fantasies. I feel— I feel like they’re only getting more depraved and… scary…”

Sunday has to seal his tiers tightly together, lest a breathy chuckle bubble up from his throat at just how frightened by your own desires ( or, at least, the ones he’s convinced you are yours ) you are. it was cute to him. adorable how eager you are to make these naughty visages go away before they spiral out of control, when that is exactly what he was waiting for. “You needn’t worry, you know this.” he manages to force the words out, even as he stroked himself, coming undone in his own palm to the thought of deceiving you. plucking away the petals of your fragile, little mind until you were compliant and easy enough to do the same deflowering to your body. “I will always be here for you, I will always take care of you.” as he says this, he milks his cock, slowly dragging a tight fist up from the base, coaxing a slowly oozing release from the engorged head. a couple of rogue streamers splatter silently against the floor between his feet, but he pays the mess no mind. instead, he retrieves a handkerchief from his breast pocket and carefully wipes the mess on his lap— cum glazing his bare hand and the length of his shaft, down to where it began to frost his now empty balls, just before reaching the fabric of his trousers. it was unsurprisingly that he looked pristine once he was cleaned and tucked back into his pants. the soiled handkerchief is forgotten on the bench, in exchange for his glove still resting across his knee. he slips it back on before he stands, taking only a moment to smooth his vest and jacket before escaping the now stuffy air of the booth. with a soft knock on the door to your side, he waits for you to come out, too. a gentle smile on his face, and the dusky blush fading into his normal complexion by the time you emerge.

when you open the door, it creaks a bit, and you glance down at the hinges, before looking up to find Sunday incredibly close. the subtle musk from his refined cologne tickling your nostrils, but that wasn’t all. there was another smell that was quite unfamiliar, and yet seemed to spark a low bubble in your belly, but you couldn’t place it. you shrink away from him with a sheepish smile, your back pressing against the door of the booth when he takes a step closer, effectively blocking you from leaving. “Your condition is my concern,” he assures you with a gentle smile, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little vial of pinkish, glowing liquid. it was familiar to you— the same elixir he’d given you the last two times you’d come to him. to help with the symptoms, he says.

“Th—thank you, Sunday—“ you whisper, reaching a trembling hand for the vial in his, but what he does next surprises you. grasping your wrist with the other, he presses the vial against your palm and covers your fingers with his, wrapping them tightly, and he leans in with a softer whisper.

“Remember to place a single drop on your tongue. Every. Single. Night.” when you nod, flustered by so much physical contact, he smiles fondly, and releases your hand. “Very good girl.” he appraises, before his right hand falls to rest behind his back, yet his left lingers, creeping up to trace the shape of your mouth. piercing, golden eyes for us on your lips, his own curled into a gentle smile.

“P—please don’t tell anyone… about my condition.” you whisper, your eyes big and hopeful. you didn’t believe he would, but it was something you always needed to plead for before you left.

Sunday chuckles softly at this, and presses a gloved thumb to the seam of your lips, applying pressure until your lips open and it nearly slips inside. “You and I have many secrets together,” he murmurs in reply, before his gaze flits back up to your eyes, locking them into an intense contact that has you shifting back and forth on your feet. “But that is why we must trust one another. Unconditionally. Do you trust me, my dear? Unconditionally?”

[strawberry-nugget]

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x reader

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, fwb, oral (f! receiving), facesitting, sex on the beach.

It’s not very usual for Toji and you to go to the beach, especially not in the middle of the night. You’re supposed to be fuck buddies—nothing more, nothing less. Casual. Uncomplicated.

You weren’t supposed to call him just because your head felt too loud, your apartment too quiet, too hot. You weren’t supposed to ask if he wanted to drive, no destination in mind, just the road and the excuse to not be alone. Maybe hit the beach, play some Nirvana on the way.

And, despite doing so, he definitely wasn’t supposed to say yes.

Yet, now here you are. Damp from the sea, skin still glistening from a dip in the dark water, curled up beside him, towel forgotten and bunched up somewhere underneath both of you.

The air is thick and heavy with humidity, but your body shivers every now and then from the breeze that rolls in off the waves. Your skinis slick with salt, prickles where it brushes against his.

The moon sits low, casting soft, silvery light over everything. It turns the surf into glass and Toji’s eyes.

In essence, this wasn’t supposed to ease your worried mind about him.

But now, under the soft grazing of the moonlight, the calming sea sounds and the chills that run through your body from just how wet your skin is in contrast to the humidity of the night, you feel strangely calm.

There’s a shit ton of empty beer bottles next to you, one that serves as an ashtray, forgotten in the right corner of your towel and you’re laying in Toji’s big, wet arms, hoping for some warmth, engulfed into a conversation about kinks you have that you haven’t fulfilled that you wouldn’t be answering hadn’t it been for your lightheaded nature of the moment.

Of course Toji, you learn, has had his fair share of everything. From vanilla to shibari to whatever the hell can happen during an exchange in bodily fluids.

You’d be stupid to think otherwise. The way he talks, so casually about things that make your ears burn. The way he always moves against you; confident and unrushed, like there’s nothing he hasn’t already done and nothing that could surprise him anymore. Like he’s seen it all, tasted it, maybe even gotten bored of it.

Which only ever makes your confession feel even more pathetic now that you think about it.

You’re not even drunk enough to justify it. Just tipsy. Buzzed and warm and cracked open by the sea breeze and the way his fingers are dragging slow, idle shapes along your bare hip like it’s nothing. Like this—you—are casual. Disposable. And maybe you are. Under this calming moonlight by the sea, topless of a swimsuit, you’re supposed to be just fuck buddies and not whatever your feelings are asking of you. 

This is why you thought it’d be easier to say this to him.

“I wanna try facesitting,” you say. Too fast. Too quiet.

And now it’s out there. Hanging between you in the air, heavy with the weight of it. And your eyes squint unsymmetrically, like you dropped a bomb you shouldn’t have.

“I’ve only tried to do it once,” you add, before you could stop words coming out of your mouth to justify yourself, “with someone else. And I was so embarrassed.”

But Toji doesn’t laugh at you. He doesn’t make a joke. He just smirks with the corner of his mouth like he usually would and settles for looking at the top of your head before your eyes turn to meet his gaze.

And it’s not a nice look. Not soft at all. It’s sharp, focused—like he’s trying to see something in you, not just at you. And maybe—ooof, maybe thats just—maybe that’s worse.

You shift slightly against him, suddenly hyperaware of your bare skin against his chest, the way the condensation from the beer bottle has dripped over your thigh earlier and left a cold trail. The salt crusting at your hairline. The knot in your stomach pulling tighter.

“Embarrassed?” he repeats eventually, voice low, like the word tastes strange in his mouth. “Why?”

You nod, then shrug, eyes darting anywhere but his. “It felt weird. Like I was too much. Like I was asking for something that wasn’t… I don’t know. Sexy.”

“But it’s hella sexy”

“Well I just didn’t— didn’t feel comfortable with my…” you pause, thinking of a way to voice the word you wanna say without being extremely lewd “….punani hovering over someone’s mouth”

Toji laughs in that deep chested chuckle of his “Are we calling it punani now?” 

And you immediately hide your face in your hands. “Oh my God,” you groan, “don’t laugh.”

He’s still chuckling, brushing a hand over his jaw as he stares at you with a kind of fond amusement that makes your cheeks burn hotter.

“Are we calling it punani now?” he grins.

“I hate the word pussy”

“And punani is better?”

You peek at him through your fingers, giggling loudly. “Shut uuuuup. I panicked.”

“No, no, I like it,” he says, nodding solemnly now, like he’s declaring it canon. “You’re out here, heart racing, talking about kinks and positions and shit, and that’s the word you go with.”

You smack his arm, which only makes him laugh harder, and you can’t help but smile a little even though your whole face is on fire, cheeks stinging in embarrassment, muscles tensing.

“I was trying to be delicate,” you say, half-defensive, half-laughing. “This is a delicate moment.”

Toji looks at you then—really looks. The grin softens just a little at the edges. “Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “You don’t gotta be delicate around me.”

You look at him, hesitant. Of course you don’t, this was part of the whole fuck buddy deal. You just want to be delicate around him.

Still, he raises a brow, content enough by your softness to see you’ve think too much. “I mean, unless you want to be. In which case, I’ll handle your punani with extreme care.”

You groan again, falling back onto his chest, burying your face there as if you could sink into the warmth of him and disappear. “Ewwwwww, ew ew eeeew—Kill me.”

“Nah,” he murmurs into your hair and ugh the fucker kisses the spot his lips touch, one hand lazily stroking your side, sending shivers through your body. “Too cute when you get shy.”

“Im not shy, eghhh, stop this!”

“Too cute when you’re shy” he repeats, poking his lower lip out and squinting in mock.

And somehow, that—that—makes your heart beat louder than anything else he’s ever said. And that’s the exact reason you forbid him from talking during sex. You don’t want to take his words at heart at such a vulnerable moment.

He exhales a soft, humorless breath through his nose and you finally glance up at him, fighting to break free from his devious headlock.

His jaw is tight, mouth parted like he’s still thinking through his next words—careful, for once. Measured. Like this is the delicate thing you were referring to and he has to comply.

“You ever think maybe the guy just didn’t know what the fuck he was doing?” he asks.

Your lips twitch, but the laugh doesn’t come. There’s a sudden lump in your throat.

“I dunno. Maybe. Still felt shitty and weird, yuck!”

Toji looks like he’s thinking for a moment. His hand moves—slides from your hip to the back of your thigh, fingers curling there like a reflex. You freeze and fuck—he notices.

“You wanna do it now?” he asks. Quiet. Serious.

Your heart skips. Yikes! 

“Like… right now?” you say, and your voice is barely a whisper, making a mental note of how this could even look for him. 

He nods once. Doesn’t pressure. Just looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, wet hair curling and sticking at his temples. The moonlight cuts across his face in soft blueish silver tones. It makes him look… still. Almost unreal.

You hesitate again.

There’s a part of you screaming to brush it off, to laugh it away, to say “haha, I was joking, never mind” But the other part—the smaller, shaker one that’s still trying to learn what it means to ask for things—you let her speak and the twisted part in the back of your brain that finds facesitting extremely sexy, enables.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Toji’s hands slide up your thighs with practiced ease, thumbs brushing over the slick heat of your skin. He settles back into the towel, head against the sand, and you—nervous and trembling and barely breathing—perch above him like something sacred.

“C’mere,” he says again, lower and hoarse now. 

“I’m not sure it’s — we’re at a beach and—”

“We’re alone, c’mon it’s fine”

You nod, and your hands are already tugging softly at your screaming, hot nipples, hair dripping onto Toji’s chest as you lean forward just enough to ghost your mouth over his.

“Don’t look away,” he tells you.

Like you would ever look anywhere but his eyes.

And when you rise up, slow and certain, when you settle yourself over his chest like a promise you’re finally ready to keep, he doesn’t flinch.

You move like you’re floating. Knees planting gently on either side of his head, thighs tense, and your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The moonlight turns your skin to glass—soft, wet, shimmering with sea salt and sweat. The night air licks at you, sticky and hot and heavy with your own and his salty scent.

Toji exhales slow, looking up at you, his hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs again. His palms are broad, rough and calloused, steadying you without pressure.

And then he shifts you forward. Just slightly. Just enough to make you gasp.

You’re hovering now—barely an inch above his face. Your swimsuit, a thin scrap of dark fabric, clings to you, wet from the ocean and sweat and nerves, the thong cutting a sharp line between your cheeks, a triangle at the front doing little more than teasing.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just looks. Eyes dark and gleaming with hunger, lips parted like he’s already imagining the taste of you. His tongue sleazily pokes out to lick his lips, over his scar and you hate it—how he looks at you like you’re delicious.

His breath is hot against you; humid and sharp like the summer night breeze, tongue sliding out to meet you without hesitation. You barely lower yourself all the way before his mouth is on you, tongue broad and slow at first, like he’s tasting something he wants to savor. Not rushing. Not teasing. 

You brace a hand against his shoulder, the other threading into his wet hair, fingers tightening when he groans low and drags you down with both hands like he can’t stand the distance. His grip is firm, greedy. One hand cups your ass, the other anchored at your hip, he’s holding you in place, like you might float off if he lets go.

“Toji—” your voice cracks, breathless, already unraveling as your hips twitch forward against his mouth.

He hums in response, the vibration ricocheting through you, and fuck….That—that makes your spine arch. That makes your fucking thighs tremble.

“Damn,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You really wore this tiny thing around me, and no top and thought I wasn’t gonna lose my mind?”

Your breath catches. You open your mouth to reply some soft, embarrassed protest, but it never comes. Because his thumb drags lazily along the inside of your thigh, and then, with a quiet, wicked hum, he hooks two fingers beneath the fabric and pulls it aside.

You suck in a breath so fast it stings your lungs.

He groans softly, then hisses. Like he’s seeing something he wasn’t supposed to. Something forbidden and stupidly beautiful. And fuck if he doesn’t always tell you youve got the prettiest pussy he’s ever seen— tonight you might actually believe him.

“Shit,” he murmurs, gaze locked on you while kissing the top of your mound. “You’re already so fuckin’ wet.”

Your thighs twitch involuntarily, hips jerking the smallest bit, and Toji just smirks. Not in his usual mean way. Not mocking. He smirks like he knew this would happen eventually after always giving you the best head of your life and he’s too proud of it.

“Don’t get shy now,” he murmurs, dragging his hands back up your thighs, slow and grounding, fingers digging into your plush skin. “You wanted this, didn’t you? ”

You blink your eyes and nod. Barely. Pathetically pouting into his eyes. One hand clenched in his hair for balance, the other covering your mouth to hold in the tiny noise that slips free when he leans in—so close his breath ghosts over you.

And then, finally—finally—his mouth finds you. Not rough. Not greedy. Just a warm, dragging kiss against your sloppy, wet folds that makes your entire body tremble above him.

Your hips stutter forward with the shock of it—of him. The warmth of his tongue against the hood of your clit, the scrape of light stubble against your inner thighs, the steady pressure of his hands gripping you like he wants your weight, like he wants you to give in.

“Toji—” you breathe

His tongue moves with maddening precision. Slow, rhythmic circles around your clit before dragging back down to suck, then flick, then flatten again like he’s memorizing your every reaction. He’s not shy about it, either. He spits on you when he pulls back and you don’t even have half the mind to wonder if he takes a breath every now and then.

There’s no awkward fumbling, just his mouth making out with your pussy, slurping, licking soft sights with the tip of his tongue. The obscene sound of his mouth working between your legs, and the heat of his breath is mixing with the breeze rolling in from the ocean.

Fuck. Normally you’d ask him not to make those sounds because you feel too embarrassed by them, but now? Now that he rocks your hips and urges you to ride his face? You can’t even fathom uttering words. You just feel your chest sweating to the full from how horny you have suddenly became

Your thighs begin to shake a little from the strain and the intensity of how tortuously he licks you; slow then fast then slow again, and he notices, naturally. 

Toji’s always been good at reading you.

Without looking up, he shifts slightly, spreading his legs wider under your, adjusting your position higher on his chest so you don’t have to hold yourself up as much. His biceps flex under your thighs as he pulls you down again, tongue pressing deeper, slower now, dragging out the slick sounds that make your face burn and cheeks sting even in the dark.

“Fuck—Toji—” you gasp, head falling back as your hips start to roll without thinking, without  his urging,chasing that tight, coiling pressure low in your belly.

You hear him growl, feel the rumble of it through his mouth as he grips you harder and sucks, even messier now. His tongue flattens then curls, licking deliciously into you, under you, over and under the hood of your clit, like he wants to know exactly what it takes to make you break in this position.

You feel the wetness that drips down his chin. And when he does too, he moans—moans into you, like he’s the one getting off on this.

Maybe he is. Who are you to judge?

You look down and meet his eyes. All green and wild and starving. The sight almost makes your knees give out. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stop. Just stares up at you like this is the only place he wants to die, suffocating under your plush thighs.

You try to lift yourself, just a little, overwhelmed but Toji growls again, and pulls you back down, his eyes flashing, mouth slick and chin shining.

“Don’t,” he rasps between licks, voice thick “Don’t run. Let me fuckin’ finish.”

“Toji I, fuck, feels gooood”

You whine, too far gone to feel embarrassed in the slightest now. Your fingers twist into his damp hair, tugging—not in protest, but because it’s the only thing grounding you. Because you somehow needs him even closer to your slit if thats even humanly possible.

Of course he catches that too, tongue flattening against you as he grasps your thighs with bruising strength and rocks you against him. His tongue dips at your entrance, nose nuzzling up on your clit.

“I c-can’t— Tojiii fuck mmmmmnh” you start to say, but he hums again, right there, mouth sealing around your clit in a filthy, possessive, wet suck that makes your whole body seize. He flattens his tongue again, licking with long, slow strokes, and you can feel the excessive, dripping mess between you. His face wet. Your thighs slick. 

The edge comes up on you faster than you expect, tight and sweet and sudden, a wave crashing before you can catch your breath. Your hands fist in his hair and you grind forward once, twice—and then it hits. Like a tidal wave.

You come hard, legs shaking and locking around his head, mouth open in a silent gasp as your vision whites out for a second too long.

Toji holds you through it. Tongue still moving, slower now as he’s sighing against your pussy, savoring it, lapping at you gently like he’s cleaning you up, smirking against you like he’s so proud of the mess he made. One hand rubs soft circles on the back of your thigh. The other presses you down until the trembling stops.

You collapse forward slowly, your hands landing on the sand, both of you soaked in sweat and sea air and something messier, something unspoken. Your hips jerk off his face and stutter, as you feel his tongue continue to lick away at you. Your breath is ragged. Your heart feels like it might as well knock its way out of your ribs.

And Toji? He grins up at you, chin wet, eyes half-lidded and smug as hell and drags his pointer finger up and down your clit, gathering some slick of your cum.

“Still embarrassed?” he rasps, voice wrecked, rubbing his face sleazily against your thigh, when he drags you down again ever so slowly, popping his soaked finger onto his mouth. He moans at your taste, as if he didn't have a mouthful of your pussy just a few seconds ago.

You blink down at him, dazed, and let out a breathless laugh, like your whole life force exits your body through that singular huff of air.

“No,” you say. “But I think you should be.”

Toji chuckles, low and dangerous from the depths of his chest and flips you both in the sand with a sudden roll of his hips. “Then let me catch up.”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[gf2bellamy]

i have a very specific request that has been ITCHING at my brain!! idk if you remember spencer mentioned for like a second once that he has fish and we never hear anything else about it, i was thinking about the reader going to his apartment for the first time and seeing his fish and thinking its so cute that hes a fish dad😭 and him telling reader their names (probably after some literary figures or authors or something) and about their species or their little fish personalities or something god fish dad spencer😭❤️

fish — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: just fluff a/: hi hi hi !! i hope you like this <3

You had been nervous all day.

It wasn’t every day that Dr. Spencer Reid invited you into his apartment. You fidgeted with the hem of your sweater as he unlocked the door, stepping aside to let you in first.

The apartment was exactly what you expected—neat, cozy, lined with bookshelves that looked like they could topple over at any second. But before you could even take it all in, something else caught your eye.

“Is that an aquarium?”

The words burst out of you before you could stop them, your voice pitching upward in surprise. All your nervousness evaporated in an instant, replaced by sheer delight. You barely let Spencer take your jacket before you were crossing the room.

Spencer chuckled behind you, the sound warm and fond as he carefully hung up both your coats.

“Yeah,” he admitted, stepping up beside you. “I, uh… I don’t talk about them much.”

“Oh my god, they’re adorable.” You pressed your palms against the glass, watching as a small school of colorful fish darted through the water.

One—a vibrant betta with deep blue and red streaks—flared its gills at you before swimming away with what you could only describe as attitude. You laughed. “You never mentioned them! How could you keep this from me? What are their names?”

You turned to look at him, already knowing the answer before he even opened his mouth. The way his eyes lit up, the shy, almost proud curve of his smile—of course he’d named them after something intellectual.

Spencer adjusted his sleeves, before pointing at the betta. “That one’s Hemingway. He’s… kind of dramatic. Likes to flare at his own reflection.”

“Hemingway,” you repeated, grinning. “Perfect.”

He gestured to a smaller, silvery fish darting near the bottom. “That’s Poe. He’s shy. Hides in the plants a lot.” Then, to a pair of tetras swimming in synchronized circles: “Those are Fitzgerald and Zelda. They’re… inseparable.”

You melted. “Spencer Reid, you are a fish dad.”

He ducked his head, but you didn’t miss the pleased flush creeping up his neck. “I just—I like taking care of them. It’s… calming.”

“It’s adorable,” you corrected, bumping your shoulder against his. “I can’t believe you have this whole secret life as a fish parent.”

Spencer laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, if you think that’s impressive…” He checked his watch, then nodded toward the tank. “It’s actually feeding time. Want to help?”

“Yes.” You clapped your hands together.

He grabbed a small container of food from a nearby shelf, his fingers brushing yours as he handed it to you. “Just a pinch,” he instructed, leaning close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his shampoo. “Too much and they’ll overeat. They’re kind of… greedy.”

You sprinkled the food into the water, watching as Hemingway immediately darted to the surface, his fins flaring like he was demanding more. You giggled, resting your fingertips against the glass as Hemingway circled the spot where the food had been. 

“I think he’s judging me,” you said, tilting your head.

Spencer let out a soft laugh. “He does that to everyone. Even I don’t meet his standards half the time.”

You grinned, leaning closer to the tank as Poe, the shy silver fish, darted out from behind a frond of aquatic fern—just long enough to snatch a flake before disappearing again. 

“And Poe’s like the mysterious loner who only comes out for the necessities,” you mused.

“Exactly.” Spencer’s voice was fond, his gaze flickering between the fish and you, as if he couldn’t decide which was more fascinating.

You could feel his eyes on you and it sent a warm flutter through your chest.

Fitzgerald and Zelda, the inseparable tetras, wove through the water in perfect unison, their tiny bodies glinting under the soft glow of the tank’s light. “They’re like a little married couple,” you said, smiling.

Spencer hummed in agreement, shifting just slightly beside you. His shoulder brushed against yours, a barely-there touch that sent a spark skittering down your arm. 

“They’ve been together since I got them,” he admitted. “I tried separating them once—just to clean the tank—and they both freaked out until I put them back.”

“That’s adorable,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than the aquarium filter.

A beat of silence settled between you.

Then, slowly, as if testing the waters, Spencer’s fingers grazed the back of your hand where it rested on the edge of the tank. His touch was feather-light, tentative, but it sent your pulse skipping all the same.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, you turned your hand just slightly, your pinky brushing against his. A question. An invitation.

Spencer’s breath hitched—just a tiny, barely-there sound—before his fingers laced through yours, his palm warm against your skin.

Hemingway chose that moment to flare his fins again, splashing a tiny droplet onto the glass, as if giving his approval.

You laughed, squeezing Spencer’s hand. “I think he’s on board.”

Spencer’s thumb traced a slow circle over your knuckles, his smile small but so bright. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

[honeyslibrary]

Tangled in You | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fingering, unprotected sex, cursing, overuse of the words 'pleasure' and 'sensation' probably, edited once.

Summary; Lazy morning sex with Lukey.

Word Count; 2.3k

Author’s note; I've received many requests for Luke smut, so hopefully you guys enjoy this (: Slow morning sex might be the hottest thing ever, honestly. Also the title is kind of random, I couldn't think of anything 😄 -Honey

Your eyes flutter open, the remnants of sleep still heavy on your lashes, as the familiar body behind you shifts. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and a quiet rustle of sheets stirs in the stillness of the room. You instinctively snuggle deeper into the blankets, letting out a soft, sleepy grunt, willing the morning to wait just a little longer.

A moment later, you feel him—the solid presence of Luke moving closer, his chest pressed against your back, his legs tangling lazily with yours beneath the comforter. His breathing is slow, brushing warmly over the nape of your neck, sending a soft shiver down your spine. Then, the gentle pressure of his lips follows, trailing feather-light kisses from your shoulder to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

"Luke…" you murmur, voice thick with sleep, though you make no effort to stop him. The sound of his name on your lips is soft, almost an exhale, as if you’re caught somewhere between the dream and the waking world.

He hums in response, a deep, contented sound vibrating against your skin. "Morning, baby," he whispers, his voice low and rough, the kind of rasp that only comes from the first moments of waking.

His hand slips beneath the covers, searching for the warmth of your skin. You feel his fingers glide under the hem of your nightshirt, tracing the curve of your waist. His palm presses against your bare skin, grounding you in the moment.

For a few heartbeats, you both lie there, wrapped in the quiet, the softness of the early morning cocooning you in its embrace. The room is bathed in the pale, silvery light of dawn, and outside, the world is still—just the faint rustling of leaves and the distant hum of life stirring to greet the day. But here, in this bed, it feels like time has slowed, like the day belongs only to the two of you.

Luke shifts behind you, his body molding to yours, and the movement draws your attention to the unmistakable pressure against the small of your back. The feeling of him, hard and insistent, pulses through the thin fabric of your clothes, and you realize he’s already awake in more ways than one. He lets out a low, almost involuntary groan, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your skin. His breath brushes your ear, warm and thick with unspoken need.

One of his hands drifts upward, slipping under your shirt with a lazy familiarity, cupping the soft curve of your breast. The weight of his palm is heavy and reassuring, but the gentle squeeze that follows sends a ripple of pleasure through you, igniting something deeper. Your breath hitches, a small, uncontrollable sound that seems to spark something in him. Almost without thinking, you shift closer, pressing yourself more fully against him, your body answering his touch before your mind can catch up.

His fingers find your nipple, pinching lightly, rolling it between the pads of his thumb and index finger in slow, deliberate motions. A soft gasp escapes your lips, the sensation sharp yet teasing, and for a moment, your entire world narrows to the exquisite point of contact. He releases it with a gentle tug, his breath catching in your ear, and then his hand slides down, gliding over your ribs and waist with practiced ease, as though he’s relearning every curve of you this early morning.

His fingers reach the band of your panties, playing with the fabric for a moment before hooking underneath it. His breath is hot and ragged now, his voice little more than a rasp. "Can I?" he murmurs, the question hovering between you like a promise and a plea.

You nod, unable to find words, but the sound that escapes you—a soft, breathy hum—is all the answer he needs. It’s the smallest permission, but for him, it’s everything. His fingers move with purpose now, pushing your panties aside with a smooth motion, the fabric slipping down just enough to grant him access.

His hand dips lower, and the first touch of his fingers against your clit is delicate, testing, as if he’s savoring the moment as much as you are. The feel of him against such a sensitive spot makes your breath falter, a slow, shuddering exhale that fills the quiet room. He circles your clit gently, teasing you, drawing out the tension with slow, intentional strokes. Every nerve in your body seems to hum in response, the sensation both soothing and electric, like a rising tide of pleasure pulling you under.

Then, without warning, he slides a finger inside you, and the sudden fullness makes you gasp, your body tensing at the unexpected rush of heat. Your legs instinctively clench around his hand, trapping him there, not allowing him to let him go. He chuckles softly into your ear, a low, knowing sound, as he enjoys every tiny reaction you give him.

He moves his finger with unhurried precision, curling it inside you, pressing against a spot that makes you arch ever so slightly into him. The sensation is maddening, the slow build-up of pleasure pushing you toward the edge, but still, he doesn’t rush.

The moment his finger slips out of you, it's abrupt—too soon, too quick—and a sharp, needy whine escapes your lips before you can stop it. The sound hangs in the air, but Luke only chuckles softly in response. "Needy girl, hm?" His voice is thick, teasing, with a thread of hunger woven through it.

You don’t respond—not with words. Instead, you shift your hips back, aching for him to fill the sudden emptiness he’s left behind. His answer comes not with words either, but with the action of his hips lifting to pull his boxers down just enough to expose his cock. He gives himself a few languid strokes before you feel it—the thick, hard length of him pressing against you, nudging at your entrance.

"Fuck..." he groans under his breath as he begins to push inside, the word slipping from his lips like a prayer. The sensation is slow and steady, every inch of him stretching you in the most delicious way, the fullness of him making your breath catch. Your eyes flutter shut, and your teeth sink into your bottom lip as a soft gasp spills out.

For a moment, Luke remains still, savoring the feel of being inside you for the first time in weeks, the quiet hum of pleasure pulsing through the air. His forehead presses against the back of your head, his breath warm against your neck as his chest rises and falls against your back. Then, slowly, he starts to move.

His hips rock gently against you, each thrust relaxed, as if he has all the time in the world. The rhythm is a slow, intoxicating, sensation that leaves you craving more with every movement. His cock glides in and out of you, the friction sparking small waves of pleasure that build steadily, like the tide pulling you under.

His arm snakes around you again, his hand finding the curve of your breast, squeezing gently before his fingers find your nipple once more. The added feel pulls a gasp from your throat, and you arch slightly into his touch, your body answering every movement with unspoken need. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, pulling, as his hips continue their slow, steady rhythm, each thrust more maddening than the last.

You feel his breath hitch in your ear, his moans slipping out in soft, ragged bursts, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His body presses even closer, the curve of his chest molded against your back, his mouth grazing the side of your neck as if he can’t get enough of you. His lips find the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, planting soft, heated kisses there, each one sending little sparks of pleasure through you.

The slow, measured pace he’s set begins to unravel, each thrust a little deeper, a little more intense. Your body responds in kind, pressing back against him, meeting him with urgency. The tension in the air thickens, the pleasure building between you both with each passing second, coiling tighter and tighter, as if the entire world has shrunk down to the exquisite push and pull of your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

"Fuck, you feel so good..." Luke’s voice is rough, a low groan that hums in your ear. His hand tightens on your breast, his other arm pulling you closer, holding you in place as he continues to thrust into you, slowly driving you both toward that inevitable edge.

The slow rhythm of his thrusts starts to falter, a subtle shift in the way his hips meet yours, as if he’s struggling to maintain control. His breathing becomes uneven, his soft groans more frequent, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, like a taut string ready to snap. Every time he drives into you, it’s a little harder, a little deeper, and with each thrust, you feel the pleasure building inside you, spiraling tighter and tighter.

His hand on your breast grips you more firmly now, his fingers teasing your nipple with a rougher urgency that sends jolts of sensation straight to your core. You gasp again, a soft, breathless sound that seems to spur him on. The friction of him inside you, his length stretching you, combined with the steady pressure of his hand, is overwhelming, each movement pushing you closer to the edge.

Luke's lips are at your neck again, but now his kisses are more insistent, more desperate. His mouth moves along your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he murmurs something incoherent against you—your name, perhaps, or some wordless expression of how good you feel wrapped around him. His free arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place as he moves faster, the slow and conscious pace giving way to something more primal, more urgent.

You can feel it, too—that growing wave of pleasure deep in your core, building with every thrust, every flick of his fingers. Your breathing turns shallow, your pulse quickening as your body starts to tighten, the tension coiling in your belly, low and hot. It’s an all-encompassing sentiment, like you're standing on the edge of something vast, your body straining for release, teetering just on the brink.

Luke’s voice, thick and gravelly, breaks through the haze. "Are you close?" he groans, his breath catching on the words as his hips slam harder against you, his cock driving deeper with each thrust. "I can't... hold back much longer."

The sound of his voice, so raw and vulnerable, sends you careening toward the edge. Your hand reaches down instinctively, slipping between your thighs to where his cock is still buried inside you. Your fingers find your clit, already sensitive and swollen, and the moment you touch yourself, it’s like a lightning strike—a burst of agitation so intense it nearly steals your breath.

Your legs start to tremble, the pleasure building so fiercely now that you can hardly keep still, your hips grinding back against him with a need that feels insatiable. His name falls from your lips in a desperate whisper, and that’s all it takes—everything inside you unravels at once, the tension snapping as the wave of pleasure crashes over you, hard and fast.

Your orgasm tears through you in sharp, rolling waves, leaving you gasping and clinging to him as your body pulses with release. Your inner walls tighten around his cock, squeezing him as you come, and the sensation of you contracting around him pushes him over the edge too.

"Shit—" His voice breaks, a deep, guttural sound ripped from his throat as his hips jerk against you, and you can feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, as he spills himself into you. His entire body tenses behind you, his grip on your breast tightening for a moment as he moans into your neck, the sound low and desperate, a mix of relief and raw need.

For a few seconds, neither of you move, both lost in the aftershocks, the lingering spouts of pleasure rippling through your bodies. His chest is heaving against your back, his breath still coming in short, ragged bursts, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat pressed against your spine. Your own breath is shaky, your body still trembling from the intensity of your climax, but there’s a deep sense of satisfaction settling over you

Luke's arm around your waist loosens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin in soft, almost absent-minded kisses as you both come down from the high together. His cock still rests inside you, softening now, but neither of you are eager to break apart just yet.

"Fuck," Luke breathes after a long moment, his voice still rough with the remnants of pleasure. "That was incredible." His lips brush your shoulder, and his hand, now resting gently on your waist, gives a tender squeeze, his touch soft and affectionate.

You hum in response, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. Your body feels listless, content, as if every muscle has melted into the mattress. You turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, his eyes still half-lidded and heavy with the aftermath of release, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he begins to speak again. "You have the craziest bedhead right now."

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE