#X factor form

[strange0-0storm]

Me when I finally make the main gimmick for the Yokai Watch X

Basically, as a soultimate gadge fills up, so does an "X gadge". It fills over time just like a soultimate. Once filled the watch user can use either, like pick n choose. The user can pick on any yokai companion and unleash an "X Factor"

This ability will amplify a yokai's attribute, giving them a form surrounded by said atttibute called an X Factor Form, or simply X Form

Fire being covered in flames, ice being more ice crystal like, drain being more ghastly and black hole like, esc

This form will last until the watches X gadge depletes

The higher the rank of a yokai is, the more elaborate and drastic the yokai's X form will be.

Me when this silly little thing

[oni-1-oni-none]

avery is perfectly fine, he just needs a new head

full 404 doodle under :3

[a-roguish-gambit]

I have to imagine that Remy gets in trouble with the law a lot the turn of the century AU because he’s a big fan of picking Rogue flowers from rich peoples gardens

Rogue: please gambit tell me you did not rob one of the most influential and wealthy old money families of new york.

Gambit: why does it matta? Is just flowers. Even dere gardener ain’t gonna even notice. Sides’, Gambits robbed dem and da Vanderbilts plenty o times in da past fo jobs wit da thieves guild, Gambit practically know dere home layout betta den dem. an Gambit was neva caught or even seen.

Rogue: GAMBIT THAT IS NOT AS ASSURING AS YA THINK IT IS OH MY GOD. YA CANT DO THAT.

Gambit: it aint like dey dont deserve it. you know what dat french philosopher man Rousseau says Rogue, "Quand les pauvres n'auront plus rien à manger, ils mangeront les riches!” I think dat apply well here.

Rogue: ….Ah am regretting lending you that book on the french revolution

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

"SHE CAN CONTROL MAGNETISM IN A MANNER SIMILAR TO HER FATHER MAGNETO."

PIC INFO: Resolution at 1372×1773 -- Spotlight on fan art of "Polaris" (Lorna Dane), the Mistress of Magnetism from Marvel's X-Universe, c. 2024. Artwork by Ariel Diaz.

Sources: www.threads.net/@arieldiazart/post/DApYXmvsjuK & X.

[arkhengel-archive]

it is my canon so i will now say warren & candy did get married at some point, either pre- or post- defenders. for such a famous people, the ceremony was likely very private if not completely secret from everyone else.

[wellnoe]

i know a lot of us here who love superhero comics are here for certain characters but also like. if you are hitting a wall with superhero comics and are finding them frustrating i have found that reading other comics is key!! to loving comics!! there is so much out there from independent creators from people compiling resources of historical comics there is so much to see and delight in and more and more i find that these kinds of comics are becoming foundational to my love for comics.

[the-technorats]

ok ive been wanting to post abt this for a while. i think a part of the reason that i started to grow away from the 1d fandom recently (and more into 5sos, actually, which will be relevant later) is for these exact realizations. it became pretty clear, during the band's lifetime but mostly once the band went on hiatus, explicitly and implicitly, that being in one direction was extremely unhealthy for the talent involved.

and so not only did it become a kind of moral dilemma, bc how do you support and love something that you know is abusive, but it ruined the mirage of the essence of the band, which was, as louis put it, about having fun and being normal guys but terrible, terrible dancers, because you knew that under the surface of their silly, goofy live shows they were probably not having that much fun all the time and were definitely at points in either physical or mental anguish or both at once.

it feels so disillusioning because their primary appeal to their fanbase wasn't that they were like, hot or whatever (though they were and that was definitely part of it (but also their fanbase was so fucking queer that that metric could only do so much)), but it was that they were friends. the explicit marketing was sex appeal, sure, but the implicit marketing was community.

we wanted to think they were having as much fun as we were, that they loved being in the band with each other as much as we loved them. and once they broke up ("went on hiatus") and people started realizing they weren't quite as good of friends as we all thought they were, that they were coworkers, that they don't even have each other's phone numbers, that's when it didn't feel as good.

which is interesting. we all wanted so badly to be convinced that what we all knew was happening wasn't.

i think we desperately want that. as 1d put it: to be loved and to be in love. and we want to think that friendship and community and love can withstand anything, no matter how abusive and oppressive. because we want the hope that in our own abusive and oppressive life, our community can carry us through it. we're like, fantasizing about unionization and collectivization in a way that feels safe. and no one wants to hear this, but this IS a weapon of which we (and your faves) are victims.

like, god, if the success of capitalism isn't that it makes you think you want it. people want community? people are realizing that collective action is what overturns oppressive systems? give them this. this band of boys from working class backgrounds who love each other and made it to superstardom through nothing but the power friendship and love and art. give them that experience through an artificial projection of community that only ever makes you complicit in the commodification of yourself and your artists. the strongest sedative is the one you already want to take.

and if that isn't the reason 1d were doomed to fail. because they were created by the exact power that people want to push back against. you can't eat your young and have them too.

if being in one direction was all sunshine and rainbows, the boys would have come back after that hiatus and zayn would have never left.

behind closed doors, those boys were suffering.

it kills me that i never saw that because all i saw was that they made me happy and surely they were happy too.

that couldn't have been farther from the truth.

this is killing me

[mariasont]

OKAY OKAY OKAY this might seem really simple but i love the simple stuff

spence x reader

spence is just yapping about whatever, the quantum mechanics of coffee beans, as you said in one of your posts i think, and reader just cuts him off by kissing him IN FRONT OF EVERYONE on the jet.. and everyone’s there like.. oh! im imagining he kisses reader like he kissed lila in that pool scene IM FERAL. yes he kisses back.. and then the rest of it’s just garcia being a squeaking happy person and hotch and morgan are like “that’s my boy” but rossi and jj are just gagged

please im like

Reid the Room - S.R

spencer reid has never met a bad time to discuss aviation disasters. and before your survival instincts can stop you, you're kissing him just to make it stop

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), secret relationship, pda, mild workplace inappropriateness lol, teasing/banter, spencer reid being spencer reid, mentions of plane crashes! wc: 0.9k

The words don’t just come from Spencer, they pour — fast and inevitable, like water rolling down slick stone, shaping everything in its path. You’ve spent months memorizing the subtleties of it, the tiny furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard, his fingers twitching mid-sentence, like even his body can’t quite keep pace with his brilliance.

He becomes more animated when he’s passionate. It should be illegal, you think, for someone to be this smart and this pretty at once. If the team ever noticed how intently you watched him, they’d know. They’d know everything. 

“— the likelihood of a plane crash is about one in 11 million, but what’s really fascinating is that 95.7% of people actually survive crashes, assuming they’re seated within the five rows of an emergency exit. Though, of course, the probability of surviving depends on factors like impact angle and —”

Morgan leans forward, bracing an arm against his knee, eyes locked on Spencer with the patience of a man debating the ethics of shutting someone up by violent force.“Hey, man, you ever hear of a bad time? We are currently on a plane. Read the room.”

For once, you don’t leap to his defense. No well-timed he’s just trying to educate us, Morgan, or an indulgent I think it’s interesting thrown in to buffer the onslaught. 

Instead, you glance at him, eyebrows lifting into something dangerously close to betrayal. Because, yeah. This might actually be one of those times. One of the Morgan is completely justified in wanting to tape Spencer’s mouth shut for the next four hours.

“I have heard of a bad time, but the concept is largely subjective. What you’re experiencing is cognitive bias, your brain associating this discussion with immediate danger because of proximity. In reality, the likelihood of a crash remains the same whether I mention it or not, so from a purely logical standpoint, this is no worse a time than any other.”

Morgan drags a hand down his face.

“...In fact, not talking about it could be considered the real danger. Avoidance leads to complacency, and complacency leads to fatal mistakes. Did you know that the most survivable crash positions involve bracing at a 60-degree angle? Although, of course, survivability depends largely on the structural integrity of the fuselage upon impact, and in cases of explosive decompression —”

It happens before you can think about — before the gnawing, frantic need to make him stop talking about plane crashes while you are actively inside one overrides all rational thought.

You turn, grab Spencer’s collar, and yank him in, your own common sense careening into a tailspin somewhere at 30,000 feet.

The moment your lips collide, Spencer’s entire body goes rigid, frozen mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-existence. His mouth is still forming a syllable that dies in a half-swallowed exhale against your tongue. His hands, previously conducting an invisible orchestra of statistical doom, trap in mid-air like he forgot what hands are.

But he catches up fast. One second he’s buffering and the next his fingers twitch — once, twice — and then lock onto your waist like he’s just decided physics no longer applies and you need to be closer. It starts semi-tentatively, inhaling against your lips, breath uneven, before he presses deeper. A lit match dropped straight into gasoline.

You pull back, breath coming fast, Spencer still leaning in like he isn’t done yet. “Anyway. What were you saying?”

Spencer stares, lips parted, pupils blown wide. For a second, he seems to genuinely try to answer, searching his mind for whatever deeply important fact he was so adamant about a minute ago. “...I don’t remember.”

The jet is quiet — too quiet — and that’s when it hits you. 

You kissed Spencer. In front of everyone.

Something cold and hot spreads through you, and suddenly, your limbs don’t seem to be operating under your jurisdiction anymore. Do something. Anything. Breathe. Blink. Move. But nope, your brain is still buffering, and Spencer – dear, sweet Spencer — looks just as dazed, which means absolutely no one is saving you from this.

You could just… not turn around. Avoid whatever is waiting for you. Live the rest of your life facing forward like a malfunctioning animatronic. But the weight of twelve pairs of eyes boring into your back is impossible to ignore.

So, with all the grace of a person walking into their own execution, you turn.

Garcia has both hands glued to her mouth, body vibrating like she’s one second away from either screeching at a frequency only dogs can hear or launching herself into the air like a bottle rocket. Her eyes are huge, pupils dilated. JJ, meanwhile, is just staring. Frozen, lips parting as if she wants to say something but has no idea where to start.

And then there’s Hotch.

You swallow hard as you meet his gaze, expecting some level of seriousness, some stern professional acknowledgment of the wildly inappropriate display that just took place — but instead, he just exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man who is simply too tired for this.

And then, breaking the tension with the ease of a wrecking ball, Morgan lets out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Damn. I knew there was something going on, but damn.”

After the initial shock wore off — and after Garcia had texted Emily a summary in all caps, Morgan had called you both a lost cause, and Rossi had actually applauded — things mostly went back to normal. Mostly. Except now Spencer absolutely knew what he was doing.

And later that night, as you sat beside Spencer on the couch, he turned to you, utterly serious, and murmured, “You know, in the U.S., the majority of residential break-ins occur between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. —” 

You groaned, yanked him in, and cut him off the same way you had earlier. He made a very pleased noise.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[esote-rika]

More of you to worship | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst

Summary: Spencer Reid has insecurities about his changing body, and you assure him you love him regardless.

Content: body insecurity, established relationship, one mention of New Year

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: Quick little oneshot to end the year! You can thank @reidgif for this one because this gif rekindled my hyperfixation on his tummy. And then I saw a clip of Aisha (Tara’s actress) saying MGG weighs 11 pounds and has the metabolism of a rabbit on speed (lmfao) anyway, I took that and ran with it and now here we are. As someone who struggles with dysmorphia, I did my very best to be as sensitive with this as possible. Last fix of the year, I hope you enjoy it!

Spencer had begun to notice it a few weeks ago. At first, he had foolishly thought that there was simply something wrong with the shirt he had worn. Tactile sensitivity had always been something he dealt with, and this was no different. There had been a certain peculiarity in the fit of his shirt that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Days continued, and it became a persistent bother, impeding his movement when he aimed, and inhibiting his general comfort.

It wasn’t until today, sitting in the bed—one he shared with you—that he finally had the time to inspect what was going on. The two of you had just gotten home from Rossi, who had graciously hosted a New Year’s dinner at his mansion. Spencer had admittedly eaten more than his fill, and that’s when he realized—it showed.

At once, the problem appeared. He was gaining weight. His shirts were bothering him because they were growing too tight, digging into places where they had previously been loose. The realization made him pause, as he stared down at himself.

Sitting on the bed, his stomach had gathered into a bulge, straining against the cloth. It was a new sight, not necessarily unwelcomed, but it seemed to send his mind reeling (to be fair, a lot sent his mind reeling nowadays, he was running on fumes, his only reprieve being you.)

He had never been muscular, had never found the need to be muscular. The team was nearly faultless because everyone filled a role, and they executed that well. He was, has always been, the genius, the expert on everything, as Hotch had called him once. Being the genius of the BAU meant that he had value. Relevance. It brought him great deal of pride, being able to contribute and pick up on patterns and little details that the majority of the team might miss.

It made him feel like he mattered. Needed.

So what if he couldn’t tackle a man down? They used to have Derek and Hotch for that, and now that role was being fulfilled by Luke and Matt, both of whom were utter specimens of the male physique.

But his time in prison had proven to him that he couldn’t rely on just his brains. Not when he had three burly inmates looking for trouble, looking for someone easy. It pained him that someone easy meant someone that looked like him. Tall, gangly, defenseless.

He took another breath and frowned as the fabric around his stomach grew tighter, taut at having to contain this belly that had formed over the course of the evening. A food baby, you liked to call it, because your own tummy was bonded to several factors as well—hormones, food, water intake—that made it fluctuate frequently, normally.

Normal. He tried to remind himself that this was normal, gaining weight was normal, but then again, how could someone tell what was normal when their—his—whole life, he had little experience with the word? Growing up a genius and taking care of an ailing mother skewed whatever sense of normalcy he could have developed.

Besides, his normal meant lanky, thin. His body, the way it was framed and built, had always been long and erring on the side of delicate. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to bulk up, it was that his muscles were lean; that was simply how his anatomy worked. It would take a lot more effort to gain more muscle, effort that he, admittedly, didn’t want to exert. It wasn’t his role.

And now, he looked down at his stomach with a crease on his brow, mind whirring with explanations. Weight fluctuations are normal, and they were okay, and he was nearing forty, anyway, of course his metabolism was beginning to slow down, human adults’ bodily functions tend to do that, it was scientific and —

“Honey?”

He looked up, and there you were, your loveliness framed by the plain doorway. Somehow, you made it seem more magical, less boring, as though your very presence just made everything better. He smiled, holding out a hand for you, forcing the wave of insecurity down his throat, down his chest, trying to bury it deep in the recesses of his body.

You walked closer, and the thoughts punched through his attempts to silence them—you wouldn’t find him attractive anymore.

Something must have shifted on his face, a sliver of that anxiety creating fresh lines between his brows, because you paused. A hand ran across your cheek, and he felt the weight of your concern in the action.

“What’s wrong, Spence?”

He drew you closer, pulled you onto his lap. He couldn’t lie to you, not out of his lack of skill, but due to your incessant ability to somehow sniff out the truth from him, one way or another.

“I think I’m outgrowing my shirts.” he said, softening the words with a chuckle. He was ashamed to admit that it was affecting him more than he anticipated; maybe humor would lessen its significance.

“Aren’t you a little too old to be going through puberty?” you asked, matching the teasing tone of his voice. The difference was glaring though; his voice was awfully strained, and yours was lighter, more at ease.

Still, he laughed, buried his face at the nape of your neck. “They’re getting tight around my stomach.”

At that, you pulled back. He swallowed the whine that threatened to leave his lips; he was already being so pathetic over a little pudge, he was reaching max capacity. With bated breath, he watched as your gaze ran over him, eyes flickering with recognition when they landed on his torso.

“Oh they are,” You replied, hands going up to his shoulders, tugging at the fabric there, “Here too. Huh, I guess we’ll have to go shopping then.”

He looked, patiently waited for more.

“What?” you asked, eyes crinkling oh so prettily at the corners that he couldn’t help but press a kiss over them.

“That’s it?” he murmured, disbelief coloring his voice. He had anticipated more of a reaction, maybe a suggestion of ‘oh maybe you should go to the gym’. But you took it with such stride that he was a little confused.

“Yeah, that’s it.” you laughed, brought a palm down to his stomach, that one place that’s causing him to basically break down, “Should there be more?”

He shrugged.

Perched on his lap, you frowned as you watched emotions flicker through his eyes. “Spence,” You murmured, kissing his temple, “Talk to me.”

“I just don't want you to think I'm unattractive anymore.” The words felt bitter in his tongue; it was a relief to release them, get them out of his system. “I was never - you know - sexy before, and now I'm gaining weight.”

“Spence,” You interrupted him gently. It wasn't something you did often; his rambles were one of the things you loved about him after all, but it pained you to hear him get so insecure about something so insignificant as his weight, especially since his body wasn't even the thing that made him attractive to you in the first place, “Belly pudge or scrawny, I think you're hot.”

His eyes softened, looking so impossibly hopeful that you couldn't stop the urge to lean in and kiss him. “Seriously,” You murmured, “It doesn't matter to me. You're handsome, but you're also so intelligent and passionate and sensitive, and those are so much more important than how you look.”

He sagged with relief, arms tightening around you. “Yeah?” He asked as he buried his face in your hair.

“Yeah, honey. I'm not with you because of your looks,” You replied, then with a little laugh, you added, “Although, they certainly are an added bonus.”

His shoulders shook as he chuckled, and you can feel his lips giving you tiny kisses at the crown of your head.

“Besides,” You continued, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, “The way I see it, there's physically more of you now - more of you to hug, and to love, more of you to worship.”

He was silent, but his grip on you never faltered, breath fanning gently over your hair. “More of me to love.” He whispered, “You're right, that's - that's one way to look at it.”

“Mhmm,” You nodded, “But you really do need to go shopping, can't have you ripping your shirts while you're out on a case. You wouldn't want your team to think you're doing an impromptu strip tease.”

He bursted out laughing, and exhilaration filled your chest. You always took pride in making him laugh, and this was no exception.

“God, I love you.” He said, pulling back and resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you too.” You smiled, then added, “Besides, I think the pudge is cute. You're on your way to a dad bod.”

He laughed again, and if you could hear that sound on loop forever, then you would be in heaven

[joeyfromthetrack]

Midnight in Algarve - OP⁸¹

Oscar Piastri x Norris!Reader

Summary: The younger sister of Lando Norris, has spent three years quietly crushing on his teammate, Oscar Piastri. During a birthday getaway in Portugal, with their rooms side by side and the pressure of the paddock behind them, years of unspoken tension come to a head as Oscar and Y/n finally admit their feelings and cross the line from longing to something real.

Contains: smut (18th+ only), fluff, mentions of alcohol, (some) use of Y/n

Word count: 2.4k

Y/n Norris had always been good at pretending.

Pretending she was fine when strangers at paddocks asked if she was dating one of the drivers. Pretending not to notice when journalists used her as a footnote in Lando’s rising stardom. And especially pretending not to look too long at Oscar Piastri.

Three years ago, she’d first met him at her brother’s post-race dinner in Barcelona. She was 20, fresh off exams, wide-eyed and exhausted, sipping wine like it was a survival tactic. Oscar had been seated across from her —grinning, tan, leaning back in his chair comfortably, not cockily like her brother does, he had the shy and polite factor about him.

“So, you’re the famous Y/n,” he’d said, offering his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her heart had betrayed her with a skip even then.

She remembered how he made her laugh so hard she nearly choked on her drink. Remembered the flicker in his eyes when she touched his arm as she leaned in to whisper something. His eyes - they were so gorgeous, so soft, so inviting, she just wanted to stare into them forever.

But the night had ended, as they always did, with a hug, a casual “see you around,” and the unspoken understanding that she was off-limits. She was Lando’s little sister. That was the boundary—silent but impossible to ignore.

And yet, he kept showing up in small ways.

He always greeted her first when they crossed paths at races. Remembered the coffee she ordered at the team hospitality every race, he started having one already made for her for when she arrived shortly after him at races.

Every interaction lingered longer than it should have. Every accidental brush of shoulders or locked glance stirred something electric under her skin. And always—always—they both looked away too quickly, both of their faces flushing what they were both sure was a bright red.

Now, in Portugal, almost three years of pining, proximity, and polite distance were burning in the summer heat.

The holiday house Lando had booked for his 26th birthday was sprawling and sunlit, filled with noise and movement. She had volunteered to help organise everything: the playlist, the food, the rooms. She’d found out she’d be staying in the room next to Oscar before he did.

That knowledge had haunted her for the days leading up to the trip.

The first night, she came out for water and found him barefoot, shirtless, sleepy-eyed. Her mouth had gone dry.

“Midnight hydration club?” he’d teased.

She’d nodded, unable to form words at first.

It was like that, always: the flutter in her chest, the need to act normal. It was exhausting.

There was no interaction after that, she sat in silence on the cool stone of the countertop, sipping from her water bottle and Oscar left the room a minute later, looking back at her momentarily.

Oscar was no better.

From the moment he met her, she had settled under his skin in a way no one else had. She was sharp-witted, sweet and terrifyingly smart (unlike her brother). He remembered her laugh in Barcelona. The one where her whole face lit up. He’d heard it only a few times since—each one burned into memory.

He told himself it was just a crush. That it would pass.

It didn’t.

He kept it all quiet. Because of Lando. Because of timing.

But it didn’t stop the wanting.

Now, in Portugal, the walls between them felt thinner than ever—literally and metaphorically. He caught glimpses of her on the terrace, at breakfast, air drying her hair on the balcony. Every time she laughed, he looked up like he’d been summoned.

That night, when the party was in full swing, he found himself drifting upstairs before midnight, needing air. Or space. Or just the faint hope that he might bump into her.

She found him instead, sitting outside his room with a beer in hand.

“You’re hiding,” she said, sinking down beside him.

“You first.”

She smiled. “I love my brother to pieces, but this isn't my scene.”

He hummed in agreement. She looked tired, but still luminous—bare shoulders, flushed cheeks, hair curling slightly from the sea air.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Dangerous,” she teased.

He smirked, but then turned serious. “About you.”

She stilled.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said softly. “Always have.”

She turned to face him fully, heart thudding. "You've been drinking Osc." She told him softly.

He held up the beer in his hand, unopened. "Haven't had any actually." She stays silent, unsure of how to react. He let out a quiet breath. “Three years.”

“Three years,” she echoed, she could hear her own heartbeat at blood pulses in her ears.

“Do you know how hard it’s been not to look at you too long? Not to sit next to you at dinner or ask for your number when Lando’s not around?”

She smiled, crooked. “You could’ve.”

“I was scared.”

She looked at him then—not just glanced, but really looked. Saw the flicker of nerves, the earnestness underneath the easy charm. “I’m scared too,” she admitted.

A silence settled over them. The air buzzed with everything unsaid.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice low, reverent. Her breath caught.“But only if you want me to,” he added.

She leaned in, so close he could smell the citrus in her shampoo. “I’ve been waiting three years for you to say that.”

And then, finally, they kissed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was relief. It was three years of what-ifs melting into what was. Her fingers in his hair. His hands gentle at her waist. They moved like they’d done this before, in dreams or imagined moments.

The pull apart momentarily, looking into the depths of each others before leaning back in, lips locking again in a soft but passionate kiss.

The kiss deepened, and she felt herself drowning in him. His lips were firm yet gentle, his hands on her waist, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, and for a moment, the world around them ceased to exist.

Suddenly they were standing, he tapped her thigh, motioning for her to jump. So she did, wrapping her legs around his waist, his hand moving to ass to support her, lips still locked, breathing heavy between the both of them. She knew what was going to happen, her heart was pounding but she was going to let it happen, it's all she's wanted for three years.

He led her into his room, kicking the door shut behind them and he placed her down on the edge of the bed, he bends over, hands either side of her body so his face is level with hers.

They shared a soft moment both of them understanding each other's feelings just through their eyes, both in agreeance with what was about to happen.

“You’re so beautiful,” Oscar murmured, his breath warm against her skin as he pulled her shirt off, revealing the lace bra beneath. His eyes darkened with desire, and Y/n felt a flush spread across her chest.

“Oscar,” she whispered, her voice trembling as his lips trailed down her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His touch was confident yet respectful, as if he knew exactly how much she needed to be cherished.

He paused, his hands resting on her hips as he looked up at her. "Baby, are you sure you wanna do this?" he said, his voice rough with need.

“I'm so sure,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a string of words only for their ears.

Oscar’s expression softened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing hers once more. “Then let me show you how much I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his hands moving to her bra, unhooking it with practiced ease.

She closed her eyes as he slid the straps down her arms, her breasts exposed to his gaze. She felt a mix of fear and excitement, her heart racing as his hands cupped her, his thumbs brushing her nipples. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her head back, surrendering to the sensations flooding her body.

“You’re perfect,” Oscar whispered, his lips trailing down her chest, his tongue teasing her nipple until she arched into his touch. His hands moved to her skirt, his fingers deftly unzipping it as he kissed his way down her stomach.

She gasped as her skirt fell to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her panties. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but Oscar’s gaze was so full of adoration that she couldn’t feel anything but desired.

He knelt before her, his hands resting on her thighs as he looked up at her. He said her name, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside her.

Oscar’s hands moved to her panties, his fingers hooking into the waistband as he slid them down her legs. She shivered as they fell to the floor, leaving her completely bare. She felt his gaze on her, warm and hungry, and she couldn’t help but squirm under his attention.

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, his voice a whisper as he leaned in, his lips brushing her inner thigh. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair as he kissed his way closer to her core. "Such a pretty girl." He said against the skin of her thigh.

“Oscar,” she breathed, her voice a plea as his lips hovered just above her core, his breath teasing her.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice commanding yet gentle.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing as she met his gaze. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want you to make me feel… everything.”

Oscar’s expression softened, and he leaned in, his lips finally pressing against her, his tongue teasing her clit in a way that made her cry out. His touch was skilled, his mouth moving with a rhythm that had her squirming, her body arching off the bed.

“Oscar,” she moaned, her hands gripping his hair as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking in a way that sent waves of pleasure through her.

Her moans and whimpers were like music to his ears, only encouraging his actions in pleasuring her. She felt herself spiraling, her body tightening as she neared the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he continued his ministrations. “Let go, honey.”

His words were her undoing. She cried out, her body shaking as she climaxed, her release overwhelming in its intensity. Oscar held her through it, his hands gentle on her thighs as she rode out the waves of pleasure.

When she finally came down, She was breathless, her body limp as she leaned back against the bed. Oscar sat up, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft as he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She nodded, her voice too weak to form words. She reached out, her hand resting on his cheek as she pulled him in for another kiss. It was softer this time, a tender exchange that spoke of everything they couldn’t say.

“Oscar,” she pants. “Please…”

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire. “Please what, honey?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “Tell me what you want.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. “I want you to take me,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “All of me.”

Oscar’s eyes flared with a primal intensity, he stood to take his shirt and shorts along with his boxers off and he kissed her deeply, his hands moving to her thighs, spreading them wide. Her breath hitched as he positioned himself between her legs, his erection pressing against her core. Her eyes wide as she took in his naked form.

“Ready for me?” he asked, his voice a husky command.

She nodded, her eyes locked on his. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Oscar. All of me.”

He thrust into her in one smooth motion, filling her completely. She gasped, her head tipping back as he began to move, his hips snapping with a rhythm that was both urgent and deliberate. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve in her body singing with pleasure as he claimed her with a ferocity that left no doubt of his devotion.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against hers. “So fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she met his thrusts with equal fervor. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion—the slick rhythm of their bodies, their ragged breaths, and the occasional soft curse that escaped Oscar’s lips.

“Harder,” she pleaded, her voice desperate. “Please, Oscar, harder.”

He obliged, his movements becoming more forceful, his hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her with a primal intensity. She cried out, her body trembling on the edge of release, every thrust pushing her closer to the edge.

“Come for me, honey,” Oscar commanded, his voice hoarse with need. “Let go.”

His words were her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body convulsing around him as she cried out his name. Oscar followed moments later, his hips stuttering as he filled her with his release, his deep groans of pleasure echoing in the room.

For a long moment, they remained locked together, their hearts pounding in unison, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Oscar withdrew gently, his hand brushing a stray curl from her forehead as he looked down at her with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

He kissed her softly, a promise sealed in the tender press of their lips. As they lay entwined in the aftermath of their passion.

When they broke apart, she laughed—a small, breathless sound.

“We’re screwed,” she said.

“Completely,” he agreed, grinning.

“But happy?”

“Very.”

Outside, the sea kept whispering against the cliffs, but inside, a different kind of tide had turned.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

[chiasaaa]

— anything for you

itoshi sae x f! reader

summary: sae finds himself doing things he wouldn’t normally do. all for you.

warning: english is not my first language. apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.

— itoshi sae knew he was beyond saving the moment he set his phone against his pillow and clicked the record button, holding up three boxes of what seemed to be pr boxes for the brands he’s sponsoring.

no, said brands did not require him to film the pr boxes. they only wished for him to use and test it out in an attempt to gain his brutally honest feedback. so why is it that he has his camera open to do a little review?

it’s because he’s deeply and undeniably in love with a so-called idiot named you. you have him wrapped around your finger, and sae was the one to curl your fingers around him for you. a little while ago—right after emerging from the shower of his hotel room—he sent a photo of the three pr boxes that laid on his bed. his manager did tell him he’ll drop it off around the night.

itoshi sae: they’re here.

itoshi sae: [sent an attachment]

you: ohhh! unboxing vid, pls!

itoshi sae: not my thing

you: aww :PP

you: anyhoo, don’t forget to eat dinner!

you: i’m just pinning my sketches in the new mood board, then i’ll head back home.

he knew there was nothing else to your response. sure, you were a bit dampened by how he flat out rejected your request, but you’re not one to dwell in such silly things either. sae knew that you would be the last person on earth forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do, and video reviews might as well be nonexistent in his vocabulary.

even so, he decided to give it to you. reviews of the products he’s sponsoring.

oh, may god save his soul.

“we’ll start with this one.” he holds up a pastel yellow box displaying the name of his favorite skincare brand. “i heard they’re releasing a new formula for my moisturizer that’s less sticky. if it works well, then i’ll be using that for my games.”

he takes out a tube from the box and showed it to the camera, plucking the lid open. “the bottle’s bigger than the previous one too, and the design’s more minimal. i like it.”

for the next hour, itoshi sae filmed each and every reaction he had for every product he tested, telling you his brutally honest reviews and picking out which ones he considered purchasing upon launch.

sae didn’t even bother screening the videos before sending them to you, well-aware that you prefer his rawest form than anything else. it is a factor as to why he feels so lucky being with you. though, he’d never admit it right at your face, he simply hopes he shows it enough.

imagine the look on your face when you just finished locking up your office, fishing your phone out to let him know you’re about to head home. instead, you were met with three 15-minute long videos of each promotional box sent to him.

itoshi sae: [sent 3 attachments]

itoshi sae: i have to admit, i like the new sunscreen the most. i’ll contact the company and have another delivered to you.

itoshi sae: you should also try the lip glaze. i remember you’ve been complaining about how your lips dry up in the winter. i’ll give it to you next week when you fly over.

your heart swelled at the sight of him actually filming his reactions, nearly slamming into a lamp post if it wasn’t for your driver tugging you back lightly to prevent you from doing so.

you: you really filmed!

you: i’ll watch it on the way home!

you: i love you, querido <3

and your appreciative messages were enough for sae to know that leaving his heart to rest upon your care is the best thing he’s ever done. you have always been the most positive influence in his life, and you never shame him for anything he does out of his character.

itoshi sae: i love you. head home safe.

[multific]

Long Live The Empress of Rome

Emperor Geta x Sorceress!Reader

Summary: You promised to keep him safe. It was part of your job as his wife. And in return, you received his heart and the power you always wanted. 

A/N: This contains spoilers for the movie! This is also an AU fiction.

Ever since you were little you had powers.

One might think you were a Goddess. And they wouldn't be far off.

You could hear people's thoughts and control the elements.

Throughout your life, you have perfected these powers.

You hid them well from most people. 

But you were unable to hide it from The Emperor.

While you were rather calm, a storm raged inside you. Behind your calm and collected demeanour, you were actually quite the opposite.

Emperor Geta was not like that.

He mostly pretended to be sane, but he truly had no reason to.

He and his brother led an empire that wasn't kind.

But you enjoyed it.

Sometimes, Rome was exactly how you felt on the side.

Rotten to the core.

You liked it.

And you liked the Emperors.

Mostly Emperor Geta.

Who was not shy about showing you just how much he liked you. 

His interest in you was beyond interesting. 

Of course, he was used to having women around, but you, you were different.

And soon, you became his biggest obsession.

A simple woman he thought you were, but your beauty and wit were undeniable. 

It came to you as no surprise that he took a liking to you. What did surprise you, however, was that you also felt the same way.

It's not like you weren't interested in men before, and sometimes even women. But Geta was different.

So different from everyone.

You liked that.

He matched you perfectly.

He claimed you to be his wife the second time you met him.

Your wedding was just as grand as the crowning of the Emperors. 

"My Beautiful Empress," he whispered as the priest declared you wife and husband in front of the Gods.

And so, you became the Empress to Emperor Geta.

Emperor Caracalla on the other hand was not as fond of you. He often claimed a dark and cold chill running down his spine whenever he saw you. Little did he know the truth.

Geta fell in love with you.

He liked your cold demeanour and your hidden rage.

He liked you for you.

Not your powers or beauty. Although beauty was a major factor in getting your hand in marriage.

Later on, he found out about your powers when you were attacked one night.

Even his soldiers couldn't stop the angry people who wanted nothing more than to kill.

Geta watched as you murdered them all, with a simple move of your finger all of them fell to the ground.

Your husband found out your true self.

"The Gods sent me a Goddess. A Goddess of my own, My Wife." 

Rumours of a Dark Empress began to spread, but that is all they were in the eyes of most, rumours.

There you were, sitting next to him in the Colosseum. 

Enjoying the blood and games.

Some gladiators were more promising than the next.

The Emperors enjoyed the games and so did you.

Macrinus sat right behind you, you heard whispers from his thoughts.

A plan.

A sinister plan to overthrow your husband and his brother.

But you smirked, knowing he was not aware of your full potential.

Macrinus truly thought you were going to be the easiest to take out from the bunch. He formed a very complicated plan for the overthrow of the Emperors while he hired men to kill you. 

You slightly turned your head and offered him a look. He nodded his head, thinking you were praising him for his newest Gladiator.

You watched as the rhino ran into the wall, grabbing your husband's hand you turned to whisper into his ear.

"I wish to heal the animal."

"Whatever My Sweet Wife wishes." he kissed the back of your hand.

Even if you didn't like people, you loved animals.

After the games, you retrieved into your home, back to your room.

"Crimes are being committed against us. Right in front of our eyes," you said as Geta closed the door behind himself.

"What did you hear?"

"Macrinus has a plot. A sinister and twisted plot. He wishes to rule."

"Treason!"

"I will deal with him. Do not worry yourself with peasants like him, My Love."

"What would I do without you?"

"You would be beheaded." you smiled and he wanted to laugh but the seriousness of your tone changed his mind very fast.

"Will there be blood?" he asked, hope-filled in his voice.

You nodded, and his smile grew. 

"Lots of blood. But not ours, nor your brother's." 

"Long live the Empress," he said as he leaned in to kiss you, but just as he was about to, you spoke.

"Long live us," you replied before pulling him in for a kiss.

---

The next morning you woke up, and your husband was still asleep.

You headed to the balcony, taking in the smell of smoke.

You grabbed onto the railings, everyone's thoughts filled your mind, and you often found it to be overwhelming.

Hearing everyone's thoughts, some people were louder while others were quieter.

You weren't sure why that was, it was all you ever knew. 

Geta's thoughts were usually silent, even his most wicked ones, you used to struggle to be able to read his thoughts until you gave up. It was rare but it did happen from time to time in the past. 

You can sometimes hear words from him but not full sentences. 

But you didn’t have to hear them to know what he was thinking. 

A word you constantly heard was “Beautiful.”

Simple. 

Kind. 

You love him. 

But even with powers like Gods, it could become too much to handle. In those moments, Geta was always there by your side.

As if he knew you needed some reassurance.

And this time was no different. 

He soon pulled you close and hugged you from behind.

"Is My Wife happy?" 

"I am." you truly were.

"What will you do with Macrinus?"

"I spoke with your brother, and warned him of the plan, I suspect he was too drunk to remember so I sent him a dream. I'm sure he understands, he usually does."

"And what about the Poet Gladiator?"

"Lucius? He claims he wants to free Rome." you turned around in his arms. "But Rome will never be free. During the games today, I have a special plan for the lost prince of Rome." you lifted your hand and ran it through his hair. "I'm sure you will like it."

And he did.

Killing four birds with one stone.

Lucius, his mother, Acacius and Macrinus. 

What a delight it truly was.

Unfortunately, the tiger seemed too big of a task for the men, trying to save Lucilla. 

A completely normal tiger at that... of course, you had no hand in the matter. 

And Macrinus? 

For being a traitor, his head was placed by the walls of Rome. Setting an example to all who dare even think about overthrowing the Emperors.

"My Love. My Beautiful Wife." as he stood in front of you, out on your balcony, the moon lit the night as you heard the people or Rome riot, all you could think of was how beautiful his eyes were.

As he looked at you with the most love.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[swordgrace]

heyy, i LOVE UR WALKER FICS OMGG IM LITCH BLUSHING SMM!! I have a request of reader and john walker with angsty!bloody!injured sex plsss 🥹🥹 ik being so soft and vulernable with that white chocolate would be so UGH YES, bandaged soft sex would go elite tbh.

Thank uu 🫰🫰

╱╱ೃ 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with little plot, injured!john, switch!john, john walker’s praise kink, begging, light teasing, making out, grinding, groping, cowgirl position, top!reader, unprotected p in v sex.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: the ‘white chocolate’ part of this request made me GIGGLE — but walker is def a switch (will not accept other answers) !! thank you for this request, anon! I loved writing it & I hope you enjoy! 🫶

Dried crimson smatters his temples, stark-white gauze tangled around his midsection, patched over his thick bicep. Bruises flourish like violets over his abdomen, collarbone, and a particularly nasty one sits below his jaw.

A soured expression paints his features, planted firmly within the medbay, situated within a cushioned seat.

An accelerated healing factor cannot seem to keep in-stride with the myriad of injuries he’d suffered during the mission hours ago. Agitation coils into his shoulders, accompanied by embittered frown curls at the corners of his mouth.

He’s better than this, he thinks, a better soldier than the disorganized slop he’d become in the heat of battle. Though, it was all for good reasons — had he not stepped in, it would’ve been you.

John would’ve rather taken several beatings instead of letting you get hurt. Part of him felt righteous, vindicated in knowing that he took the fall to keep you safe; that was satisfying enough for him.

Nursing a wounded pride amongst the plenty of scrapes he’d received was arguably the most discomforting pain of all.

His head tilts back against the seat, blonde tresses disheveled and mussed, beard shadowing his features, creeping toward his throat. Eyes screw shut, a sharp exhale whistling from his lungs.

“How are you holding up?”

The softer cadence of your voice reverberates throughout the room, your own injuries superficial, menial compared to his. Illuminated by the backdrop of soft, orange light, John’s gaze finds you, ethereally pretty.

A scoff ripples through his throat, jaw taut with rigidity. “Great, fantastic.” He grouses, a hint of sarcasm etched into his words. “I can’t believe this.” Petulance bleeds through each syllable.

Argumentative, grumping John is the John you’ve become intimately acquainted with, but in private moments, between the hardened cracks, he softens up. It’s the John you’ve grown to love.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, pouting as if he’s lost a game. Sometimes it’s a good reminder that he isn’t invincible — isn’t as ironclad as he initially believed.

Adapting your approach, you try again, door hissing shut behind you as you take a few paces forward. “It’s only for a few days. Once you’re mostly healed, they’ll put you back on missions.”

Being out-of-commission angered John beyond belief — feeling useless, confined to licking his wounds like a whipped dog. He’s visibly agitated, frustration slithering over his flesh as if it’s a tangible thing.

A twitch settles into his jaw, cerulean hues trained up at the ceiling, groveling. It isn’t the physical pain that vexes him, it’s the mental, the feeling of being unwanted, not needed.

“They asked Bob to go,” John gruffs, disdainful as he shifts within the seat, palms planted firmly within his lap. “Bob — the guy isn’t ready for the field.” His anger bleeds through, oozing like a gaping wound.

“You’re going to have to let this one go, John.” Placating, you lower yourself to sit beside him, gaze wandering over the labyrinth of bruises scattered over his form, over tight linens.

A mirthless chuckle floated from his mouth, blonde brows screwed together, a visage of sheer anguish. “Right,” He quips, a low groan leaving him when he adjusts, sitting up a little straighter. “Easy for you to say.”

He gets mouthy when he’s upset — it’s unintentional, no malice behind it, but you’re quick to put a stop to it before it rages out of control. “I’m not the one you’re frustrated with.”

It’s a gentle reminder for him to check his attitude, before he says something stupid.

John huffs, countenance contorted into a look of surrender, and he concedes to you, too tired and too marred to keep it up. “I know.” He utters, craning his head to look at you.

Though, even when he’s wound-up into a knot of frustration, he’s still handsome, battered pride and all, sporting a cut on the bridge of his nose.

A low sigh slips through gritted teeth, and he feels your palm against his forearm. “Anything that I can do to help?” You ask, fingertips caressing gentle circles over the muscle there.

“Don’t think kissing it better will work this time,” John grunts, cringing at his own joke. There’s a peculiar sheen in his eyes, one that you’ve seen sparingly; he wants something. “Thanks.”

“You don’t think so?” Digits still over his arm, lifting to brush blonde tresses away from his forehead, skimming over a cut. He shivers at your touch, pretending that he doesn’t crave it, doesn’t need it.

Through gritted teeth, John attempts to come off as suave, collected; instead, he’s splintering at the seams, hoping you’ll dote on him a little bit. “No. Just need to sleep it off.” He fibs, looking anywhere else.

Wordlessly, you slip closer, noticing the way his jaw tightens, clenched so hard that it might snap into two. Lips brush over the bare skin of his shoulder, embracing a livid bruise, his flesh violet beneath your mouth.

John masks his noise of startlement with another haughty grunt, feeling your palm skirt over his thigh. Muscle tenses, firm and thick, the one part of him that isn’t completely shot to hell.

He sits rigid, as if he’s dismissive of the contact, but it feels incredible; your mouth is gentle, a careful juxtaposition to the wounds littering his form. You plant a kiss to his bicep, over a shallow, now-faded cut.

“Hey, you don’t have to …” John begins, but he cuts himself off when you’re slithering into his lap, body warm and pliant against him. He doesn’t protest, shivering as his hands shift to cup your hips, drawing circles over clothed skin.

He’ll never admit it outloud, but he enjoys being underneath you — enjoys it when control can be relinquished, and he doesn’t have to think.

Pupils dilate with a veiled surprise, lips slacking as he gazes at you, gaze glassy with a sheen of newfound desire. A pause keeps you from proceeding, palms cradling his grizzled face.

“If you don’t want to, tell me.” Saccharine, your tone oozes like honey, crawling over his bones, making him feel subdued, cared for. He isn’t used to being someone that’s loved by another.

Bravado and arrogance bleed away when you’re left alone together, as if he no longer has to put up a performance for you. He’s animalistic when he wants to be, but you’ve caught him being docile.

Hushed, John doesn’t move you away nor protest, head jostling in a brief nod before your mouth molds to his. The kiss is disarmingly soft, ripping every scrap of air from his lungs.

The way you kiss him is blissful, gentle; you’re taking care not to hurt him or cause any strain. You’re hovering, preventing your full weight from sinking down into his lap.

“I can take it.” John grits into your mouth, calloused palms sitting over your hips, urging you close. Gradually, you fully settle down, thighs pinned on either side of his hips.

A low, contented sigh escapes him when your hands stroke over either side of his jaw, digits pricked by his beard. The sensation feels nice; he feels wanted, secure.

“You’re so handsome, John.” The words float from your mouth, delicate; John feels his breath hitch unexpectedly, clinging tightly to you.

He feels as if you might slip through his fingers like grains of sand if he doesn’t cage you in, gaze half-lidded as you massage over his neck. The muscle in his jaw unclenches, relaxes.

“It doesn’t feel that way.” He mumbles, still smeared with dried blood, bandaged, feeling closer to a loser than to a hero. The soft pads of your fingers trace his collar, feather-light over bruises and scrapes.

Kissing his jaw, you feel him shudder beneath you, palms kneading into your hips. “You’re wrong,” The warmth of your sigh plumes over his skin, eliciting a sharp exhale. “You’re perfect.”

The validation he so desperately craves is presented to him freely, the praise; he’s like a dog wagging its tail for its owner. It feels good to be wanted by you — needed, craved, coveted.

A rumble forms within his chest, feeling your lips shift across his throat. Kisses string together over his jugular, climbing across his flesh, lavishing him in doting affection.

He hates how quickly it gets him hard, body betraying him instantaneously, growing erection beginning to push into your core.

One hand trails, caressing over raw, sinewy muscle, over the dusting of blonde hair that covers his chest, slips beneath the waistband of his tactical pants.

John’s brain hums with static when you touch him, tendrils of ecstasy shooting through his body. A low, husky groan tears through his throat, and he’s huffing like a bull.

Quiet, you cup the tent forming at his groin, pulling a low groan from his lips. “Jesus,” John huffs, breathing beginning to spike, tongue wetting his bottom lip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You aren’t stopping me.” There’s merit to be found in your statement, akin to a sultry murmur as you lightly grope at his clothed cock. Fingers flex over your hips, rough like leather, wanton.

“Nope.” He mutters, a half-sigh, squirming beneath your embrace. His mouth swiftly returns to yours despite the exhaustion that seeps into his bones, lips needy and possessive.

Kissing him ragged, your lips are unusually voracious, meeting his need with something sharp of your own. Still, you’re massaging over his cock, evoking another strained groan from him, lost within the labyrinth of his mouth.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to steady yourself. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Even when he’s pushed to the brink of fatigue, John is still eager for you, one palm sliding to grab at the swell of your ass. His hold is ironclad, bruising as he pushes one hand beneath your shirt.

The scratch of his beard has quickly become one of your favorite sensations, sharp and grating whenever your mouths connect. Nimble digits slide toward his belt, swift and needy, wanting him inside of you.

A ragged sigh snares within his throat, manifesting as a mere hum, body vibrating with exhilaration. His pearlescent teeth briefly scrape over your bottom lip, the kiss filling you with a mounting fervor.

“Want you to fuck me.” John gruffed, exhale splitting his lungs, pushing out through his nose. He was worn-down, vulnerable — made him drop the cocksure confidence, submit to you.

Bewildered, your visage contorted into a look of pleasant surprise, lips parting as you kissed his jaw, fingertips tracing over his abdomen. “Yeah? It won’t be too much?” You murmur, feeling his fingers push into your waistband.

“Yeah,” He grits as if he’s being restrained, pupils dilated, tongue lashing over his teeth. “It won’t be too much, I can handle it.” John quips, as if the mere notion of not fucking you is preposterous.

He’s battered, black and blue all over, still yearning; you’re more than happy to indulge him, breaking contact to slide out of your shorts. He’s watching you as if you’re some angel, taking his breath away, and you are.

Roughened digits tug at the soft cotton of your panties whilst you’re dismantling his belt, listening to the clatter as you unzip his tactical pants.

Despite the numerous wounds he’s nursing, John’s mind cycles out the pain, the aching — they become mere background noise when you’re clamoring back in his lap.

Dipping into his pants, you maneuver the black tactical gear aside, hand warm as you fist around the base of his cock. He groans, lungs stinging as he kneads into your bare flesh, reminding himself that you’re real.

Precum glistens against the flushed head of his cock, oozing still as you free from the confines of clothing. John gapes, brows pinched together, countenance one of an unbridled desire.

Lifting your hips, you drag the tip of his cock through your folds, slick from your own arousal. He licks his bottom lip, chest rising and falling heavily, succumbing to the pressure of anticipation.

“Christ, hey —” His hips stutter as you grind yourself against him, cock pressing with mild resistance over your cunt. “Stop teasing.” He nearly groans, palms strangling your hips, thumbs circling over your flesh.

“Say please.” As the words tumble from your mouth, John fights against baser instincts, knowing he’s still strong enough to manhandle you into submission.

He doesn’t fight you, because he likes it when you’re stern — it’s ridiculously hot.

“Please,” He huffs, cock still sliding over your slit, the contact making him writhe. “Please — damn, need you to sit down.” Through clenched teeth, he’s urging you down, visibly desperate.

Wordlessly, you sink down onto his cock, letting his length spear through you, perfectly thick as he fills you to the brim.

A moan rips through your throat, followed by a satisfied whine, hands flying to perch against his broad shoulders. You narrowly avoid his bandages, digits massaging into the juncture beside his throat.

“God,” You whimper, his cock kissing your cunt with such perfection; he feels incredible, and he knows he does, too. “You feel so good, John.” A soft sigh plumes through your lips, nails digging crescents into his skin.

Allowing yourself a second to adjust, you begin to move, rocking up and down, friction blistering between bodies. The nip of praise makes his head spin, jaw slackening as he helps move you.

With each deliberate bounce of your body, his length sheathed itself within you, the warm familiarity of it enough to make your body tremble in ecstasy.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, teeth grazing over your jaw. He’s growling, panting, his sounds mirroring that of a feral dog instead of a man.

Without warning, his hips buck into you, cock lewdly clashing into your cunt, the force of it enough to make your head spin. Clinging to him, you adopt a steady pace, body dragging out halfway before sinking down again.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your cervix, almost made you sob from delight. “So perfect for me like this.” You huff, watching his head roll back, jaw locked.

Lost within the labyrinth of ecstasy, you bounce up and down on him, assisted by his calloused hands grappling onto your haunches. He handles you carefully, caressing, getting off on your praise.

Lips momentarily collide in a messy kiss of tongue and teeth, the both of you clawing for one another, succumbing to desire. Throaty whines escape you, consumed by his kiss, one that ached with desperation.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” John groans, low and heady into the sweetness of your mouth, feeling one of your hands fist at his blonde tresses. “S’perfect, you’re perfect.” A half-growl snares within his throat.

He’s stealing glances at you through his lashes, and you’re beautiful, looking so pretty in his lap, riding his cock as if you’re made for him.

Each drag of your hips sends you easing back down onto his cock, walls rippling around him, milked by the arousal pooling between your thighs.

Mouths briefly connect; sloppy, needy kisses that make your thighs twitch. Your cunt clenches around his length, and every flush of your bodies sends him into some borderline frenzy.

A familiar coil of heat began to unfurl within the pit of your stomach, just as it did his own. A sharp inhale inhabits your lungs, one of a dizzying exhilaration as one hand shifts to cup your breast.

A shadow passes through his stare, one eclipsed by desire, sending pulses through your lower belly. Intermingled groans and whines flood the space between, skin crawling with heat.

Beneath your shirt, his rough palm kneads at your tits, thumb brushing over your nipple. He gauges your reaction through a half-lidded gaze, lips parted, visibly incendiary.

“F—Fuck, John,” With another moan, your pace ticks up in intensity, bouncing up and down along his cock, bodies flush. His cock throbs hot inside of you, noises lewd and crass. “So handsome like this.”

He preens, keening like a cat who’s caught the canary, one hand firm over your hip, massaging into the soft skin there. Dull ripples of pain ebb through his muscles, but he ignores it, focused on you, instead.

John shudders at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. Pleasure mounts within him like a white-hot coil, burning through his belly.

A slurred string of husky babbles come tumbling from his mouth, intermingled with a curse or two, hand groping at your breast. He’s got your shirt rucked up around your ribs, brows pinched together.

“Easy, easy,” John chides, afraid that he won’t be able to handle much more. Ecstasy builds, twined around his muscles, constricting him in some blinding haze. “Slower, honey.” He pants, staring up at you as if he’s seen a ghost.

With a disheveled nod, your head jostles, strands of hair floating beside your temples. His hand shifts to brush them aside, palm lingering beside your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

Your pace dissolves from excitable and swift to agonizingly slow, ensuring that he feels every drag of your hips, every ripple of your cunt. It makes you want to sob from the pleasure, nerves all set ablaze.

Each downward thrust is deliberate, his cock kissing your walls, nearly bottoming out inside of you. It makes you writhe, evoking a myriad of needy moans from your mouth, chanting his name like some incantation.

“S’good, that’s it,” He sighs with you, cupping your chin to coax you in for a hot, messy kiss. Your mouth is saccharine, tongues briefly brushing together, his hand still kneading at your thigh. “Just like that.”

The words stick low in his throat, emerging as a husky lull that travels over your spine in pleasant waves. Desire simmers within you, riding him with slower bounces of your hips, ensuring that he feels everything.

“Sh—Shit,” You whine, one hand digging crimson crescents into his unscathed shoulder, the other fisting at his blonde tresses. “John, you feel so good, m’close.” With another breathy moan, you plant a kiss to his brow.

He’s melting beneath you, huffing beside your throat, teeth momentarily snagging over your soft flesh. A string of breathy grunts rip from his throat, desperate as he gets closer to the edge with each thrust.

A pleasant burn stings the muscle of your thighs, exerting themselves as you continue to rock up and down within his lap, motions somewhat rhythmic.

Scarlet clings to John’s features, handsome and pink, jaw strained as if something might shatter. He’s grunting, warm baritone slipping off into a half-moan when you come down again, his cock pulsing, aching.

He looks whipped; between his battered, wounded state and the starstruck expression, he’s happy to be subservient to you, this time. One hand slithers between your thighs, thumb briefly circling your clit.

It’s as if you’ve been struck by lightning, nerves singed with electricity, body jumping as if you’ve been scorched. The sensation pulls tight within your belly, arousal seeping between your thighs, leaving a mess on his cock.

John is eager to please, thumb toying with your clit with each downward motion of your hips, rocking back and forth. “Christ, I’m gonna …” He pants, unable to keep himself from combusting into a thousand pieces.

A breathy ‘fuck’ tears through his mouth, cock repeatedly pistoning in and out of you, listening to your pleasured whines and sighs.

Tangled together, you’re crashing into your peak, voice a crescendo of delighted cries. As you slow your motions, you let yourself fall apart on top of him, messy and warm.

Everything is white-hot, blinding; it was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, sobbing with ecstasy.

He’s cumming inside of you, mouth full with a groan, countenance contorted into a look of sheer bliss. Ensnared within a half-frenzy, he lets you roll another time or two, working you through your own orgasm.

His forehead tilts against yours, brow creased, visage unfurling with bliss, a sense of relief coupled with a twinge of pain. Muscle-deep bruises still sting, his wounds oozing with a dull ache.

Each breath sits ragged in your chest as you compose yourself, hands smoothing over his jaw, thumb caressing beside his chin. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?” You murmur, concerned.

John huffs, rolling back within the seat, nearly collapsing in a heap of exhaustion, caught within the afterglow. “No,” He sighs. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t let you stop.”

Slow, you plant a kiss against his mouth — passionate, threaded with tenderness. He exhales, pushing the air out through his nose, palms caging in over your hips.

The both of you stay like that for a time, interlocked until you’re moving off of him, thighs burning, quivering like leaves. “Still don’t think kissing it better works?” You muse, lips curling into a smile.

“It worked a little,” John grunts, zipping his pants back up and latching his belt. “Guess I’ll let you kiss it better more often.” He muses, standing up with a groan, body still recovering.

“Right, let’s get you to bed.” With a playful lilt, you’re finished dressing, tapping his ass with a gentle smack. He pretends that it doesn’t make his face burn or his cock twitch with want.

“Yes ma’am.”

[oceanicfishies]

Smile wide for the camera!

— featuring: zayne x mc

— premise: what would happen if Zayne's [Spring and Flowers] was not full of fluff? and zayne wanted to explore his cameraman skills?

— tags/cws: +18, handjob, no-use of protection, use of phone to record, very explicit, enthusiastic consent, but overall filthy smut

The day had been pretty moved, first you attempted to attend a ceremony in which you would win a reward of Linkon’s City Hunter of the Year? Month? Week? Who knows. Zayne was pretty hyped even when he did not explicitly state it. Then there was a wanderer attack and of course, you had to go full beat mode to beat the crap out of the monster and then, you had to receive the award via live recording.

Zayne held the phone with a smile as small wrinkles formed in his eyes, that stared at you over the phone. 

“(...) It’s a matter of discipline and compromise, no race, ethnicity, sexuality or biological factor can define if you become an amazing hunter: keep working and it’ll arrive. Thank you for your support, I’ll keep fighting to make our city a better place to live”. I could hear as the crowd went to clap me, and my cheesy speech that I had to give while sweat dripped down my neck, and I tried to pretend I was not tired at all after chasing that monster.

As soon as the video call ended I stared at Zayne, that had his phone still recording my face.

“What is there to record?” I said with a tired smile as he approached me with the camera, capturing every detail of my skin. 

“You, clearly” He said seriously as he smiled over me as I tried to move the camera away from my face until he finally stopped recording and placed his phone on his jacket’s pocket. Then, he opened his arms to embrace me with a smile, “congratulations, love” he murmured as I hid my face on his chest. 

“Thanks Zayne, I’m sorry you could not attend the official ceremony” I said with a giggle. He didn’t let go of me immediately. His hand made slow, deliberate circles on my lower back, and I could feel his breath against the crown of my head, steady and warm.

“Let’s get out of here before someone makes you give another speech,” he whispered, brushing his lips just above my ear.

The ride back was quiet. Not awkward—just the kind of quiet that settles between two people who know each other too well to fill the silence with meaningless talk. Zayne had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on my thigh. His fingers tapped a lazy rhythm, and I didn’t stop him. Outside, the neon streaks of Linkon’s skyline passed like falling stars, and I let myself relax for the first time all day.

By the time we reached the apartment, I was half-asleep with my head leaning against the window.

He nudged me gently. “ Don’t pass out yet, champion.”

I groaned, dragging myself out of the car like a corpse revived. “I swear if one more person calls me that, I’m changing my name and moving to the mountains.”

Zayne chuckled as he unlocked the door. “Duly noted.”

The moment the door shut behind us, I peeled off the jacket clinging to my shoulders, tossing it somewhere near the coat rack. Zayne didn’t even pretend to act casual, he watched me with that mischievous glint in his eye, like he was already ten steps ahead in whatever fantasy his brain was cooking.

“Something wrong?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not at all,” he said, stepping closer. “Just thinking... you look really good when you're sweaty and half pissed off.”

I rolled my eyes. “Romantic.”

“I try.” He was grinning now, stepping behind me to help pull the rest of my gear off. His fingers brushed skin, lingering longer than necessary. I let out a soft hum as he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck.

We moved into the living room, and I collapsed onto the couch while he grabbed two water bottles from the fridge. He tossed me one before taking a long sip from his.

Then, leaning against the wall with that smug little look that always spelled trouble, he said, “You know… I do still have my phone.”

I blinked at him, wary. “Okay?”

“And I am a pretty decent cameraman. Emmy-nominated, if you count my high school film class.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Zayne…”

“What?” He raised his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying—it’s a shame we never use my skills around here. The lighting’s good, you’re radiant... could be educational content.”

I threw a pillow at him.

He caught it, laughing. “Come on, imagine it: ‘Hunter of the Year—Behind the Scenes.’ We’d break the internet.”

I tried to act unimpressed, but the flush rising in my cheeks betrayed me. “You're insufferable.”

“And yet, you love me.”

His phone was already out of his pocket.

I watched him as he waved the phone a little, eyebrows raised in challenge. His smirk said he was half-joking. His eyes? They were dead serious. Focused. Curious. Wanting.

“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, but didn’t look away.

“Mmhm. And you're blushing,” he said, stepping closer, slow like a hunter who knew the prey wouldn’t run. “So… that’s not a ‘no,’ is it?”

I leaned back against the couch cushions, stretching out my legs, letting my muscles relax in that post-battle haze. The warmth in my body wasn’t just from exhaustion anymore—it was from the way his gaze trailed down my arms, my collarbone, the slow rise and fall of my chest.

“You’re really not joking, are you?” I asked softly.

Zayne crouched in front of me, placing the phone gently on the coffee table, still untouched. “Only if you want me to be. We don’t have to, love. Not unless you're actually into the idea.”

I met his gaze. Open. Honest. Patient.

That was Zayne. Under all the swagger and snark, he always made room for me to say no, to set the rhythm.

“I mean…” I started, suddenly aware of the heat creeping down my neck, “you did miss the ceremony.”

“I did.”

“And you do have, allegedly, stellar cameraman instincts.”

“Legendary,” he confirmed, grinning.

I reached out and brushed a finger under his jaw. “And you’re asking?”

“I’m asking,” he said, voice softer now. “I want to record us. Just us. You and me. Only if you say yes. Only if you feel good about it. You can call the shots, review the footage, erase it any time. Hell, I’ll hand you the phone while we do it if that makes you feel better.”

I studied him for a moment. Not just his eyes—his whole posture. There was no push. No pressure. Just the quiet thrill of a shared idea, waiting to bloom if I let it.

A breath caught in my throat, and I leaned forward until our foreheads touched.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I want to.”

Zayne let out a small breath of relief, a smile breaking wide across his face. He tilted my chin up with two fingers and kissed me, slow and reverent, the kind of kiss that says thank you for trusting me.

Then he murmured against my lips, “I’ll set the angle just right. You deserve cinematic lighting, after all.”

“Oh, you’re so extra,” I laughed breathlessly, pulling him in as the kiss deepened.

Zayne’s hands slid under my thighs as he lifted me effortlessly, his lips still locked on mine, tasting like want and patience finally unspooled. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, giggling against his mouth as he carried me down the hallway.

“Where..”

“Bedroom,” he murmured. “Tripod’s in the closet. I knew one day it’d have its moment.”

I let my head fall back in a groan. “God, you’re such a menace.”

“You love it,” he replied, kicking the door open with his foot.

He set me down on the bed and moved across the room like he had a blueprint in his mind. He pulled open the closet, found the tripod, and then set his phone into the mount with a casual expertise that was borderline ridiculous. He adjusted the angle, then turned back to me with a spark in his eye.

“I’ll only hit record when you say,” he said, pausing with his finger over the screen.

I sat up on the edge of the bed, watching him. My pulse was a steady thrum in my throat now, but I wasn’t nervous. I felt seen. Wanted. Powerful, even, like the adrenaline from the fight earlier had twisted into something heavier, slower, warmer.

I pulled my shirt up over my head in one fluid motion and tossed it to the floor. Zayne’s breath caught.

“I’m saying,” I told him, voice low.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stared at me—my chest rising and falling, the sheen of sweat still clinging to my collarbones, the confidence in my voice that only existed because I knew he’d earned it.

Then he hit record.

The phone’s red light blinked to life.

Zayne came to me slowly, shedding his jacket and shirt along the way. He crawled onto the bed, positioning himself behind me, lips tracing the base of my neck while his hands explored—fingers dragging over scars and muscle like he was mapping a holy text.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured, brushing my hair away to kiss behind my ear.

“You have footage to prove it now,” I teased, letting my back arch against him.

“I’m filming you,” he whispered, one hand sliding down my side, “but I’m watching you. Every breath. Every twitch. Every sound.”

I moaned softly as his hands moved with intent, tugging at the waistband of my pants. I lifted my hips for him without being asked, and he slid them down, slow and reverent.

I felt as his hand slid over my underwear, in a teasing circle motion as he explored my clit as if he didn’t know it by memory. I could feel his gaze on my face even when I had my eyes closed. 

“Zayne-” I whimpered “this is very cinematic but do not tease me” i said as i tried to grind my hips against his hand.

He looked up at me with that devil-smile, his hand just barely brushing the inside of my thigh as I tried to grind down against him, desperate for more friction, more anything. His other hand steadied me at the hip.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice dripping with mock thoughtfulness. “The lighting’s perfect, the framing’s tight... Seems like I’m building some narrative tension.”

“Zayne,” I warned, breath catching as he pressed one finger just where I needed him, not moving, only resting there like a promise.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing the inside of my knee, trailing kisses up, up, closer. “Say please.”

I narrowed my eyes—but there was heat pooling low in my stomach, tightening with every second he made me wait. I bucked my hips again, and he held me firmer this time, still teasing, still watching me unravel.

The red recording light blinks steadily beside us.

“Please,” I whispered.

That was all he needed.

His fingers moved, slow and deliberate at first: rubbing gentle, lazy circles that made me gasp and arch into his touch. He watched me like he was watching the sky crack open: eyes wide, lips parted, ruined by the way I fell apart under him.

“There she is,” he murmured, pressing harder. “God, you’re so responsive. Look at you—fuck, you’re gorgeous like this.”

He proceeded to take off my jeans and underwear, still sitting behind me. He began playing with one of my nipples as the other hand he began tenting me with the idea of fingering.

“Would this be fine?” he whispered as he kissed my neck.

“Guess” I said annoyed as I closed my eyes shut and placed my head on his shoulder. He giggled and introduced two fingers with all the gentleness in the world. “Zayne, fuck you” I said annoyed with his unusual sweetness. 

He laughed as if I had said the best joke in the world to then begin thrusting his fingers inside my pussy with no mercy. 

“M-much better,” I moaned, breath hitching as his fingers curled just right inside me.

Zayne’s chest rumbled with another laugh, and he pressed his mouth to the spot just beneath my ear, kissing slow and wet while his fingers picked up a punishing rhythm.

“Thought you liked when I’m sweet,” he teased, voice low and warm, still pumping his fingers in and out of me with obscene slick sounds. “You were getting all cuddly on me two seconds ago.”

“I like when you fuck me properly,” I snapped, grinding down onto his hand, chasing every pulse of pleasure that sparked through my spine.

“God, you’re insatiable,” he groaned, biting down gently on my neck as his palm ground against my clit with every thrust. My head rolled back onto his shoulder again, surrendering completely to the feeling of him playing me like he knew this body.

I barely noticed his free hand reaching toward the phone, adjusting the angle slightly.

“You wanna watch this later?” he whispered, eyes flicking toward the screen. “Wanna see yourself falling apart on my fingers?”

My answer came in the form of a moan.

Zayne's fingers sped up, and I could feel it coming—the tightening, the rush of heat from the base of my spine curling forward like a wave about to crest. He knew it too. He always knew.

“Let go, love,” he murmured, breath hot on my cheek. “C’mon, show the camera how fucking gorgeous you are when you come.”

And I did.

With a gasp, I came hard around his fingers, thighs trembling, back arching against his chest. My body jolted with every aftershock, helpless and wrung out and still hungry.

Zayne kissed my cheek as he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them up to his lips with a pleased hum. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Every damn part of you.”

He then moved to place me laying on the bed, with him sitting by my side with a gentle smile as he stared over me at my naked body. He then leaned down to kiss my neck as he removed his trousers and undergarments.

“My love…” He purred as his two hands grabbed my tits. “Any position you would prefer in moments like this?”

“Y-yeah” I moaned as I turned so my back was facing him and I was on all fours, my face perfect for the camera to record every expression. I lifted my ass off the bed and smiled at him.

Zayne groaned behind me like he was in pain, his restraint fraying fast. I heard the rustle of fabric, the zipper coming down, the soft slap of skin as he palmed himself, watching me from behind with fire in his eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re killing me.”

“Then come here and die properly,” I purred, tilting my hips back toward him.

He lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against my entrance, teasing just like before—but this time, it was different. There was no pause, no slow build. Just a growled curse and then,

He slammed into me.

I gasped, fingers digging into the sheets, and feeling as his hand forced my head into the bed, feeling me in one deep, brutal thrust. My body rocked forward, then back again, already clenching around him, desperate for the friction, the stretch, the everything.

Zayne’s chest was pressed over my back, one hand on my head and the other on my hip: the pads of his thumb pressing into the dip of my lower back as he pulled out nearly all the way and then snapped his hips forward again.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, breath ragged. “Face in the camera while I fuck you stupid?”

I moaned—loud, needy—and nodded, not trusting my voice. His rhythm picked up, relentless, perfect. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, mixing with my cries and his gritted curses.

Every thrust pushed me forward into the mattress, and I could feel the heat from the phone capturing every expression.

“You should see yourself,” he groaned, leaning forward to bite down on my shoulder. “The way your eyes roll back when I hit that spot—fuck, like that—”

He angled his hips just right and I screamed his name, my entire body tightening. His grip on my hips turned bruising, grounding me as he drove into me again and again, chasing that edge with sharp, focused need.

“Touch yourself,” he demanded, voice nearly breaking. “Wanna see you come like this.”

I obeyed instantly, one hand snaking between my thighs, fingers working my clit as the pressure built fast. Zayne’s thrusts grew erratic behind me, and I could feel how close he was, how much he was holding back to let me break first.

And then I did.

I came hard, thighs shaking, back arching as I cried out into the mattress, voice wrecked and high and full of his name.

He moved gently from me, grabbing the phone to stop recording and then came back to the bed. He gently picked my trembling body and laid me against him. I opened my eyes as he cradled me into his chest.

I felt as his thumb caressed my cheek sweetly, a big contrast with the way in which he was fucking me seconds before.

“Hi love” he whispered softly 

“That was amazing-” I gasped as I leaned to kiss him. 

“It was” he said, quickly separating his lips from mine. “If you ever want round 2…”

“Why not now?” I said with a smile.

“Oh you greedy little thing” he said mischievously as he teased me one more time.

taglist: @mitskunicheesecake @puppy-steve @milknbagels @alexialvarez-11 @d4-ducks @xanxann01 @plzdonutpercieveme @namjoons-toenails @raendarkfaerie @shinyfestmilkshake @hisscenery @taronyuhunter @gawa-ng-gabi @cynireththorne @zaynescaleb

[2698rr]

onesies and baby food

| 1.6k words | x female reader | fluff |

basically, Jason finds a baby and takes care of it with reader (his girlfriend)

you’d never spoke of having children, never. there was a sort of underlying knowing there that it wasn’t on the table.

for many factors. childhood trauma leaving a dent, jason’s late night activities or well—the fact you lived in Gotham.

so children weren’t a keen interest, something you both were hungry to have.

ironic since you fucked like bunnies in heat, but that’s not too important. no, what was important was the fact there was a baby sitting in your living room.

jason looked guilty, his lip was jutted out as he chewed on the inside of it, his eyes were both straying far away and latching onto yours to see your reaction.

and you’re not too pleased.

“Jason..” you breathed out, not wanting to argue with him—and not wanting to wake the small child. as much as you weren’t thrilled to have kids, you were very aware of just how softly he held the child.

how those hands, the ones he often believed held a sense of sin with them, the ones he believes are only good for hurt, cradled a small, vulnerable thing ever so kindly.

it tugged in your heart a little, left a kiss mark that burned. you had to snuff it out, at least for now.

“look.. baby.” he said, rising to his feet as he shifted the baby to rest comfortably, you had to force your eyes away due to it. “It’s just temporary, until i can find her auntie” he said, voice almost a quiver, a plead.

you were reluctant, staring at him. but as horribly as he saw himself, as horrible as he deems he is, he was a good man. caring and soft in the ways he has to hide.

he means good, he’s always meant good. and it’s not like you were heartless, you weren’t going to throw the child away, make it fend for itself, it’s a baby for Christ’s sake.

you didn’t say anything, just nodded.

a week is what it took to gather everything, from a crib to a stroller. enough diapers and food, clothes. (which you couldn’t kid, had been quite enjoyable)

Jason was thriving, if it wasn’t for the fact the two of you knew you weren’t the right candidates for children, you’d suspect this came naturally.

he was perfect with the baby. awake at any single peep, washing, bathing, cleaning, cooking. he was there for it all.

you’d grown quite fond and used to the child aswell, falling asleep with her on your chest, swaddling her late at night as the two of you awaited jason.

it was becoming a new normal that you two honestly (however quite quietly) enjoyed.

the sound of the television could be heard, you were focusing on gathering all the dirty clothes around the house. (that had doubled since the baby had joined) when you heard a quiet cry.

it wasn’t a cry that left you worried however—lord knows how long it took to distinguish that— instead it was a cry of curiosity.

your feet padded into the carpeted floor as you swiftly made your way to the small child. eyes darting over to where she laid in her crib.

her hands grasped at her, inching for something you could not yet see. however the closer you came you could make out the figure of jason.

her murmurs grew quite loud, giggling and babbling at jason, or more so—red hood. who was now looking at you, busy unsheathing his gloves.

“Was going to try and come in quietly” he mumbled, tone drowsy with needed sleep and weary from whatever attacks his body had endured.

The baby continued to mumble and mutter as her hands grasped rather aggressively, or as aggressively as a newborn can. “‘ts alright..” you replied.

slowly moving over closer to jason who was quick to rest his hands on your waist, his body instinctively curling itself in to you.

Your fingers moved and curled underneath the helmet he wore, the distinctive hiss of it coming off padded against the walls.

however the laugh that followed form neither of you and rather the small child in the crib is what made it a rather tender moment.

it was hearty, one that used all of the baby’s tiny lung capacity to push out, causing her face to turn beet red as she giggled and stared up at jason ever so adoringly.

your laugh followed out next which had the frown lines in his face to disperse and to rather crack his own smile at it all.

over the last few weeks since the small thing had joined, a quiet sort of family was settling in. and with every day that a response isn’t heard from her auntie is another day you silently plead she never responds.

You feel horrible for it, of course you do. the child belongs with her blood, her family. but is family only blood?

you’d grown to learn all sorts of things about the baby, how she disney like the potato and mash baby food and rather prefers the peas and carrot’s one.

how certain tops of baby bottles are her favrioute, what socks irritate her skin, what cry’s call for what and even the warmth of her body on top of your heart.

and jason well, he’d never verbalise his own feelings. but the more you know jason the more you can see jason, in his eyes or his facial expressions or even the simple way he carries himself.

with that fact, it was clear as day that he’d be as torn as you once the baby goes. after all he now often works with the baby sitting on his lap or his foot rocking the baby seat you had gotten.

he has many notes from weeks of focusing on what’s good for the baby (which had caused him to freak out one night for letting the baby try an almond)

it was safe to say that quietly, ever so slowly, had you become a sort of family. despite that, you didn’t have a name for her.

she was nearing two months old and had spent nearly a month with you and yet there was no name.

turns out the mother never named it and the two of you were reluctant to give her a name, after all how could you ever pull her away from yourselves if you named her yourself.

Jason was quiet for a few moments, just flicking his eyes between his two girls, something he’d noticed he’s been thinking to himself often.

he couldn’t deny that often his thoughts swayed to what it would be like if you two were to keep her, or if you two were to ever have your own child.

he’d never thought of it before, he never wanted it. to pass down the ‘todd’ name felt like a curse in his eyes, his blood was posion and he wanted to refrain from passing it on.

not to mention the what if’s, what if something like joker happened again, what if he never makes it home.

he didn’t want that, he didn’t want the endless possibility’s of negativity to ever happen.

however when the lights are dim and the scent of you and jason mixed into the bedsheets engulf him, when he tilts his head and sees you, face relaxed and content with a small shuffling baby, he reconsiders.

He doesn’t notice that you’ve picked her up, he doesn’t notice that your hand is rubbing soothing circles into the side of his arm while the baby’s head rests over your heart, he doesn’t notice until your soft voice murmurs “have a shower, then come to bed.”

so he does, he moves to the bathroom while you heat up some baby formula for her. you change her into a onesie with (ironically) bats on it, and position the two of you into bed.

jason’s quick with the shower, obviously ready to rest and go to sleep. his body slides in and is quick to press against yours, one hand moving to rub your arm softly while the other patters soft motions into the baby’s back.

you’re both silent, both laying there. blankets heaped up like fluffy marshmallows, the lingering scent of a candle from hours ago sticks and both of your breaths mingle.

“Shyla..” jason’s quick to turn his head as your voice speaks out, he raises an eyebrow in confusion but says no more. “Her name.. it should be shyla”

your body shuffles closer to his as you press your nose into the head of her hair, its neither your nor jason’s colour yet it suits her beautifully, you take in the smell of a baby and your body relaxes ever so more.

he makes a huff like noise, not out of anger or discomfort, rather just acknowledgment. “why’s that” he mumbles out, his fingers continuing to move as he rests the side of his head on yours.

your voice rumbles into his skull and he sighs. “Well, it’s a more modern sheila.. don’t you think?” and jason’s quick to snap his head up.

his mothers name, not exactly but the intent is there, after all you’d been with jason long enough for him to finally be comfortable enough to even mention (let alone speak) about his upbringing.

however, he doesn’t hate it.

in-fact, a part of him fawns at it. heart warms at not only the way you think of him, of connecting him. but at the fact you remember those parts.

“Yeah..” he mumbled and you relaxed. it went quiet again for a few moments, the baby moving and shuffling as she often did, your hand moving to rest ontop of his while the two of your eyes remained closed.

“I don’t want to give her back” you admitted and jason let a snort out. “neither”

somewhere along the line the three of you had fallen asleep, jason waking up at one point to put shyla into her crib, only to lazily slink back into the warm sheets.

all that could be hoped was she could stay.

—

hope you enjoyed! i kinda whipped this up quick cause i wanted to do some fluff, its kinda shit i won’t lie, it’s unedited and done on my notes app mwhaha

my board for more works!

ao3; 2698RR

[gor3-hound]

FUCK YOU !! (AND, UH, FUCK HER TOO) — LOGAN HOWLETT + SCOTT SUMMERS

ft. scott summers x f!reader x logan howlett

a/n: deadpool and wolverine full throttled me back into my x-men era... rewatched the first two movies and binge wrote this over the course of three hours... it's pure, shameless smut with slightly gay undertones idk what to tell you... reader is basically in place of jean!!

cw: 18+ content, double penetration, almost cucking, cheating, reader is scott's girlfriend, logan is an asshole, competitive sex?? fighting, clawsTM, biting, marking, mild possessive behavior, p in v, mild scent kink, assholery all round tbh, creampies, threesome. gay crisis for a second x

word count: 2.3k words

Scott is starting to think Logan likes his things way too much. First, it was the way he looked at you when he was first brought to the school, eyes raking over your form. Scott wasn't blind – the visor didn't impair his vision that much. He remembers walking into the room when the both of you were alone. He could sense the tension between the two of you before his presence was even made known to you.

It wasn't until a while later he'd figured out Logan probably smelt him coming. Cocky bastard probably wanted to be caught.

Then, it was his motorcycle. His very own pride and joy. Returned with an empty tank, his keys tossed to him like it was nothing. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly behind his visor as he chucked the keys back to Logan. He barely managed to reign in his irritation.

“You gonna tell me to stay away from your girl?” Scott had told him to do so after that comment, despite having the faith in you that you'd be able to avoid Logan's charms. He was clearly wrong. Logan didn't seem like the type to have much respect, but this was just taking the piss.

“Been meaning to test if these beams could pulverise Adamantium.”

All he gets in reply is a shit eating grin from Logan as he pulls away from the heated kiss Scott had walked in on, his hands still gripping your waist. You really had the audacity to get all wide-eyes and shocked, like you weren't just about to fuck Logan with your ass perched on Scott's bike.

“Shit. Scott, I'm-”

“Sorry?” He cuts off, gaze very clearly still trained on Logan despite the way his shades conceal his line of vision. “Yeah. Save it.”

“Thought I could smell that shitty hair gel.” Logan huffs, bringing his head down to nip and suck at your neck, adding to the wide array of marks he's already left. And you fucking let him, tilting your head back and gasping like it's the best thing you've ever felt. Scott's gonna kill you, then Logan, then quite possibly himself. “How long’s it take you to get that done in the mornin’ anyway, pretty boy?”

“Right. Says the guy with kitty ears?” Scott bites back, taking a few steps towards the both of you. “I'm gonna give you about three seconds to get away from my girl and my bike before we see how good your healing factor really is.”

Logan fucking laughs, kissing his way up your neck and along your jaw so he can whisper into your ear, breath hot against your skin. “Stay put for me, yeah? Shouldn't take long, sweetheart.”

He pushes away from the bike, turning around to face Scott. Cocks his head to the side like a damn dog, rolling his shoulders as his claws shoot out from his knuckles. “Don't make me embarrass you in front of your girl, Cy-clops.”

Scott fucking hates that, hates the way he drags out his name as if it's stupider than Wolverine. Hates everything about Logan, if he's being honest. Hates how easily the man manages to get under his skin every single time.

“You're such a fucking asshole, y'know that?” Scott squares up, trying his best not to hurl a beam directly at Logan with the hopes he'd be able to send him flying through the garage wall. He's meant to be a team player. Level-headed. He's not sure how the older man always reduces him to this.

“That really hurts my feelings, bub. I thought we were a team.” Logan stalks closer, and Scott's vaguely aware you've gotten up, ready to break up a fight that never comes. Claws sink into the drywall beside his head at the same time he hears you tell Logan to ‘stop’. His back hits the wall, and then the asshole leans down, lips brushing his ear just like he had to yours moments prior.

“Y'know, I can smell the changes in your scent when you're pissed, happy... Can also smell it when you're turned on.” He breathes out, inhaling deeply just to tease the man further. “So either you're really into you're girl gettin’ passed around, or you wanna fuck me. Shit, or both. Which is it, pretty boy?”

“I don't want you to fuck my girl, Logan.” Scott grits put. His looks literally can kill, and he's becoming increasingly tempted to prove that to the other man. “And I definitely don't wanna fuck you.”

“C'mere, baby.” Logan coos, gaze flicking to you. He tuts when Scott goes to move, pressing his body against his to prevent him from getting too far. “Ah-ah. Stay there, pretty boy.”

You're at Logan’s side in a second, peering up at him through your lashes like an obedient dog waiting for its next command. Shit makes Scott's blood boil, his body going rigid against the other man's.

“D'you wanna kiss me, sweetheart?” He asks you, cocking his head to the side with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. And you fucking nod, like your boyfriend isn't right there staring at you. “D'you think he wants a kiss from me, too, sweetheart? Think he deserves it? Can't have been treatin’ you right if you came runnin’ to me, huh? Maybe I should teach him?”

“Yeah, think he needs it. He's always so stressed, never wants to do anything.” Now you're airing out your relationship issues? Fucking great. Scott's practically seething now, lips parting to say something – anything – to defend himself.

He doesn't get the chance before Logan's lips crash against his. He tenses up, ready for a fight. His hands come up to push the man away, but fuck he's a good kisser. It's a lot different from a girl – rougher. There's a drag of his stubble, a pleasant burn that comes from it. His teeth sink into Scott's lower lip before tugging, then he's forcing his tongue into his mouth. Scott ends up dragging him closer, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses back.

A growl rises in Scott's throat when he hears you giggle at his reaction, but he doesn't have much time to think on it, ‘cause Logan laughs all breathy and hot into his mouth, and it's making him short circuit. The growl quickly transforms into a low whine, his lips chasing after the other man when he starts to pull back.

His eyes open just in time to watch as Logan grabs you by your hair to pull you into a needy kiss, his free hand grasping at your hip to grind you against his rapidly hardening length. Scott feels his own cock twitching to life at the sight, a breathless ‘fuck’ leaving his lips as he reaches down to palm himself through his jeans. He hasn't been this hard in months – maybe ever. He feels like a horny teenager again, leaking pre-cum steadily into the fabric of his boxers. He isn't sure what to think of it. Humiliating, is what it is.

Logan's lips are on his again, his hands sliding under his shirt, tugging him closer. He feels his cock pressing against the hard ridges of Logan's muscles, feels your own hands join his in exploring Scott's skin, your lips pressing kisses along his neck and jaw.

“Relax, Scott.” You say, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Relax, yeah. His dick is rubbing against another man's for the first time while his girlfriend is reaching around him to unbutton his jeans, and you want him to relax. This is a totally normal scenario that isn't throwing him head first into an identity crisis.

He gets lost in the hands on his body, the lips against his skin. Before he knows it, the three of you are naked and panting and pressed against each other. Scott feels like he can't breathe properly. His eyes dart between your body, and the fattest dick he's ever seen in his life. He doesn't know if he should be turned on or really, really insecure. His cock answers by jumping against his abdomen and leaving a sticky trail of pre-cum. Traitor.

Logan grunts as he lifts you up almost effortlessly, his arms resting at the back of your knees, using them as makeshift slings to hold you up against his chest, which is flush to your back. He quirks an eyebrow as Scott just stares, unmoving. “Well? You don't need me to tell you where to put your dick, do you? No wonder she's so pent up.”

“Asshole.” Scott says simply in response, stepping towards you. His words lack any real bite – he's too turned on to even think about being pissy. He fists his length leisurely a few times before lining up with your entrance, pushing forward inch by inch until his hips are flush with the backs of your thighs, your legs dangling helplessly at his sides.

You gasp and whine as Logan moves to slide in alongside your boyfriend, nails digging into his skin until Logan is buried to the hilt inside of you. Scott instantly peppers the skin of your neck with kisses, trying to soothe you.

“You alright, baby?” He asks, all soft and sweet. He's forgotten why he was mad at you in the first place, mind foggy with arousal as your cunt clenches around him.

“She's fine, bub. She can take it. Isn't that right, sweet thing.” Another whine, then a nod. It eases Scott, if only slightly, when he feels you relaxing against them. A beat passes, and then another. His eyes meet Logan’s and they both start to move – slowly, at first, before picking up the pace.

You're so much tighter like this, sucking him in desperately as he tries to find a rhythm with Logan. He can barely focus in anything but your heat and the way his cock ruts against Logan's as they both fuck into you. It's almost maddeningly hot, and he's feeling overwhelmingly anxious that he's going to cum in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

Scott leans down, his lips meeting yours as he rocks forward over and over. His lashes flutter as he sucks on your tongue, kissing you greedily. He feels a hand tugging at his hair, pulling him away from you before sharp teeth start to nip at his lower lip, a tongue bullying his way into his mouth. He sucks on Logan's, too, kissing him back just as hungrily as he did to you. He rubs soothing circles into your hips as he picks up the pace, coaxing you into relaxing further.

A growl rumbles Logan's chest when he feels Scott fucking you faster, his hips snapping against the fat of your thighs with more intensity, like he's determined to fuck you better than the other man. He's bigger, tip bullying your cervix with every thrust in a way that makes you tear up. His nose twitches as he smells the saltiness of your tears, then he's pulling away from Scott to lap them off of your face.

“Shhh, shh… you can take it, sweetheart. I know you can.” He coos softly, moving to nuzzle the crook of your neck, nose running along the skin like he's scenting you. Both men continue to slide in and out of your slick heat, grunting and groaning like animals as they chase their release.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” Your boyfriend coos. Scott needs you to cum soon, because he's barely holding on as it is. He doesn't want to leave you unsatisfied – especially now he's very aware Logan will gladly pick up his slack. His hand falls from your hip to make its way between your legs, thumb rubbing circles into your clit until your muscles grow taut. He grins, sucking a possessive mark over one of the hickies Logan had left earlier. Take that, asshole.

Your walls flutter and clench around both cocks as you reach your peak, a shaky moan of Scott's name leaving your lips as your head falls back against Logan's shoulder. Check and mate.

“Hear that, kitty claws? I'm still her favourite.” He huffs out, hands returning to your hips in an almost bruising grip as he ruts helplessly inside your tight heat, balls tightening as his orgasm rapidly approaches.

“S'only ‘cause she's lookin’ at ya, dumbass.” Really, it shouldn't be Logan's gruff, fucked-out tone that drives him over the edge, but it is. He blows his load a second later, forehead dropping against the crook of your neck as he fills you with spurts of hot, white liquid. He gasps against your skin, nails digging into your plush flesh.

Logan isn't far behind, grunting as he forces every inch of his cock deep inside of you, head tipping back as he releases. The tips of his claws threaten to breach the skin of his knuckles, but he manages to suppress them enough that they never fully unsheathe. He pants softly, chest heaving as he thrusts shallowly through his orgasm.

“Fuck.” He hisses, slowly pulling out of you. He lifts you off of Scott's cock, settling you down on the seat of the motorcycle so you can all catch your breath. Logan rubs soothing circles into your back as Scott steps forward, all but slumping against you as he embraces you.

“Did so good, baby. Was perfect.” He breathes out, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. He pulls back just enough to look at Logan, who's already lighting up a cigar. “The fuck did that even come from?”

That shit-eating grin lights up the older man's face again as he takes a few short draws from the cigar in his mouth. He exhales the smoke, pulling it out of his mouth to speak.

“Trust me, pretty boy. You really don't wanna know.”