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em1i2a3 · 2 days ago

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I Feel You

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/TheVoid x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: The new medication you’re taking is making your sexual cravings unbearable, and when Sentry returns to the compound from a mission, it tests every inch of composure you have.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, The medication is technically sex pollen (but not really, it’s not the central focus of this but it’s what’s makin the reader a little on edge) Reference to Medication Use, Reader was sick prior to this and the science behind the medication is referenced to and explained.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Y’all…You know what I’m gonna say lol), Breeding Kink, Praise/Worshipping Kink, Reader is taking additional measures to not get pregnant (Birth Control Shots), Dirty Talk, Sentry is a tease and a little bit ‘bratty’, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Is this a little feral? I would think so.

Author’s Note: I got an idea from a semi-request/statement from an anon by the name ‘book reader’ and a lot of other people. I literally couldn’t write this any faster! It was so fun to write, and I mean…Sentry with a breeding kink is something else, so I had to. Can’t resist pleasing the masses. I can’t wait for tomorrow’s update though!

Word Count: 6,395

The elevator doors dinged down the hall, and your ears practically perked up from the notification-like sound. You didn’t need to check the time, or the monitors that you had on your tablet. You knew exactly who it was that had arrived.

The heavy booted footsteps confirmed it completely for you–one heavier than the other, slow, grounded, and familiar in a way that made your heartbeat spike. The quiet thud of his body weight, the hum of his energy radiating through the hallways, and the buzzing that came from each ceiling light he passed due to the reservoir of power that was still slipping out of him from the mission he had just returned from.

You could practically track him from the elevator, to the kitchen, to the start of the hallway that led to your shared quarters. And unfortunately for your dignity, you could already feel yourself squirming in your spot.

You tried to stay still, buried under the blankets with your book held high like it might block out the oncoming disaster. But the second the door cracked open, and you peeked over the top of those long forgotten pages–any hold you had on your composure shattered.

Sentry stepped inside, still in his full mission suit. You had seen him in it a hundred times, you’d seen him take it off, you’d also seen the multiple variations he had gone through to get the correct fit, and every time he was in it he looked phenomenal, there was no question about that. But right now, laying in the bed you shared with Bob, the image in front of you made every fiber of your being tense up.

The gold fabric clung to Sentry's body like it had been vacuum-sealed against him. There were faint dirt stains and burn marks that were scattered along the shiny golden landscape which only emphasized the thick curves of his shoulders and the strain of his biceps beneath the sleeves. His cape had slipped down one side, draping behind him like an afterthought, it was dark, a sharp contrast to the sun-kissed yellow that he displayed on his body. His chest was rising with effort, muscles shifting with every exhale as he dragged one boot off, then the other.

You could feel your jaw slacken slightly, and you tried your best not to let out a moan at the sight.

“I know,” Sentry muttered suddenly, glancing briefly toward you with a sheepish breath, “I know. You told Bob that when I come back from missions, I need to use the other door to get to the washroom so I don’t get our room dirty. I just…Need more space right now and I don’t want to accidentally wreck the bathroom.” You didn’t respond. You were too busy watching the way his arms raised behind him as he tried–and failed–to reach the latch of his cape. His triceps flexed hard, rolling under the gold, every movement slow, strained, and achingly distracting. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat crawling down your neck.

He grunted in frustration, “This damn thing…” God, even the noises he was making were causing you to shift against the mattress for some sort of relief. He shook the cape loose a bit, but it got stuck again. You could practically see every detail of his shoulder blades shifting under the suit, and each time his muscles flexed it felt like real-time torture. Your stomach clenched, and your thighs pressed together beneath the blankets.

Then he let out a defeated sigh, turning halfway towards you again.

“My sunshine…” He started softly, voice coaxing, like he could feel your stare, “Can you please help me out of this thing? I’m getting very annoyed by it.” The nickname made your gut twist. It was the one he always used when he thought you were angry at him, the one that always forced a smile onto your lips because it was just too hard to stay in a bad mood around him, even if he did stupid things. You weren’t mad this time though, and if anything, that soft, familiar tone just made your stomach twist up even more.

You remained frozen, eyes devouring every inch of him like you hadn’t touched him a thousand times before…Like this was the first time you were seeing what his body could do, or how it moved so…Nicely.

When Sentry didn’t hear any shuffling of sheets, or your usual reluctant sigh you made when you had to leave the fortress of blankets you created around you, he spun around to look at you fully.

”Sunshine?” He repeated, a hint of confusion and concern lacing his words–then he stopped dead in his tracks. Your eyes were wide and glossy, practically shimmering with need. You looked like you weren’t even breathing, and he could see a faint sheen of sweat glazing your skin. You were locked on him like he was your prey, and you were about to pounce.

His eyebrows raised at you, “Um…Why are you looking at me like you’re going to eat me?” He asked, taking one step toward the bed. Your hand shot out like a warning.

“Sentry, I will rip you out of your suit,” You choked out, half-laughing, half-pleasing, “Don’t come any closer.” A grin appeared on his lips, the warmth immediately radiating off of it.

”What’s going on with you?” He asked teasingly, crouching down beside the bed, voice dipped low, “You look all sweaty and…Stressed.” He reached out, and placed one of his large, warm hands on your cheek. You flinched slightly at the contact, not from discomfort–but because the heat between you doubled immediately. Your skin felt like it was vibrating beneath his touch.

”And you’re boiling hot,” He murmured, “Are you sick again?” You shook your head quickly, turning slightly as he leaned closer to you, his nose brushing against your cheek. But then he breathed in–slow and deep–and you could instantly see the way his face changed, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

Something soft and ripe lingered in the air around you–faintly fruity, like the first bite of an overripe peach or the skin of a plum warmed by the sun. It wasn’t artificial in any sense of the word, and it certainly wasn’t perfume. It was just skin and hormones bleeding quietly into his senses.

He knew that scent very well because he had smelled it once before. When stolen kisses and late-night touches between you and Sentry didn’t exist. Before you ever pressed your forehead to his and whispered his name in pure ecstasy. Before you got on the birth control shot that muted everything and dulled it out, flatting it to a faint sweetness that he could only smell if he had his face buried between your legs.

Now that he was smelling it again it brought on the ache of nostalgia. But it also made him hyper aware that something had changed.

”You’re ovulating” He said dryly, swallowing the thick saliva that began to coat his tongue.

”No Sentry, I’m not ovulating. I’m on the shot, remember?” You responded, which instantly earned a very stern shake of his head.

”No, no…This is not your usual scent. I would know. I’m all over you all the time basically. You smell like how you used to smell before you were on those birth control shots. Have you…Have you stopped taking them or something? Were you thinking of surprising me?” He asks, with a smirk coming up on his lips.

You let out a groan, dragging your hands down your face like that might save you.

”Of course I’m still taking the shots…It’s just this stupid medication has put me down the path of becoming a feral animal.” He let out a small laugh, and he realized it seemed like he had missed a chapter of your life–because he didn’t remember what medication you would be taking that could cause something like this.

”What medicine did they give you?” You threw your head back against the pillow, with a huff.

”It’s this stupid antibiotic-antiviral crossover thing. The med bay said it’ll help me heal quicker from that stupid systemic infection I got from that lab a few weeks back–but they also mentioned that the chemical makeup of the drug technically has similar derivatives from sex pollen plants. So here we are now…Going through the side effects.” Sentry moved back slightly, and his brows knitted together.

”And you thought you could override the effects? What did you think was going to happen?” He asked jokingly. You groaned, placing your palm against his chest, trying to push him back slightly.

”They told me all the side effects were manageable, and for the most part they are…Sue me for trusting the medical professionals. And move back–for the love of god, you’re literally exuding your hormones onto me.” He laughed harder this time, bringing one of his hands to wrap around your wrist, rubbing his thumb gently across your forearm.

“I’m not doing anything,” He said with feigned innocence, eyes gleaming, “I’m just sitting here checking on my girlfriend.”

”Sentry, shut up,” You gritted through your teeth, jaw tight. He leaned in again, lips ghosting against your boiling hot cheek.

”What’re you going to do if I don’t?” His voice was smooth like honey, and his breath fanned over your skin, sticking against it. You squinted, eyes narrowing at the questions.

”Maybe I won’t take off that annoying cape you were complaining about.” You shot back, and his eyebrows lifted, grin spreading even wider.

”And keep me in the suit that turns you on enough that it makes you look at me like you’re about to jump my bones?” He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes glowing with barely restrained amusement, “Please…I can already tell I’ll need to give the designers a call to order me a new suit with those eyes you’re giving me right now.” There was a pause. The kind that stretched and hummed with too much heat and too little space.

You could feel his eyes tracing over your face and you couldn’t look away. Your jaw clenched, tight like you were trying to bite back everything you wanted to say–and everything your body was already begging to do.

Then your voice cracked softly through the air.

“You’re right.”

He blinked, not fully processing the shift until you moved–quick and sudden, like gravity had finally won. You surged forward and grabbed his face between your hands, tilting it just enough to crash your mouth against his.

The kiss hit hard. No warning. No patience.

Sentry let out a small grunt of surprise but met you without hesitation. His lips were hot, tasting faintly of smoke and salt, still buzzing faintly with power. His hands flew to your waist, then one slid up your back with desperate care, cradling the back of your head like he was afraid to let you go.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, threading through those soft light brown strands you loved, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth at that, the sound cracking open something inside him as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss—tongue brushing yours, kiss turning rough, messy, addictive.

You whimpered against his mouth, your whole body rising off the mattress, arms locked around his neck, knees bumping into him from beneath the blanket that had began to slip off of you.

His breath hitched. Then broke.

Sentry pulled back only slightly, lips swollen, panting softly, his pupils blown wide as his forehead leaned into yours.

“Okay,” He exhaled, voice ragged, almost trembling with restraint. “Okay–please take the cape off. I need to get this suit off in one piece before you kill me.” You were dazed and flushed warm, your thumbs dragging across his smooth cheeks, “I was just joking about calling the suit designers,” He added quickly, a breathless, nervous little laugh escaping him, “If I wreck another one Val is actually going to tear my head off…So please. Spare me that.”

You laughed into his mouth and reached up, fingers sliding under the collar of the cape. He sat back on his knees and let you pull at the fastenings. Your hands were trembling slightly, not from nerves–but need. The second the clasp popped loose, the fabric slipped away from his shoulder like silk.

His shoulders heaved as he exhaled hard, finally freed.

“Thank god,” Sentry groaned, “Now let me take the–“

You didn’t let him finish. Your hands curled around the edges of his face, and you kissed him again–hot and fast, like the ache in your body had officially taken the wheel.

”The–“ Another kiss, more demanding this time, your mouth pressing against his again.

”Rest of the–“ Your lips moved to his jaw now, biting softly as your hands ran over the fabric that caressed his shoulders.

“S-Suit off–“ He gasped when you kissed the corner of his mouth again, slowly–torturous even–your hand sliding down his chest as the golden fabric shifted beneath your fingers.

”Before you–“ You kissed him once more, longer this time. Tongue grazing his lower lip, pulling a shudder from deep inside his chest.

“Kill me–“ He breathed against your mouth, voice hoarse with a laugh, his forehead pressing against yours. You reached behind him, fingers finding the hidden zipper of his suit with ease–due to muscle memory, and need–dragging it down with a soft tug. The sound it made was practically obscene, echoing loud in the quiet room. You wrapped your other arm around his lower back to guide the rest of the zipper down, knuckles grazing skin that was already burning.

Sentry let out a low, breathy laugh against your mouth.

“I guess now I know how you feel,” he murmured, his voice still laced with warm amusement, “when I’m in such a rush to get your clothes off I get all shaky and stuff.”

You smirked against his jaw, kissing the corner of his mouth again.

“How the tables have turned, hmm?”

His laugh deepened, husky and half-gasped as the zipper caught just above his hips. “I would say it’s karma…But who’s paying attention to terminology right now?”

You leaned into him, kissing him once more before undoing the large crest-shaped belt that wrapped around his waist. The buckle clicked free with a satisfying snap, and the heavy piece dropped to the floor with a muted thud. His arms wrapped around you, momentarily startled by the sound, then eased again as you pushed the blankets fully off your legs.

You shifted upward onto your knees, the hem of your oversized t-shirt lifting with the movement–settling just at the tops of your thighs, tickling the overheated skin there.

Sentry’s breath shook against your lips as you kissed him again, this time slow and devastating, your hands peeling the gold fabric down his shoulders. He let it happen, arms slack, breath catching as the top of the suit was pulled away completely, revealing the flushed skin beneath.

His muscles were tight and still pulsing from exertion–shoulders broad and slick from the leftover heat of the mission, chest rising fast with each pant. His collarbone glistened faintly under the dim lighting, skin smelling like ozone and sweat and the faintest trace of smoke. That post-mission scent you always craved but never admitted to. You pulled back slightly, eyes drifting downwards, as you lost your words.

No matter how many times you saw him naked–or half-naked like this–it still drove you insane. It didn’t matter how many nights you’d spent curled against his chest, how many times you’d touched him. Your body always reacted like it was the first time.

And somehow, there was always something new.

Your eyes caught it as he shifted–just below his right pectoral, near the delicate curve of his ribcage. A tiny cluster of freckles. Soft, scattered like constellations you’d never noticed before.

You reached out, fingertips brushing lightly over them.

Sentry went still, his chest tightening under your touch.

“What…?” He asked softly, looking down at your hand.

“You’ve got freckles here,” You murmured, voice dazed with awe. “I’ve never seen them before.”

He looked down too, brow furrowing slightly. “Huh. I didn’t even know I had those.”

You ran your fingers over them again, slower this time, watching the way his skin twitched. “They’re really cute.”

His breath hitched under your touch, and you looked up just in time to catch the small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Must be that medication making you hyper aware of all my little features,” He commented, eyes flicking to yours with playful fondness.

You tilted your head, your voice soft but laced with teasing. “Or I just pay attention to you all the time and never thought to point out the new things I’ve seen until now.”

He groaned quietly at that–overwhelmed in the way he always got when you were like this. Not when you were wrecked and needy, but when you were quiet. Focused. When your eyes saw more than just his body–when they saw him.

“Ever the attentive lover, Y/N.” He whispered, brushing his nose along yours, kissing you again–slow and unhurried, despite the tension buzzing between you. You smiled into his mouth and leaned back just enough to rest your hands on his hips, fingers curling against the thick golden fabric that still clung to them.

“Take the rest of the suit off, please.” His eyes darkened slightly, the golden hue turning a slight caramel colour. He was happy to play along.

”Command heard, Sunshine,” He said with a grin, backing up a bit. You watched as he reached for the waistband of the suit and pushed it lower, easing the fabric down over his hips slowly.

The moment it dropped far enough for you to see the curve of him pressing hard against the tight black briefs beneath, your breath caught.

He was already half-hard–thick and heavy, straining against the material like he’d been on the edge ever since you kissed him.

You let out a soft, involuntary “Mmm,” and he chuckled, amused and smug.

“You really are losing it for me, huh?”

You nodded instantly, words spilling out with zero shame. “Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

His smirk softened into something more gentle, something a little stunned, as if that sort of confession still knocked the wind out of him. Then he leaned in again, mouth finding your jaw, lips brushing a kiss just under it.

“I think I can get used to this.” Your stomach fluttered as his hands slid up–slow, teasing–under the hem of your oversized shirt. The pads of his fingers were light, tracing over your heated skin like they had all the time in the world. Your breath stuttered at the sensation. He kissed down the column of your neck, slow and methodical, like he was marking out territory with his mouth.

”You’re wearing too many clothes,” He said, voice rick and low against your skin, “Especially for someone who wants to be fucked into the mattress.” A sharp, shaky breath escaped you, your fingers digging into his arms as he whispered the next part, almost sweetly–

“Let me help you. Hmm?”

Your voice broke around his name. “God–Sentry. Please.”

That was all it took.

He grinned, one hand sliding to your waist while the other gripped the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, over your head in one clean motion. He tossed it aside without even looking, his eyes locked on the newly exposed skin in front of him.

Your breasts were soft and full, rising with each shallow breath you took. Your nipples were already peaked from the cool air in the room–even though you felt like you were on fire from the inside out. Heat was radiating off your skin, sweat slicking your sternum in a sheen he knew the taste of far too well. His mouth had been there many times, had claimed that skin like sacred ground, had suckled and bitten and worshipped you in every state imaginable–but somehow this still stole the breath from his lungs.

And then his eyes dipped lower.

The black lace underwear you wore clung to your hips like a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. They were cheeky in the back, riding high on your curves, and dipped just low enough in the front to tease him with a hint of what was underneath. The lace was delicate, sheer in some places, and it hugged you like it had been made for his hands to slide beneath.

A puff of air escaped his lips–barely controlled, like he’d just been given the first glimpse of heaven again. “My god,” he breathed, golden eyes burning, “You’re so beautiful. As always.”

Your arms slipped around his neck like instinct, pulling him close, your lips finding his with a heat that almost knocked him back. The kiss was messy and greedy–tongue and teeth and too much want spilling into it. His hands slid down your back, fingertips pressing into the arch of your spine, pulling you against him. He groaned into your mouth, shifting forward, his hands slipping under the edge of your lace waistband just enough to feel skin–just enough to tease. And then he pulled back slightly, his nose brushing against yours as he spoke.

His voice dropped, thick and sensual, velvet-drenched and trembling with restraint.

“Lay back for me, sunshine,” He murmured, “Let me taste the sweetness that’s driving you mad. Let me worship the ache between your thighs until you forget your own name.” His eyes were shimmering and the air around you pulsed like it was responding to the divine hunger that was curling within you, “I want to see how wet you are just from watching me breathe.” Your head fell back on a gasp, the words so obscene and godly at once it made your thighs twitch, your breath catch, and your soul stutter. You met his gaze again with a fire that matched his own and slowly laid back against the pillows, legs parting slightly in invitation.

Sentry inhaled sharply, almost broken.

And then he descended.

His palm pressed flat over the lace between your thighs, and he groaned.

A long, broken sound that cracked in his throat like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. The fabric was soaked–utterly drenched–and the heat radiating off your body made it stick wetly to your core like a second skin.

Sentry’s eyes fluttered shut for a split second as his fingers dragged slowly over the slick fabric, then pressed in harder, rubbing a circle just above your entrance.

“Oh–fuck,” You gasped, your hips arching up involuntarily.

His jaw clenched at the sound. His mouth watered so fast it made his tongue press against his teeth, and he dropped his head with a strained grunt.

“This is–“ He breathed, voice ragged as his fingers curled into the waistband and yanked them down off your legs in one rough motion. “These are ruined.”

He balled the soaked lace in his fist, his knuckles going white, and brought them to his nose before you could say a word.

Then he moaned.

It was shameless, guttural–like something unholy had crawled up his throat and made a home there. He inhaled again, eyes fluttering, golden lashes trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” He growled, voice thick with something feral. “I’m keeping these. You smell so…” He trailed off, groaning again, deeper this time. “So fucking good. Fuck.”

He was panting now and before you knew it he was on the bed fully, his massive frame pressing you down into the mattress as he settled between your legs. His shoulders pushed them open a little wider with zero effort, spreading you like a meal he’d been starved of.

“I want to see all of it. I want your scent in my lungs until I can’t fucking think anymore.”

You whimpered, already gasping before his mouth even touched you.

And then it did.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

He dove in like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue was obscene–long, hard, and flat from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groaned again, louder now, into you, like the taste was more than he could bear.

His tongue circled, then flicked, then sucked—mouth latching to you with greedy, wet pressure, and your fingers immediately tangled in his hair. You pushed it out of his face, the strands clinging to your sweaty palms as you cried out beneath him.

“Oh my god, Sentry–!”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even pause.

He growled into you again, biting softly at the inside of your thigh before licking back up and sucking again, harder now–no rhythm, no restraint. He lapped you open, tongue dragging and curling and licking so deep and rough it had your legs shaking within seconds.

He was messy with it–face slick, chin soaked, groaning constantly as he devoured you like a feast he hadn’t earned, like this was divine punishment for something and he wanted more of it.

“Sentry–fuck, it’s–oh God, oh God–I can’t–!”

You were writhing, hips rolling against his mouth, and he just held you there, huge hands locking over your thighs, pinning you wide open while his tongue fucked into you, lapping greedily at your soaked heat before pulling up to suck your clit between his lips again.

And he wouldn’t stop moaning.

It was constant–this low, vibrating, starving sound, like you were pouring into him, drowning him in it, and he wanted to sink deeper.

Your nails scraped his scalp and he groaned again–louder, sloppier, tongue dragging harder and faster, chasing your high like it would save him. His mouth was fucking soaked. Your slick was everywhere–coating his lips, dripping down his chin, making obscene wet sounds every time he dragged his tongue through your folds again.

When he pulled back just barely, panting, face wet and eyes completely wild, he growled–

“You smell so fucking good right now. I can’t think–I can’t breathe.” And then he bit your inner thigh. Hard.

You yelped, the jolt shooting through you like lightning, and he soothed it with a slow, open-mouthed kiss, tongue flicking over the mark like an apology he didn’t mean.

“You taste like everything,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I need to come with your taste still on my tongue.”

Then he ducked down again, and this time he didn’t tease.

He buried his mouth against your core like he was staking a claim. Tongue thrusting deep and curling inside you while his nose bumped your clit. You could feel the moans vibrating through you as he sucked and licked and fucked you with his mouth like he was trying to crawl inside your body and live there.

Your vision whited out.

The sounds echoing off the walls–wet, vulgar, desperate–were barely human anymore. Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably, and your hands were tangled in his hair like lifelines.

“Sentry–Sentry, I’m gonna–!”

He growled against your clit and then sucked so hard your back arched clean off the bed as you screamed his name, the orgasm tearing through you so violently you swore you blacked out for a moment.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked through it, into it, mouth still worshipping, dragging every last tremor out of you until your legs buckled and your thighs clenched hard around his head.

Only then did he slow–kissing gently now, reverently, dragging his tongue over your sensitive folds with soft flicks, breathing ragged into your skin as he groaned again.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” He murmured hoarsely, eyes half-lidded and golden. “Sunshine…I’m fucking addicted to you.”

You could barely form words–panting, dazed, your body trembling in the aftermath.

And still, his hands cradled your thighs like you were sacred, kissing them like they were altar stone, soft and warm under his lips. He nipped gently at the skin, then soothed the bite with his tongue, waiting for your breathing to even out.

“Did that give you a little bit of relief?” He murmured, his voice low, thick with satisfaction and reverence as he looked up at you. Your fingers combed slowly through his hair, and the soft strands seemed to ground you. The way you touched him–gentle, languid–made his chest ache. He kissed you again, higher up your inner thigh this time, and whispered, “Y/N…Still with me?” Your eyes fluttered open, dazed and glossy, and you gave a breathless laugh, voice cracking as you exhaled:

“God, you’re so good with that mouth of yours.” A slow, bashful smile appeared on his lips, but it didn’t last long–because your hand was already tugging at him, pulling him up your body with a hunger that made his heart stutter.

He kissed up your stomach as he moved, slow and hot, letting his tongue swirl in a line past your navel, over the sweat-slick curve of your ribs, before finally claiming your lips again. The moment his mouth met yours, you tasted it—your own sweetness still on his tongue—and the sound you let out was pure sin.

Your fingers hooked under the waistband of his briefs, tugging firmly.

“I need you to fuck me, Sentry,” you breathed against his lips, eyes blazing with the kind of desperation that made his cock throb painfully hard inside the tight fabric.

He cupped your cheek, thumbing gently at your jaw, his voice reverent and dark.

“I’ll do way more than that.”

You gave a breathy little laugh, and he kissed the sound right off your mouth.

Then his hand dipped low, pushing his briefs down and off with one swift movement before tossing them aside without care. The moment he was free, your breath caught.

He was painfully hard–thick and flushed, the head a deep red and glistening with precum. You whimpered, hips twitching, thighs falling open for him on instinct.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

Sentry gave himself a few slow, teasing strokes, his erection heavy in his hand as he guided it toward your soaked heat. He dragged the head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness, smearing it over your clit in lazy, sinful strokes that had your entire body tightening.

Then, finally, finally–he lined himself up and pushed in.

You both gasped.

The stretch was overwhelming. You could feel every ridge of him, every thick inch dragging against your fluttering walls as he sank in slow and deep, inch by devastating inch.

Sentry groaned above you, burying his face in your neck. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” he breathed, his voice strangled, almost wrecked already. “You’re clenching around me already–fuck–like you were made to take me.”

Your back arched at the words, your hands gripping his biceps so hard your nails left marks.

“Sentry–please–move–” You begged, gasping against the shell of his ear.

He growled and started to thrust.

Hard.

He didn’t ease into it–he didn’t need to. Your body pulled him in like a vice, slick and hot and pulsing around him. His hips snapped into yours, his cock dragging against your sweet spot every time he slammed in, and it made you cry out.

The sound only drove him harder.

“Fuck–fuck–you feel perfect,” He snarled, grinding into you, his lips brushing your jaw. “So fucking warm and wet–tightening around me like it wants to keep me forever.” Sentry grunted as he bottomed out again, cock twitching inside your soaked walls. His hands were braced beside your head, caging you in, and the look in his eyes made your breath hitch–feral, starved, and glowing with something divine and dangerous.

“You sure that birth control works well enough?” He murmured low against your ear, thrusting deep and hard, dragging another desperate cry from your lips. “Because you feel like you’re begging to get knocked up.”

You gasped, nails raking down his back. “Maybe I am.”

He stilled–just for a heartbeat.

Then he snarled.

“Oh, fuck–you want me to do it, huh?” he hissed, grinding his hips in slow, brutal circles. “Fill this pussy so full of cum it takes root? Fuck a baby into you while you’re this wet and needy?”

You whimpered, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs shook around his waist. “Fuck, Sentry–yes–please–”

His jaw clenched. “You know I’ll do it,” he panted, hips snapping harder now, punching gasps out of your chest. “I’ll give it to you, sunshine. I’ll fill you so deep you’ll never be able to get rid of me.” He grabbed your hands suddenly, intertwining your fingers with his, and slammed them down into the mattress beside your head. The weight of him over you, the way his grip locked yours in, made you cry out with need.

“That little shot won’t stand a fucking chance when I’m done with you.” He hissed, mouth brushing your ear.

“Oh my God–fuck–do it,” You gasped, voice cracking into something filthy. “Do it, Sentry–fill me up–fuck your cum into me until it takes–make me yours.”

That broke him.

He let out a feral, animalistic sound, driving into you harder, faster, each thrust slamming you against the bed with enough force to make the headboard rattle.

“You’re mine,” He growled. “You’re mine, you hear me? I’m gonna fuck you until you scream with it–‘til there’s so much of me inside you your body won’t know what to do but keep it.” You cried out again, the coil inside you twisting impossibly tight. Your legs were trembling violently now, your vision going hazy around the edges.

He could feel it.

He knew.

“Fuck, sunshine–come for me,” He groaned, still pinning your hands. “Come while I fuck a baby into this perfect little pussy of yours–let me feel you break.” You shattered.

Your body arched violently, walls clenching down so hard it made him curse, your orgasm crashing through you in white-hot waves that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

He fucked you through it.

Harder.

“Fuck–fuck–you’re squeezing me so tight–God–I’m gonna–”

One final grind of his hips, deep and brutal–

And he came.

Hot, pulsing streams of cum spilled inside you, thick and endless, coating your walls with such pressure you felt it flood you. It didn’t stop. He kept grinding, deeper, groaning against your throat, body shaking with each twitch as more and more poured out of him.

“Oh my fucking god,” He gasped, biting down on your neck, not to hurt–but to ground himself. You whimpered, breathless, and ruined. He groaned into your skin, hips twitching one more time as he pushed forward, sinking his cock just a fraction deeper–pressing every last drop inside like he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling out yet.

A long, shaky sigh escaped his lips as he finally stilled, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. His grip on your hands loosened, and slowly–almost reluctantly–he shifted his weight to one side so he could look at you properly.

Your face was flushed and dewy, lashes fluttered half-closed, mouth parted slightly as you panted through the aftershocks. Completely dazed. Wrecked. Glowing.

He blinked, then let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your hair gently back with the knuckles of his hand. “How was that?”

You blinked slowly, then gave him the laziest, most satisfied grin imaginable.

“So fucking good,” You murmured, your voice rough from how much you’d been crying out his name.

He smiled, warm and proud, and leaned down to kiss you gently–long and sweet. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing slowly across your damp skin. And just as your lips parted with a hum, your walls fluttered around him–still full, still holding him deep.

He pulled back with a groan, resting his forehead against yours.

“It’s like you have a spell on me,” he whispered, golden eyes flickering, “All I want to do is be inside you… Or buried between your thighs. You must be a sorcerer of sorts.”

You let out a hoarse little laugh, breath hitching as your fingers pushed back the sweaty strands clinging to his forehead. “Or,” You murmured, “You just love me very much…That could also be the thing, too.”

He nodded solemnly. “That too…” And the two of you broke into quiet laughter.

Then he started pressing kisses all over your face. Your cheeks. Your forehead. The tip of your nose. “If it wasn’t for the fact that it would require you getting sick again,” he said between kisses, “I’d want you to be on that medication more often. Feral you is very interesting.”

You giggled softly, voice light but worn out. “Sentry… I’m practically always feral for you and Bob. This just heightens everything.”

He smirked at that, nuzzling his nose along your cheek. “It also makes you a siren,” he muttered. “I felt like a sailor who was about to die at sea.”

You snorted and pulled him into another kiss, soft and lingering. “I’m going to boast to Yelena that I almost killed a God.”

His laugh rumbled against your mouth, warm and low. “By all means…Boast all you want, You’re deadly.” He replied, dragging his lips down your jaw, planting one last kiss on your throat as you both sank into the mattress–warm, tangled, and thoroughly undone.

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skyrigel · 5 months ago

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Simon would really be the type to get real flustered and all blushy blushy when you address or introduce him as your boyfriend/husband.

It was only later one evening at your favourite cafe which you gushed about all week, from pastry to scones and other sweet dessert, until you finally got him up to wear a plain black hood and only a lower face mask. He was raking over your figure while you stiffled your blush and scanned down the menu for the perfect thing that Simon absolutely would love to eat out, something apart from you. His joke, not yours.

“...yes, and tarte tatin for my boyfriend.”

You smiled and turned back to see a marvelous sight. Nothing. And nothing at all, the dirtiest and the softest and the most unhinged words you'd ever said to him could ever tinge up those cheeks so much flushed in colour. Astonished — you blinked. “What is it, si ?”

“Nuthin' love.” He shrugged, bringing his large hand over his face before you leaned forward and snatched his wrist with both hands. “What is it ? Are you...hey am i seeing you blushing ? Oh gawd you are —”

Simon shaked head, like he could shake away the high rise of rosy glow which tinted across the crinkle of his eye. His eyes so soft and bright in its flourish gleam.

“naw, nah...” He was. The nerves were grailed out in fine blue and green. Blood just under the pale skin, hot and needy.

You chuckled out softly, and it clicked like cuckoo clock at midnight. One sharp moment of it's glory. “My boyfriend..is my boyfriend blushing ? Huh.”

“oh fuck.” And if Simon thought he couldn't turn any more red, well there was always room for surprises.

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enzosbabyangel · 3 months ago

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ཐི⋆♱⃓⋆ཋྀ This pic is sooo Mattheo vibes !!

a/n: been a hot minute since i’ve been on this blog due to business but i am back !

The music was loud, but that did little to your ability to sleep as you laid ontop your boyfriend, Mattheo, who was sat with a cup of whatever alcohol in his left hand. Right hand holding your waist. Your friends spread out in the Slytherin dormitories.

Theo chuckled as he took a puff of the blunt him and Pansy was sharing. Sitting on the couch right in front of you guys. “She out cold already?” He hummed.

Mattheo laughed, looking down at your sleeping form against his body. “Yep.” He sighed. Bringing his free hand up quickly to move some of your hair out of your face. Speaking with a softness reserved only for you as he smiled down at you. “My sleepy girl.”

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doodle-pops · 18 hours ago

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Taking Care of Them When They Fall Sick

Characters: Fingolfin, Argon, Aegnor, Rog, Beleg, Elrond

A/N: Since the elves are always taking care of us when we’re unwell, I thought that it was time for the tables to be turned. And knowing how workaholic they are, what better time to fall sick and be pampered 🤭

Synopsis: Taking care of the elves when they fall sick due to overworking and they believe themselves to be dying.

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𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Fingolfin

– He was absurdly composed even when he was falling apart, and finding him hunched over a war table with his head in his hand, eyes unfocused, and still mumbling about troop positions was even more absurd. When you asked him about his appearance, the first thing he told you was, “I do not fall ill,” right before swaying and grabbing the table like it owed him money.

– Dragging the High King to bed was a diplomatic mission. He insisted he could finish what he was doing, while you reminded him that the last sentence he wrote just said “sword horse valley sword sword”.

– Once you managed to get him into bed, he refused to lie flat. He was miserably propped up like a wounded general. “This is very undignified. I’m the High King.” “Yeah, sure buddy, because right now you’re a high fever,” you muttered while shoving the herbal compress against his forehead.

– He didn’t whine, but he did sigh in a way that was designed to induce maximum guilt. “I should be with the people. This weakness—” “This weakness is a fever, Ñolo. You’re not dying. Cease being an overgrown baby.”

– He did complain a lot about the way the fever had him: “I feel sluggish,” “Is this what death feels like?” “How do you mortals withstand such atrocities?” “Is this how Fëanor felt before he combusted?”

– You fed him soup and he stared at the spoon like it had personally betrayed him. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.” Then nearly spilled the bowl into his lap when he tried. “Right. Yes. Carry on.”

– Once the fever got worse, he started talking nonsense. You caught the phrase “Noldorin dignity shall not fall to broth” and had to leave the room because you were laughing so hard at how dramatic he was acting over a fever.

– It was even better when he woke from a long nap looking dishevelled and flushed, he blinked slowly and said, “How long was I asleep?” “Six hours.” “…Has a new war started?”

– He thanked you awkwardly once he was better. Then added, “I hope you know I would do the same for you.” You just shook your head, “As if you already don’t. At least I complain a lot less than you do.”

– He was never late to rest again because you teasingly told people the King was vulnerable to soft blankets and tender affection. Though, he never confirmed or denied it. Just glared every time you brought it up.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Argon

– Stubborn baby never even considered that overworking himself could lead to illness. He was built like a mountain, or so he believed, and the fever hit like a sneak attack in the middle of training drills. He fainted with all the grace of a tree tipping over.

– You found him slumped awkwardly against a boulder with his eyes glazed and shirt clinging to him from the heat. When he mumbled, “Oh dear…did the sun fall out the sky and land on me?” you had to bite back a laugh before calling for help.

– He was mortified to be carried into the house by others and promptly pretended to faint again when he spotted you hovering with a worried expression. “Tell no one of this, especially my brothers.”

– You forced him into bed and told him you’d handle everything. He pouted. Actually pouted. “But I take care of you, not the other way around…”

– Babying him became more amusing than you expected. He was huge, but absolutely pathetic with a fever, wrapped in too many blankets and still shivering. “You can’t leave me. I might perish in your absence,” he croaked dramatically when you stood to refill his water with a hand over his forehead. He slept like a Victorian child dying of a disease

– He kept trying to insist he could still go out and “polish his armour at least,” which earned him a death glare and a fresh dose of the disgusting herbal drink he hated.

– “This is poison,” he grumbled after sipping it. No amount of convincing you to let him be free and roam once again with nature, his natural habitat, gifted him with escape. “I feel wounded in this form. Is this punishment? Must I repent to be freed?”

– After the first day, he mellowed into a clingy, drowsy mess. Kept whining your name even when he was half-asleep. You’d be walking past and hear, “I thought of something tragic again. Come here.”

– At one point, he tried to write you a letter declaring you his saviour and heir to his sword, in case he ‘succumbed to the fire.’ It was…extremely dramatic and signed in what looked like tea.

– You teased him for days after he got better. He denied everything. “I would never call myself a burdened, my beautiful soul in need of salvation.” You had proof that he had turned into an oversized whiny baby. He refused to acknowledge it.

– Even after he healed, he occasionally faked a cough here or there to get your attention and bask in your doting. You knew it. He knew it. But he learned not to fake because you teased him about how clingy he became.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Aegnor

– You’d told him several times to rest, to take a day off from wandering the northern borders and pouring over battle plans, but Aegnor’s way of ‘rest’ was sharpening his sword in silence.

– You didn’t know something was wrong until he stopped muttering. He always muttered under his breath when focused. And there he was, Snow White in the flesh, swaying slightly like a fragile tree in the wind.

– “I’m fine,” he managed to say before he toppled sideways like a brick and you had to physically drag him inside by the arm, cursing the pride of elves the whole way.

– He didn’t understand fevers. “I do not fall ill,” he insisted while looking visibly feverish and incoherent. Then spent the next ten minutes interrogating his own body. “Why am I sweating so much? Am I dying? I feel like a Balrog with all this fire inside me. Kiss me before I perish and become one.”

– Despite being hot to the touch and weak-limbed, he still tried to lecture you. “You should not have to do this. It is not your—” and then he sneezed six times in a row. The lecture ended.

– You gave him a cold cloth for his forehead and he squinted at you as though it were a holy relic. “You always do this when I’m unwell?” You just rolled your eyes at his dramatics. “You’ve never been unwell before you overdramatic child.”

– Very bad at being still. Kept trying to sit up and give orders through a raspy voice like some bedridden king. You had to throw a pillow at him and say, “You are not issuing battle commands from this bed, Aegnor. Sleep.”

– You tucked him in and he pretended he didn’t like it while making complaints for you to tuck him in properly. But then he caught you gently brushing his hair from his forehead and sighed like he hadn’t breathed in years. “I feel like a pampered princess. Massage my feet, please?”

– Once the fever broke, he wouldn’t stop apologising for being a burden, reckless, and for the sounds he made when sleeping.

– “If you ever try to get up when sick again, I’ll tie you to the bed.” The fool was more interested than terrified. “…Can you specify in what context?”

– He was never careless again though. But he did fake a fever once, just to see if you’d pamper him the same way. It was so terribly done you threw a cold cup of water at him and said, “Next time, try acting lessons first.”

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Rog

– Rog had two speeds: silent death machine and exhausted death machine. You were the only one who could tell when the switch happened. He didn’t admit it, but you saw how he stumbled just slightly getting out his high-stool.

– He passed out in his forge, collapsed across his workbench with metal dust all over his face. “Rog, you absolute idiot,” you whispered, lifting his head. “Even you’re not made of steel.”

– When he woke up, he was very confused to find himself in bed with your cool hand on his forehead. He blinked slowly. “…Did I perish? Is this the afterlife?” “No,” you replied. “This is me putting up with your nonsense.”

– He was flushed with fever and incredibly grumpy about it. “This is undignified,” he grumbled. “Elves do not—” “Rog, you’re as hot as a furnace. I can use your body to melt iron and craft a new sword.”

– Getting him to rest was like trying to tie down a mountain lion. Every time you left the room, he tried to get up and sneak back to his forge. You caught him once half-dressed and sneezing on his own apron. “Explain yourself,” you said. “I missed it,” he mumbled pathetically.

– You confiscated all his tools and locked the door. But then you got a giant elf who sulked for three hours. Wouldn’t even look at you. Eventually, when you offered soup, he sniffed dramatically. “I suppose I must accept nourishment in these dark days for I may fade away on the morrow. Very well.”

– Was very quiet during the worst of the fever—not used to feeling this weak. He whispered once, “You are gentle with me.” You almost missed it, he was so quiet. You smoothed back his hair and replied, “Only because you’d throw a tantrum if I tried to be stern.”

– Absolutely hated the herbal remedy, but bore it stoically like a warrior. Until you turned away and he tried to hide it under the bed. “Did you just throw your medicine under the mattress?” “Prove it.”

– When he was finally well again, he forged you a ridiculously beautiful brooch shaped like a lily, muttered something about resilience and guardianship, and then walked off pretending his ears weren’t red.

– You caught him staring at you multiple times afterwards, with a strange softness in his eyes.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Beleg

– It started with him coming back from a hunt looking pale and uncharacteristically quiet. You thought he was just tired until he nearly dropped his bow trying to string it and mumbled something about “the trees spinning strangely…”

– Beleg insisted it was nothing. “Elves do not fall ill,” he claimed confidently while swaying slightly. You poked his forehead and said, “You’re burning up, Hotman.” He squinted at you, betrayed. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

– The second you bundled him into bed, he became the most restless patient imaginable. “I’m perfectly capable of standing guard at least. Just open the window, I’ll shoot from here.” “You’ll shoot nothing but a fevered hallucination.”

– You caught him sleep-talking once. Something about a particularly sassy squirrel that stole his dried fruit. He snored afterwards. You never let him live it down.

– He got progressively needier the higher his temperature rose. He was used to caring for others during patrol, not being coddled like a napping fawn. You offered him soup and he blinked, looked genuinely moved. “This is...for me?”

– He kept trying to apologise. For worrying you, the way he slumped, the sniffling. “Beleg,” you said, smoothing a wet cloth over his brow, “I will throttle you gently if you apologise one more time.”

– “Of course it is.” “I feel like a prince. Or a tree spirit. Do tree spirits eat soup?”

– He calmed down only when you curled up in the chair next to his bed, reading aloud. At one point he groggily reached for your hand. “You read like summer wind. Warm. Gentle.” “You’re delirious.” “Still true.”

– You caught him later polishing your boots as repayment. “It’s not much,” he mumbled, “but I will earn your kindness.” You shook your head and kissed the top of his stupidly noble head.

– After the fever broke, he tried to sneak off to patrol. You blocked the door and raised an eyebrow and grabbed him by the collar. “Try that again and I’m tying you to the bedposts.” “…I thought you said no threats 🥺.”

– The next time you so much as sniffled, he turned into an overbearing mother hen. “Blankets. You need seven. Eat this bark tea. Sleep now. I’ll sing.” “Are you getting revenge?” “Who, me? Never.”

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Elrond

– Elrond getting sick was so unthinkable that you thought it was a prank. When he walked into your quarters clutching a blanket around his shoulders, face pale and voice hoarse, your jaw dropped.

– “I believe,” he rasped, “I may be... experiencing a mild biological disruption.” Are you saying you’re sick?” “...Possibly.”

– It was absurdly funny watching a healer become the patient. He knew exactly what to do, but refused to admit he needed to. You actually had to steal his own healing supplies and hide them so he’d stop trying to treat himself in secret.

– He refused to call it an illness at first. “It’s an imbalance of humours.” “You sneezed on my sleeve, Elrond.” “A momentary lapse.”

– “I’m merely fatigued,” he said, swaying slightly while holding a cup of tea. “My immune system is…unique.” You’re so dramatic, Elrond. It’s just a small fever caused by your workaholic self.”

– He was so embarrassed. “I treat others. I cannot be the one who is treated.” “Elrond, you’re literally a half-elf. You can get sick. Own it.” He groaned and buried his face in a pillow.

– The worst part? He still tried to work. He tried to get up and write letters to Galadriel. He tried to mix tonics while sniffling. He tried to instruct you on how to care for him, and you occasionally placed a finger on his lips to silence him.

– “You do realise this is the most ironic moment in the history of Middle-earth? The healer, caught in his own web of care.” He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I should have warded myself better.”

– He became clingier the worse his fever got. You were trying to leave the room once and he caught your sleeve weakly. “I am accustomed to the solitude of illness, but...I would rather not be alone this time.” So you stayed. Sat on the floor beside the bed, reading from one of his many ridiculous old scrolls. He fell asleep mid-sentence.

– You caught him mumbling in his sleep once: “No more root paste. Too bitter. I want honey cakes.” All you could do was stare at him in utter disbelief, like ‘Sir, you’re the same healer who scolded me for the same thing and now look at you.’

– Eventually, he allowed himself to laugh about it. “You have my thanks,” he said one evening, watching the sunset with his hair loose, finally looking more himself. “I hope to return the favour…and when I do, I shall do so a hundredfold.”

– When the fever broke, he refused to look you in the eye for half a day. “I apologise for my lamentable state. It was unbecoming.” “You mean the part where you demanded ‘emotional stabilisation’ and tried to hug my pillow? Never thought there would be a day you would become so…dramatic over a fever you caused.”

– That night you caught him placing a small vial on your nightstand. A tonic against fever. “Just in case,” he said softly, not expecting you to wake up. “I’m not risking being out-caretaken ever again.”

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dreamer81093 · 2 months ago

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“I’d die for you” this

“I’d kill for you” this

how about

“I’ll live for you.”

“I’ll stay alive for you.”

“I will. For you.”

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hartleychristopher · 3 days ago

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Juno pt. 2

Pt. 1

Pairing: long-term bf!chris x fem!reader

Summary: telling Chris you’re pregnant!

Warnings: pregnancy, fluffy fluffff, Chris being cheesy and in lovvveee <3

A/N: here is the little part two! I hope you enjoy, I really love this idea, like it’s one of my favorite daydream scenarios 🥰

You hear the front door open, then shut gently behind him.

“Baaaabe?” He calls, his voice is sleepy, worn out. “Is it too early to say I’m ready for death? Because if one more guy on my dev team says ‘just push it live and fix it later,’ I’m gonna scream into the void—”

He walks around the corner of the hallway into the living room, backpack slung over one shoulder, shirt a little rumpled, glasses sliding down his nose.

His eyes land on you and he freezes. You’re standing there, waiting, holding the plastic test stick in your hands.

You say nothing at first, you just hold it out with both hands. As if you’re offering him a gift you’re shy to give him.

Chris stares at you, squints and then walks closer. slowly, skeptical, analyzing.

You watch the moment his eyes focus on the tiny digital screen.

One word: Pregnant.

And he just stops completely.

“Wait-waitwaitwait. wait.” His backpack slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a low thud, fuck his laptop I guess??

His shirt sleeves are all bunched up, his mouth opens, then closes—then opens again.

“Is that—? Are you—?? Is this real?!” He sputters.

You nod, eyes wide and bright. “I didn’t want to wait. I took it like twenty minutes ago.”

He makes a small sound, like a broken exhale and a squeak mixed together.

Then starts laughing—but the kind of laugh that’s overwhelmed in the best way.

“Holy shit, I made a person. I made a person with you. I’m—I’m—oh my god, you’re pregnant???”

You nod again. “Yeah. You did it.”

“I did it?! we did it!! oh God—do you feel okay? Are you gonna throw up? Should I make toast?! Toast is safe when you’re nauseous—fuck, you’re pregnant—” He walks in a circle, literally. like turns a full 360 degrees and grabs his own face.

“I need to sit down—but also stand up…but also hug you—maybe at the same time???” He’s rambling.

You step forward and wrap your arms around him, and he immediately pulls you in, holding you tight—but gentle, reverent, like he’s worried about squeezing you too hard.

“You’re sure?” he mumbles into your hair. “like really sure?”

You nod against his chest.

“I triple-checked. This is the third test and then I googled the chances of three false-positive tests—.”

He laughs, weakly, “that’s my girl.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, eyes a little glassy now.

“I’m going to be a dad….” he says, voice cracking a little. “I’m going to teach them so many things…like how to ride a bike and tie their shoes and that the prequel trilogy is severely over-hated—oh my god—can I…?” he asks, nodding toward your tummy.

You lift your shirt just a little and guide his hand there. He lays his palm over your stomach, like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched.

There’s no bump yet of course. Just soft, warm skin, but he touches you like he can feel the future under his fingertips.

“There’s a person in there,” he whispers. “half me, half you. Oh my god.” He swallows hard, rubbing slow, tiny circles with his thumb. “I know it’s probably like… a lentil right now. A jelly bean, but I swear I can feel them.”

You grin. “You’re petting my stomach like I’m an egg incubator.”

“You are. My favorite one…I’m gonna talk to them through your belly button.”

“I don’t think they have ears yet?” you point out with a giggle.

“Well they might be able to sense my aura, you don’t know…” he gives a half-shrug, smirking.

You start laughing, and he just smiles at you like he could live in that sound forever.

His hand stays on your stomach, comfortable now. Protective.

You sniff a laugh. “Are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. My eyes are just really watery from all my… winter allergies...”

You both dissolve into laughter, holding each other in the middle of the living room—just two dorks who made a baby and are now so stupidly in love they don’t know what to do with themselves.

Chris pulls you even closer and murmurs against your temple: “this kid’s gonna be really lucky, y’know? Because their mom is you.”

And then, very quietly, he whispers, “We’re having a baby,”

like he still can’t believe it’s real.

like he’ll be saying it every day, over and over, until the moment he’s holding them in his arms.

Chris taglist: @fritzhardt @avwade69 @maiiuelle @avrells @fordthegamelord819 @xoxocher @sweetcalebb @z0mb1epuzzy @dnpo1son

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#chris hartley #chris until dawn #christopher hartley #chris hartley x reader #chris hartley until dawn #until dawn #my writing #chriswriting #chris hartley x reader fluff #chris hartley fluff #chris hartley x you #chris hartley fic #x reader fic #x reader fluff #until dawn fic #until dawn fan fic #christopher hartley x reader

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nanamisgirly · 2 months ago

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you're bit too possessive toward your nerdྀི

the moment you spot them through the glass wall of the library study room, something primal inside you snaps.

your nerd. your sweet, tall, stuttering nerd.

and some other girl leaning all over him. all giggles and twirls of her stupid hair, looking up at him like he hung the stars. you can practically see the way her fingers brush “innocently” against his forearm. and gojo—this sweet, beautiful idiot gojo. he's just smiling, shyly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, completely, utterly oblivious of the advances the girl is making.

you see red. not the cute, flirty kind of jealous. no.

you see murder.

by the time you stomp into the study room, he lights up the second he sees you—like a golden retriever seeing its favorite person. “babyy!” he blurts, half-standing so fast he nearly knocks over the chair. his knees bang the table. his pen scatter. he's flushed pink already, hands fidgeting with the hem of his stupid neat sweater, beaming at you like you're the sun itself.

meanwhile, the girl beside him falters, confused as hell when you swoop in, grab a fistful of his collar and yank him down into a messy kiss—a possessive and mean one, kissing him like you're marking him, like you're making a fucking declaration.

gojo gasps against your mouth, stunned, but immediately melts, tilting his head to give you more. he kisses back with desperate little noises, afraid if he doesn't, you'll change your mind and leave. when you pull back, he's breathless, blinking at you all dazed and drunk, glasses slipping halway down his nose. ��i missed you…” he whispers.

you don't answer him, to focusing on the other girl. staring straight at her awkward form peeking up her books, face pale. you tilt your head and smile—sharp, unfriendly, a predator showing teeth. she scurries away without a word.

gojo blinks between you and the empty chair, confusion pinching his brows. “she…left? we didn't end the explanations—”

you grab his jaw in one hand, squeezing his cheeks until his lips squish pouty. “you,” you hiss, leaning so close your breath fans his pink ears, “are so fucking stupid, satoru.” his wide, panicked eyes blink down at you. “i-i am?” he stutters, looking on the verge of tears just because you're mad at him. “i-i didn't even—i mean…i was j-just doing the private lesson…i-i told you about it!” he babbles, desperate. not understanding a thing.

you shake his head a little by the jaw, making his glasses slip down worse. “yeah, yeah. i agreed on a private lesson." you snarl, voice dripping poison-sweet. "not private fucking sex.” you yank his wrist, dragging him out of the little study room, ignoring the curious heads turning to you.

satoru stumbles after you, tripping over his own feet—over himself just to keep up. “y-you're mad,” he whines, almost breathless, cheeks burning red. “w-what did i…i didn't—”

his voice gets smaller when you spin around, shoving him back hard against the nearest wall. his back thuds against the cold surface, and he freezes up, chest heaving. “you really don't get it, huh?”

that dumb, pretty face of his—lips pink from your previous kiss and from him nervously chewing them, his glasses crooked, his hair all messed up—god, you could eat him alive. “you let that clingy bitch touch you like that?” you spit. “smile at her like that? let her giggle and bat her lashes like you didn't already have someone who should be the only thing you look at??”

satoru is practically vibrating in place, like a kicked puppy. his Adam's apple bobs hard when he swallows. “i-i didn't notice!” he chokes out. “i swear, angel, i didn't! i-i didn't even l-look at her. .” your nails scrape up his chest through his hoodie, making him whimper. “you're mine, aren't you, 'toru?” he nods so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. “y-yes!! yours! of c-course, only yours!”

your hand snakes lower, palming the half-chub tenting his sweats. poor thing :( so quick to get hard just from yelling at him. “you're lucky you're cute,” you snap, but your heart is hammering at how real the panic was in his voice.

you squeeze him through the fabric. his hips jolt into your hand with a pathetic little gasp. you watch his pretty white lashes flutter, poor boy was genuinely confused why you're so pissed—poor sweet nerd who only ever wanted you :((

you click your tongue. “my pretty nerd,” you mock sweetly, squeezing his cock harder through his pants, making his knees buckle. “getting hard just ‘cause i’m scolding you? bet you'd cum just from me slapping your face.”

“i-i could! i would, i-if that's what y-you—ah!—want,” his mouth works uselessly searching for words, his brain short-circuiting because your hand's still lazily stroking him through his sweats. you lean up, biting his jaw hard enough to make him whines.

"you’re gonna make it up to me," you murmur against his skin, voice syrupy sweet. "gonna let me use you however I want. gonna be a good boy for me, huh, satoru?" he was towering over you but he was so, so submissive.

he nods so fast again his glasses damn near fall off. "a-anything," he breathes. "please. please let me—lemme be good—i'll be so good, promise!"

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lexsluvswriting · 2 days ago

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𓆙Even Gods need a little TLC.

"Dumb conversations, we lose track of time. Have I told you lately, I’m grateful you’re mine?"

- Nothing; Bruno Major.

-> Pairing: Avenger!Loki x gender neutral!reader

-> CW: Loki is in the Avengers in this one!! Slightly different timeline: if Loki decided to stay on Earth w/Thor after the Battle of New York & become an Avenger (look… just go w it.) x gender neutral (they/them/yours/) reader!

-> TW: none!! Just tooth-rotting fluff, as reader chills out to cuddle w/ everyone's favourite God of Mischief. lots of unconditional love for one (1) Loki Laufeyson <3

W/C: 1424

╰┈➤ Lex's note: DEAR JAYNIEBLOSSOM, MY SWEET, SWEET READER... i am so sincerely sorry that you had to wait two months for this!! i'm so ashamed for making everyone wait/gen. written from this req by @jaynieblossom-or-rosieposie !! i hope i did him justice for you!! i hope we all enjoy some fluffy cuddles w/ our dearest Loki. as always, thanks for requesting & reading!! <3

“On your left!”

Like a knee-jerk reaction, Loki’s dagger was hurled, and Sam swore into the comm that crackled in the God’s ear as his metal wings made a screeching noise, grinding against the blade.

“Nice one, reindeer games. Forget what side you’re on?”

Stark’s grating, arrogant drawl made his dark eyebrows pinch together, his glacier eyes narrowing beneath his helmet as he grit out an apology. Be kind, he thought, they’re your team now.

Regrettably.

The others filled the comms with their voices as they gave Stark and Rogers their intel and their positions, and the dynamic team of Avengers managed to make the mission a no-casualties success, except for maybe Loki’s mood. Loki panted, sweat drenching his lower back, making his tunic cling to his abdomen more than usual. He thought about what you’d say if you saw the view, and he tried to let a kindling warmth stir in his core, only for it to feel like he had been doused with freezing cold water. The swirling voices of Stark’s childish arrogance, Sam’s disapproving looks, even Maximoff’s sympathetic smile as she tried to offer consolidation- ”You weren’t that bad! When I first started with the Avengers, I was clumsy and disoriented too. Just think of yourself like a baby deer learning to stand!”

It made him grit his teeth.

Stand? Why, he could do more than that. He was a Prince of Asgard, a King of Chaos, the God of Mischief for crying out loud.

Curtly, he dismissed the Scarlet Witch’s kind attempt to make him feel better, and Sam rolled his eyes while Tony assessed his wing, “Don’t get too pouty, prince. I’m sure big brother can help you learn the difference between teammate and target.” His mocking smirk made Loki want to ruin the pearly whites he mocked him with, when there was a warm caress around his wrist. A little thread bracelet of gold, black and green you had made him, with one in your own favourite colours to match. He had enchanted them, so a simple touch would be felt for the other bracelet wearer, and Loki immediately craved home.

You were cosy on the couch, in a hoodie that smelt like him, though he had made it clear he wouldn’t stoop so low to wear such mortal rags in public, but you were content with this. You had scrolled on your phone, watching cute compilation videos of little animals, and success stories, and family reunions. It had gotten you warm and teary eyed, but you had put your phone down as soon as the door to your room swung open, “Hey you… I was just thinking about- oh!”

His face was buried in your chest before you could properly process his non-verbal behaviours, and immediately you began to scratch his scalp tenderly, playing with his soft raven hair, “Mission didn’t go well?” A muffled grumble was your answer, before he shook his head against your chest. He wasn’t needy, looking at you with a wolfish smirk and hungry eyes, like he usually would, and your lips tilted down into a frown, “Why, my love?”

There was considerable silence, before you quirk your lips to the side in thought. You were ready to make silly guesses, but something in the air shifted, and you could tell this was serious.

“I don’t think I’m a good fit for the Avengers as a whole.” He started, sitting up suddenly, staring at the ground with his elbows on his knees. His hands were clasped together, slender fingers twisting at the jewellery to adorn his hands, “I don’t have any purpose. I go on these foolish, wasteful mundane missions and do nothing useful- my powers are fizzling out, all because I’m some washed up God now, though I still don’t do right on missions-”

“Hey!” You finally made a successful interjection, sitting up and pulling him into a hug, “Where did this come from, Loki? How could you say these things about yourself?” Your voice was soft, not to baby him or condescend, but to provide a safe place for him to be… vulnerable. As if he had caught on, he tried to look away with a mean scowl, though it was not directed at you as he answered, “It’s not easy to stick to the path of redemption with a creature like Tony Stark reminding you each moment of what atrocities you need to repent, and how much of a monster you are.”

Your face softened into a sad frown, and you hugged him tight again, kissing his temple, “You don’t really believe all that crap, right?”

“How couldn’t I? He makes such convincing points.” His sarcasm was unnecessary, but you knew better than to comment on it while he was like this. Instead, you gently coaxed him to lie with his head on your chest, the two of you sprawled comfortably on the couch with legs intertwined. You grabbed your phone to open it up to something, but before you did, you kissed his head again.

“You know you’re doing so good, right?” Your voice was the warm ray of sun he needed to defrost his sweeter mood, and he felt the foundations of his scowl begin to crack and melt already.

“Lies.” He grumbled, but your refusal was adamant,

“You are. I am so incredibly proud of you, Loki. And truly, if I thought there was… something wrong, if I thought you didn’t care at all about making up for what you’ve done, if I truly thought you were some low-life, irredeemable monster-”

“Okay, I think I get it-”

“Then I wouldn’t be with you! But I am, because I see how much this change of heart means to you. Every day, you do so well, even when you think the opposite, and it makes me feel so proud, so fulfilled to see you give yourself a chance.” You had cupped his face at this point, kissing his head, then the tip of his nose, then his lips in an affectionate peck. He returned for a sweeter kiss, before you pulled up a thread of something you had saved for your own bad days, and immediately he was intrigued.

“Animals?”

“Baby animals! Look! A little baby bunny, and a puppy, and ducks!” You cooed, your eyes pooling with adoration as you absorbed the contents of the tiny screen. Loki still thought you were one of the strangest mortals he had ever met, but that only reinforced his love for you as he watched you swipe and scroll through, before he scowled at the baby deer and extended a finger to personally remove it from his screen. You didn’t question it, letting him look around on your phone, until he saw little snakes with flower hates, wearing tiny scarves or jumpers, curled up in funny little spots.

“See? It’s you! My handsome little snake prince.” You hummed, kissing his head while his eyes were fixated on the screen, scrolling at his own pace.

“You know, I’d love you if you got turned into an animal by an evil witch.” You curled your lips in a thoughtful pout, which he met with his own in a gentle peck, before raising his eyebrows at you. “Oh?” He hummed half-distractedly, eyes drooping as your nails scraped against his scalp in the way he liked, right at the nape of his neck. You felt him sag more into your body, half-blanketing you, half-trapping you in the couch.

“MMhm! Whether it’s a snake, a puppy, even a worm- I’d love you no matter what form you entered my life in.”

“Thank you, darling… That is kind… Very kind.” His voice trailed off slowly as he cuddled into you, and you kept kissing his head whilst you told him sweet things. At one point, you had fallen asleep too, to which he poked an eye open lazily and murmured, “I’d love you if you were a worm too.”

He lay in your arms, his mind quiet despite the emotionally charged day, despite what he was thinking before he saw you. As he lay here, with your arms wrapped securely around him, hands tangled comfortably in his hair, he couldn’t help a small smile as he looked up at you with pure, wholesome adoration. As long as he had you, he was sure that he was doing good in the world.

Especially when he got to see you smile, or laugh, or do any other simple motion that could fuel his lifespan and fill him with strength.

╰┈➤ Lex's note 2: hopefully i return to a semi-consistent posting schedule!!

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skeletons-can-draw-too · 9 days ago

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I think everyone should be comforted by their TV

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blackmarketfruitrollups · 29 days ago

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"Just kill me, please."

"You know I can't do that, darling."

"Can't, or won't?" She questioned stubbornly, turning on her other side so she couldn't see him. "I don't think you love me anymore."

He blew an amused huff out of his nose before rounding their shared bed to look at her.

"If I didn't love you then I wouldn't put up with how pouty you get when you're sick." He cooed at her. "If I didn't love you then I wouldn't keep Markl from interrupting your naps, or make sure Calcifer saves breakfast for you when you can't walk down the stairs to get it yourself."

He lovingly stroked her hair, brushing it away from her sweaty forehead before planting a kiss on it, making her face pucker.

"Don't do that, you're gonna get sick." She fussed, trying to gently push him away from the bed and yet failing miserably.

"Never stopped me before." He hummed, this time leaving one on her cheek.

"Howl, stop. I mean it."

Disregarding her concern entirely he continued to kiss her cheeks, slowly drawing giggles from her.

"There she is," he smiled, "there's my sweet little wife."

She scrunched her face back up, pretending to be upset again. "You're unbelievable. You don't get to complain about it when you get sick too, you know I tried to warn you."

He grinned at her lovingly, this time kissing her on her lips.

"How could I ever complain about being sick when my pretty wife is the best nurse ever?"

#fanfiction #x reader #fluff #x fem!reader #howl x reader #howl pendragon x reader #howl pendragon #howls moving castle #studio ghibli #x plus size reader #x chubby reader #x character #x reader fluff #drabble #x poc reader #fluffy short

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notsodelirious · 1 month ago

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silly little fluff bit for Jason before I turn in and ignore my writing for a while (absolute not proofread)

small cw for food insecurity in this first para of this <3 take care

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

Jason knew hunger.

He had grown up on scraps and leftovers, nibbling on the last bite of the meal after his mother had declared she wasn’t hungry anymore.

He was grown from noodle packs and stale soups, cut bread crusts and funny canned meat.

He’d been raised on hunger so he’d never cared for food.

It was sustenance, he needed it to grow, to stay awake and stay active. Food had a purpose. He just needed enough to live, it didn’t matter what it tasted like, how it felt.

It was food.

He didn’t care for food.

Not until he returned from patrol one evening to find you pulling a bake tray from the oven.

“Hi!”

He paused as he looked at you, all bright smiles and heat flushed cheeks. Whatever dish you had been cooking smelled divine, permeating your entire living space, even creeping under his helmet.

“Hey,” he said hesitantly as he stepped into your living room, closing the window behind him.

“I made lasagna,” you said as you set the tray on the burner and uncovered it just as he pulled off his helmet. His mouth didn’t water when he saw your work and drifted closer to get a better smell.

It wasn’t that he’d never seen good food before—Alfred was beyond good in the kitchen and the League always had good chefs in rotation but this was different.

You two stood together in the small kitchen, comfortably warm in the heat radiating from oven, over a dish made with nothing but store bought ingredients and a recipe passed down from mother to child.

“I didn’t know if you had preferences but I think I’ve seen you eat everything I put in this,” you said as you wiped your hands on a tea towel before tucking it away.

“No, no,” Jason said quickly, his throat tight and he didn’t know where his voice went—he pulled off his glove before resting his hand on the back of your neck, squeezing gently, “It looks great.”

“Fuck yeah,” you smiled up at him before slipping out of his grip, “Go wash up, I’ll let the table.”

“I can help-“

“You stink,” you playfully swatted his ass with the tea towel. “Wash.”

He put his hands up in mock surrender as he dragged his feet out of the kitchen but complied, taking a quick shower before coming back to the kitchen in borrowed clothes and wet hair.

“Oh, I could have helped,” he said as he watched you set glasses of water on the makeshift dining table against the wall.

“You were busying becoming less gross,” you shrugged as you gave him a cheeky smile before sitting down.

“This feels like bullying.”

“Never,” your bright eyes followed him as he took a seat in front of you. “You don’t have to wait to start,” you said softly as you picked up your own fork, watching as he awkwardly wiped his hands on your his sweatpants.

“Bon appétit.”

You snorted, softly kicking him under the table.

“Good?” you asked after he took his first bite. His shoulders dropped as he breathed in.

It was delicious—it was seasoned and warm and ever so slightly oversalted, more tomato than beef. His eyes didn’t burn and his hands didn’t tremble as he ate bite after bite, ignoring your joking warning to slow down or he’d make himself sick.

“There’s more on the stove,” you said.

Because you’d never let him go hungry.

“Help yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

You snorted as you separated the pasta from the sauce.

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes ma’am.”

His shit eating grin never left until you slammed foot into his shin again.

“Fuck!”

“Love you too.”

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

okay so I lied, I won’t technically be forgetting about my writing for the next couple of days bc I’ll have a couple of pieces queued to be posted but I definitely will no be active — requests are still closed during my assignment periods (they’re kicking my ass send help pls) but here’s my masterlist for more stuff <3

#dc #dc comics #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x gn!reader #jason todd x gender neutral reader #jason todd fluff #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd/reader #jason todd/you #dc x reader #x reader #x reader fluff

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em1i2a3 · 11 hours ago

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Adore Me

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: When the air conditioner of the Watchtower breaks during peak summertime, Bob finds an odd solution to your overheating problem.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff yall. Bob and Reader are in an established friends with benefits relationship (that has hints of something more), Bob is a problem solver lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up yall), Temperature Play, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Bob is a bit freaky in this, but it’s a great change up, Spit Kink (kind of…An interesting take on it lol) Bob is totally a super soft dom in here to be completely honest and he’s an absolute tease, Aftercare (cause it’s essential and we love aftercare scenes!)

Authors Note: It is disgustingly hot where I live at the moment and I got this idea when I was writing something else and thought ‘Jesus Christ this is perfect’ and EUREKA 💡 it’s been made and created. And it’s so fitting cause today is supposed to be one of the hottest days of the year where I live and I’ve been sweating it up, so CHEERS TO THAT! Enjoy the read yall ❤️❤️

Word Count: 9,364

You felt like you were choking on the air you were breathing. It clung to your lungs like steam in a sauna, heavy and thick, each inhale a sluggish, labored thing that coated the inside of your throat with undeniable heat. The Watchtower had become a pressure cooker–walls sweating, tempers rising, body’s slowly melting into puddles of collective misery.

The central air system had sputtered its final breath two days ago, and since then, the compound had been thrown into environmental purgatory. Val, of course, couldn’t be bothered.

“You’ve been trained in worse conditions? So there’s a little bit of heat…” She said over the comms, dismissing the situation with a lazy flick of her tongue, “Adapt. Hydrate. Be resourceful. You guys are a bunch of trained professionals. Jesus.”

Bucky had tried to find a solution by rush-ordering industrial-grade fans for everyone’s room. It was a notable effort, but ultimately it turned futile–the machines just churned around warm air like oversized hairdryers, only adding to the misery. Everyone had begun to crack in their own unhinged little ways soon after.

Walker had abandoned his bedroom entirely, calling it a hotbox of death–because it was facing the sun head on–and was now taking refuge on the cool concrete floor of the weapons bay, curled up beside an icebox and using a half-eaten bag of frozen peas as his pillow. Nobody knew if he was the one who ate the peas, and truly no one wanted to ask.

Alexei had opted to walk around shirtless, unapologetically drenched, swearing in Russian every time his back stuck to the leather chairs of the common room. You hadn’t seen cotton touch his torso in thirty-six hours.

Ava had tried to stick her head in the freezer at least three times–silent, dead-eyed, standing with the door propped open like a statue. She once murmured, “There’s no use…Not even the freezer can cool me down,” Before slamming the door shut and stomping away angrily.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to tough it out. She booked a hotel in the city with central air and an infinity pool and sent a group text that read: Temporarily unavailable. Followed by a photo of her in a robe, flipping everyone off.

You, on the other hand, were stuck in the sweltering hellhole that used to be the Watchtower. Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. Paperwork, of all godforsaken things–an Everest-sized pile of clearance reports, post-op evaluations, requisition forms, and incident debriefs that needed to be reviewed and signed off yesterday. As you worked through it though you were convinced the paper pile was actively multiplying every time you blinked.

You had stripped down to bare undergarments midway through the first day of this whole ordeal–tank tops and boy shorts, cycling through a mix of fabrics and colours, and faded cotton that clung to your skin within minutes of putting it on. A real outfit felt like a joke at this point. The way your thighs stuck to chairs, the way your bra would turn into a soaked band of torture across your ribs–it was all unbearable. So you stopped pretending, cause everyone had seen you in much less–unfortunately. A little skin in the name of not dying seemed fair game.

You’d made camp in the common room, spread out across the wooden floor: limbs splayed, eyes half-lidded, lips dry, surrounded by open folders and half-filled forms. Your pen was stuck between your fingers, and your knees were damp from the humidity clinging to the floorboards. You used half-complete reports as manual fans, your wrist flicking back and forth in a tired desperate rhythm.

Under the dim overhead lights your skin was shimmering. Sweat collected in the hollow of your throat, slicked down your back in slow, miserable trails, and glistened across your chest in a sheen that was just enough to be maddening.

Especially to Bob.

Bob wasn’t bothered by the heat–not one bit. In fact, he seemed to be thriving in it. While the rest of the compound staggered around like melting wax figures, Bob was walking proof that some unholy fusion of celestial physiology and boyish stubbornness could, against all logic, turn a heatwave into a personal spa retreat. His body already ran hot, warmer than any humans should be, so the shift in temperature just…Matched him. Balanced him. He was in his element. You’d caught him once humming as he refilled your water bottle and didn’t even look winded. It had taken every ounce of your willpower not to throw a folder at him out of sheer spite.

But as much as Bob was coasting through the inferno like a Sun God in July, there was one thing the heat did make difficult, and that was you.

More specifically: being around you without physically attaching himself to every available inch of your skin. And that was a problem. Because all you wanted was to peel your limbs off your own body and shove your head in the freezer next to Ava’s.

The first night the central air had gasped its last breath, you had trudged into your room in a haze of exhaustion and heat delirium. Your tank top was soaked, your shorts were riding up in ways that made you irrationally furious, and your entire back felt like it had been slow-roasted on a rack. All you wanted was to collapse onto your bed, cool yourself down on your fresh pillow, and not die.

Bob had followed in behind you a few minutes later. Barefoot, shirtless in his boxer shorts, and radiating heat like a bonfire. You had barely flattened yourself on the mattress before you felt the bed dip and a very warm, very clingy arm wrap around your middle.

“Bob–no. No. You’re a human space heater. I am going to combust.” He had blinked down at you like you had kicked him, lip tugging downward, but he didn’t retreat. His eyes shimmered slightly.

”Just–Just my arm. I won’t move around and make it hotter! I pr-promise! How about my leg? Just a little le-leg.” You tried to slither out from his trap, but he was persistent, curling his body around you like a cat trying to fit into a shoebox, “You know I ca-can’t sleep without cuddling you…Please.” He begged.

In the end, you had given up just enough to let him have his victory–an arm draped over your waist, a thigh tucked between your sweaty ones. His skin was boiling, his breath stuck to your neck, and you were sweating so much your sheets were damp. But he sighed with such softness and content, like that moment of closeness was everything he needed. And even though you mumbled curses and threatened to sleep on the floor next time, you didn’t push him off.

Now, he was watching you from his usual perch in the common room, planted in one of the worn armchairs, looking relaxed, comfortable-and absolutely lovesick in shorts and a t-shirt.

Every movement made your tank top shift and stick in new ways. A bead of sweat curved down your chest, catching the attention of Bob’s traitorous eyes before he jerked his gaze away, returning it to the book in front of him, like he hadn’t been staring.

You weren’t even trying to be provocative. You were just trying not to pass out. But the heat had made you soft-limbed, loose-spined, and languid. It made you sigh out loud and stretch like a cat, chasing relief. And every time you did, Bob’s eyes trailed after you like he was tethered. He swallowed thickly when you adjusted your posture again, thigh flexing, tank top riding up a bit more, your sweat-dampened back arching ever so slightly as you reached for another form.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke, but your voice was low and teasing. “Your eyes are gonna burn holes in me if you keep staring like that.”

Bob stiffened in his chair, legs snapping closer together. “I–uh. Wasn’t–” You snorted softly, not buying it for a second.

“You forget how I can feel when you’re looking at me.” You said, still not looking up from your papers, “Your gaze is like a goddamn laser. Feels like I’ve got sunburn from the inside out.” You could hear the hesitation in his breath, the soft rustle of fabric as he fidgeted in his seat, gathering the courage to speak. And then–

“Well…Ev-even though you’re melting…” He started, voice cracking like a sun-baked sidewalk, “I still th-think you’re… pretty.” You paused, pen hovering above a requisition form like you were about to stab a signature into it, then slowly tilted your head up. Your eyes locked onto him from across the room, narrowing ever so slightly.

“Bob,” You warned, a soft edge to your voice. “You know I’m a softie for compliments and your face…”

His lips twitched into a nervous smile, hopeful–but you cut him off.

“…But I swear to God, I think I would kill you if you even attempted to take my clothes off to have sex with me right now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered rapidly and he swallowed hard, the book lowering to his lap slightly.

”I-I was just s-saying you looked p-pretty…” He mumbled, face turning scarlet. You squinted, pointing your pen at him accusingly.

”Yes. And then it escalates. It always escalates.” Bob’s mouth opened like he wanted to object, but you were already rolling, “You say I look pretty, then it’s something about how good I look in the outfit I’m wearing–which is barely even an outfit, mind you–then you get all sentimental and say something sappy like ‘I’m so lucky to have a friend like you’ and ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’ and blah, blah, blah–I’m not falling for it.” Bob looked like a man trying to explain himself at a trial with no legal counsel.

”I–I didn’t–this time, I wasn’t gonna–“ You lifted a brow, and he wilted a little further into his armchair, “Okay…I might’ve said something sappy later…Maybe.” You snorted and went back to fanning yourself with a requisition form.

”Exactly.”

“But–“ He tried, hands wringing in his lap, “You do look really go-good right now. Even with the sweat…And the uh…Paper stuck to your thigh.” He added. You glanced down and sighed, peeling a requisition form off your leg and flinging it to the side. Bob let out a small laugh at the sight, before lowering his voice.

”I really wasn’t trying to escalate. I know you’d kill me if I even–tried. I’d pr-probably turn into the sun the second I touched you.”

“You would,” You replied firmly, wiping a drop of sweat from your collarbone, “I’d light you up like a match.” There was a pause, then he hummed.

”…It’d still be wo–worth it.” You looked up again, slowly. Bob looked sheepish, guilty, and totally sincere.

“You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to throw something at you.” Bob smiled a little wider now, cautiously hopeful.

”Could I at least get a hug?” You groaned.

”No…”

”A sweaty hug?” He corrected, as you dragged your hands down your face, shaking your head. He stood anyway, walking over with slow, careful steps. You felt his shadow fall over you, tall and soft at the edges, and when you peeked up, he was grinning down at you–dimples and all.

”I’ll just hover then,” He said, crouching next to you and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, tasting a bead of sweat on his lips, before settling down beside your paper fortress, legs stretching out beside yours.

You let out a soft laugh through your nose–quiet, breathy, the kind of sound that would’ve floated past someone else entirely. But not Bob. Never Bob. He absorbed everything you did like a sponge pressed to water–hyper aware, quietly observant, and always aching in the silence between moments. No matter what you were doing, he always made it feel like he was watching an artist paint their biggest masterpiece.

You could’ve been cleaning blood off your boots, half–catatonic from fatigue, or wearing yesterday’s tank top turned inside out, it didn’t matter to him. He looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle, and it was never just lust that filled his eyes, never only want–it was that stunned, adoring kind of interest that made you feel like the world quieted when you moved.

Even now, in this godforsaken heat, when your skin felt slick and your hair clung to the back of your neck, he sat beside you like he was somewhere sacred. His shoulder barely grazed yours, but you could feel it–the press of his attention, the steady warmth of his presence folding over you like a second sun.

And despite your endless complaints, despite telling him time and time again that you were overheating and one more inch of skin contact might kill you, you were glad he hadn’t listened. Not fully. Because the truth was–you liked that he didn’t give you space. Not really. You liked the orbit of him. The magnetism. The strange, constant gravity that pulled him to you no matter the setting.

Ever since the two of you started hooking up though, that tether had only grown stronger. It didn’t matter if you were in bed or on opposite ends of the training floor–your bodies reached for each other instinctively. Your minds always seemed to be aware of one another in a way that felt cellular.

And though you were actively trying not to spontaneously combust under the heat dome that was the Watchtower, though you’d explicitly told him not to try anything, you still craved him. The pull of his voice, the shape of his breath, the way he sat beside you like you were something holy that made him forget himself.

But until something–anything–cooled you down enough not to literally die during sex, you had to suppress it.

You kept working, even as the sweat made your pen slippery in your grip. Even as your thighs stuck to the hardwood and your spine ached from the sticky angle of your slouch. You scribbled notes into the margins of reports for Val–“Slight concussion, extreme belligerence. Unsure if it was the wound.” All the while, you felt Bob watching you.

Now that he was close, it was worse. His gaze was warm. Not burning. Not greedy. But hot–like you’d stepped into late afternoon sunlight and knew it was going to follow you until dusk. He watched the way your collarbone caught the light, the slow trail of sweat that disappeared beneath the line of your tank top, the rise and fall of your chest like a tide he wanted to wade into.

He could smell you now, too. Your body wash–the mix of basil, blueberry, and lemon–had softened and bloomed in the heat, curling around you like a halo of late-summer air. You smelled like a drink he wanted to taste, a memory he wanted to bottle and keep forever. It made his throat feel thick. It made something ancient and hungry stir in him.

You swiped a hand across your forehead again, let out a huff, signed another sheet–and that’s when you felt his gaze sharpen.

”Bob,” You said dryly, not even glancing at him “Keep your eyes to yours–“

”There’s ic-ice in the freezer,” He interrupted, voice cracking slightly like it was tripping on the edge of his desire. You paused, turning your head toward him with a squint.

”Yeah? And why are you bringing that up so randomly?” His eyes widened at bit, then he flushed, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck–a tell that he was nervous.

”Maybe I want to…Cool you do–down?” Your eyes narrowed, the corner of your mouth twitching up in slow suspicion.

“Yeah? And how would you do that?” He hesitated–just for a moment–and then leaned in ever so slightly, his voice low, uncertain, trembling with barely-leashed tenderness.

”Why don’t you let me sh-show you?” God, the way he said it–it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even seductive in the traditional sense. It was something softer than that. Sweeter. Gentler.

It was Bob wanting to worship, not possess. To soothe, not seduce. It was in the way his voice cracked around the word show, like he meant something more than just a practical gesture. Like he wanted to lay you down and press ice to every patch of you that felt too hot, not to make you moan, but to make you breathe again.

Like cooling you down would be an honor.

He wasn’t talking about sex. Not entirely at least. He was talking about the intimacy of care. The small, slow rituals that said I see you, I know you, I’ll take care of this part too.

You felt it in your spine–the way the suggestion settled, the weight of the moment bending inward like a candle flame curling toward its own wax. You turned your head slowly to look at him and found him already watching you with that same melted-lovely stare. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Hope curling behind his lashes.

He looked like he was waiting for permission to make the heat bearable. Waiting to touch you only if it meant relief.

Your throat worked once, then you set your pen down.

“…Alright then, Bob,” You murmured, tilting your head. “Show me.” Bob shot to his feet like a firework, the shift from softness to sudden motion making you laugh a bit. He offered you both hands, palms open, eyes bright with some boyish spark you hadn’t seen since before the heatwave hit.

“C’mon,” He urged, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips like he was already proud of whatever plan had rooted itself in his head. You glanced down at his hands, then back up at him.

”You’re not gonna do it here?” He shook his head quickly, his light brown, sun-kissed strands of hair flopping slightly.

”Tr-Trust me,” He said with a nervous unmistakable glimmer in his eye, “You want to do it in a be-bedroom.” Your stomach flipped. Not because it sounded dirty–though your traitorous mind was already sprinting toward some variation of shirtless–Bob dripping ice water down your spine–but because of the tone, and the way he said it. So sure. So gentle. So full of barely concealed affection. Your skin prickled from anticipation. He helped you up from the floor with ease, and turned, starting for the hallway.

You followed closely behind, your legs stiff and heavy from too much time on the floor. He stopped at the kitchen, and you caught the distinct sound of the freezer opening, the crinkle of plastic, the quiet clatter of something.

Curious, you poked your head around the corner–only to find Bob standing in front of the counter, brow furrowed in focus, tearing open a large bag of ice with his teeth and pouring generous handfuls into a wide stainless steel mixing bowl. The ice chimed and cracked as it landed, a sound almost obscene in the still, overheated silence of the Watchtower.

Your eyebrows rose.

Bob caught your expression immediately and looked sheepish, shrugging one shoulder at you.

”The mo-more the merrier,” He commented, lifting the bowl like a trophy. You huffed a laugh, low and incredulous.

”This is either going to be really sweet or very dumb,” You muttered, shaking your head as he approached.

”It’ll definitely be both.” He replied, not missing a beat.

He took your hand in his free one, fingers warm and steady even as he balanced the cold weight of the bowl in the other. His thumb slid along your knuckles as he led you back down the hallway, his touch grounding despite the faint sheen of sweat that coated you, it only took a few steps until you finally reached your room.

It was hot there. Thick, slow, swampy heat. The kind that stuck to the corners of the ceiling and refused to move. The blackout drapes you’d thrown up were trying their best, but the sun still managed to bleed in around the edges–gold streaks slicing through the air like knives. The only saving grace was the cracked window above your headboard, which at night had allowed the barest hint of a breeze to creep in. It didn’t help much–but it was something at least.

Your room was a lived-in kind of mess. A fan sat on your desk, humming uselessly. There were two half-drunk bottles of water near your nightstand, a crumpled hoodie discarded on the floor, and the sheets were tangled from restless nights. Still, it smelled like you. That same clean, citrus-sweet scent that clung to your skin. Bob inhaled it without even thinking.

He moved with purpose now, stepping around you to the bed, placing the bowl of ice on your side table before grabbing the nearest towel from your hamper–fresh, fluffy, cream-colored. He spread it over the foot of your bed carefully, smoothing out the creases like he was setting a picnic for something sacred.

“Okay,” He said, crouching slightly and patting the towel with one hand, “You sit th–there. And I’ll sit behind you.”

His voice was soft. Intentional. No teasing now–just quiet care threading every syllable. And it did something to you. Something that reached down into the heat-numbed center of your chest and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You obeyed without a word, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of the bed, the towel rough and cool beneath your thighs. You could hear the clink of ice behind you, the shifting of his body as the mattress shifted under his weight. And then, slowly, the warmth of him pressed close behind–legs on either side of yours, his knees bent so he could sit just barely higher, his breath ghosting near the back of your ear.

”Ready?” You nodded–immediately, instinctively–before the word even had time to form in your mouth.

The air was still thick and stifling, but the anticipation split through it like a thunderclap. You heard the soft rustle of movement behind you–the dip of Bob’s arm into the bowl, the telltale clink of shifting ice. A pause. A breath. And then–

Cold.

Your spine arched in reflex as the first piece of ice touched your upper back, the sensation so stark against your overheated skin that you gasped. The cube dragged in a slow, deliberate line between your shoulder blades, leaving a shivering trail in its wake. Your breath hitched.

Bob’s free hand came to rest against your waist–not forceful, not possessive, but anchoring. His palm was hot, fingers splayed across your damp skin like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.

He was slow with it.

The ice danced across your skin, trailing up and then outward over the curve of your right shoulder blade. And then the left. The path was meticulous, methodical, melting little rivers that trickled down the curve of your back until they disappeared into the band of your tank top.

You shuddered–eyes fluttering shut–just as you felt his breath behind you, warm and steady, before his lips grazed your skin.

Bob leaned in.

And then he licked the droplets off your back.

Your entire body jolted like it had been kissed by lightning. His tongue was hot, a perfect, obscene contrast to the cold that came before it. He followed the rivulets the ice had left behind, slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing against your skin with almost unbearable care. You could feel his breath between licks, the air stirring goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, Bob…” You whispered, voice already shaky, barely above a breath.

He didn’t respond. He just kept going.

He trailed the ice once more–lower this time, letting the cold slip just beneath the band of your tank top before dragging it back up in a long, trembling sweep. Then came his mouth again. His lips. His tongue. You felt his teeth graze your shoulder–not biting, just there, like he couldn’t help but taste the saltiness of your skin.

Every time he kissed the water from your spine, it felt like he was drinking in something sacred.

You leaned forward slightly, head bowing as your hands clutched at the towel beneath you. Your breathing was shallow, pulse thrumming behind your ears. Bob’s hand on your waist squeezed just once, steadying you.

And then his voice, soft and low and trembling with something barely restrained, broke the silence against the shell of your ear.

“Take off your sh-shirt.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a request.

It was a prayer. A plea.

Like he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer. Like he needed more of you, not just for heat or for want, but for relief. For whatever spell that had overtaken both of you in the dense summer silence of your bedroom.

Your fingers moved before your mind caught up. You gripped the hem of your soaked tank top and–slowly, shakily–peeled it upward. It clung to your skin in stubborn patches, lifting in jerks until it passed over your head, leaving you bare from the waist up. Damp. Glowing. Breathing hard.

Bob’s breath stuttered.

You could feel his eyes on your back–devouring, worshiping, stunned silent. You started to turn your head over your shoulder, to ask what he was thinking–but you didn’t get the chance.

Because the next thing you felt was the ice again–this time sliding down your spine unburdened by cloth. And then his mouth. Hot. Open. Worshipful. He let out a soft moan against your skin, the sound low and trembling like it had clawed its way up from somewhere deep. His breath was hot, reverent. “Tastes s–so good…” he whispered, the words pressed into your spine like a confession–fragile and feral all at once.

You felt the faint scrape of his teeth next, dragging along the sensitive ridge of your lower shoulder blade, making your back arch into him involuntarily. His hand–still splayed wide on your waist–tightened once, then slipped away with purpose. A soft clink sounded beside you. Another piece of ice.

And then–

Cold.

This time, not against your back, but your chest.

You gasped–body jolting forward, spine bowing–as the ice skimmed the swell of your breast. The contrast was devastating. Your skin was already buzzing from the heat and his mouth, but the sudden bite of chill stole your breath.

Bob’s lips chased the line of melting droplets down your spine, tongue trailing them like he was memorizing every bead. Every curve. Every shiver.

And then the second piece of ice–still in his other hand–dragged across your chest in slow, deliberate passes. He brought it lower, tracing under the curve of your breast, then–so slowly it almost broke you–up toward your nipple.

Your mouth fell open. A moan spilled out before you could stop it.

“Bob…H–Holy fuck, Bob.”

You felt the corners of his lips lift where they pressed to your back–smirking. Smug and innocent like he hadn’t just unraveled you with frozen water and heat.

“Wh–What?” He asked, faux-innocent, his voice thick and trembling with barely restrained want.

He circled your nipple with the ice–quick, swirling passes that sent lightning through your chest. Then, without warning, he moved to the other, just as devastating.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, half a prayer, half a curse.

Your body leaned back instinctively, seeking him. The moment your spine met his chest, you felt it–all of him. His warmth. The racing thrum of his heart. The hardness pressed beneath his shorts. The quiet tremble in his hands as he reached around you again.

His mouth hovered near your ear.

“Can I…” His voice was barely audible now, so close it vibrated in your bones. “Can I lick the droplets off?”

“Yes,” You breathed, without hesitation. “Yes…”

You felt him smile against your temple. Not greedy. Not cocky. Just grateful. Devoted.

He slipped off the bed slowly, deliberately. His palms ran down your thighs as he sank, and then he was there–on his knees in front of you, golden in the streaks of sun that leaked through the curtain’s edge. His eyes were glassy, wide with awe, his curls damp from sweat, sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was looking at a fever dream.

He reached for the bowl of ice beside him and set it gently on the floor, then looked back up at you with a question in his eyes. You nodded once, breathless.

Bob guided you forward with careful hands, his fingers feather-light beneath your arms as he encouraged you to lean down toward him, your chest close to his lips.

And then–

His mouth latched onto your nipple.

His tongue was warm and needy, lapping at the cold water like it was something holy. You cried out–soft and broken–as he sucked gently, pulling the chill into his mouth and swallowing your heat like he needed it.

At the same time, his hand reached into the bowl and lifted another piece of ice. He guided it slowly to your other breast, circling the nipple with glacial focus, letting it bead and drip while his mouth worked the other in steady, wet rhythm.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

He moaned softly at that, tongue pressing flatter now, lips tighter, like he couldn’t help himself.

And when you looked down at him, flushed and kneeling between your legs, worshipping you with his mouth and melting ice, you swore you’d never been touched more sweetly in your life.

He pulled off your nipple with a soft, wet pop, licking it one last time, tongue circling tenderly before he released it. His lips grazed the curve of your breast in a gentle kiss, trailing heat in their wake. Then he shifted–slow, purposeful–toward the other, where the ice had melted into a glossy sheen over your skin. He didn’t rush. He paused to admire you, blue eyes glazed with something more than lust–adoration, worship, the kind of awe that made your chest cave in. He was drunk on the taste of your skin, and all he wanted was more.

His mouth sealed around your other nipple with a desperate hunger softened by devotion. His tongue moved languidly, drinking the cold from your body and replacing it with his heat, like he needed to balance you out. As his lips worked, he moved the piece of ice in his hand–down your ribcage, trailing it along the edge of your ribs with devastating slowness.

You gasped when it passed the under-side of your breast, the chill biting in contrast to the molten heat of his mouth, then lower, across the dip of your stomach, inching toward the space just above your navel. You flinched as it reached the sensitive skin right above the waistband of your boyshorts, and he groaned low in his throat in response–like your every twitch was a prayer answered.

Your hands tugged gently at his hair, not to pull him away but to feel something tethered, something grounding, because your entire body was floating–adrift in heat and cold and sensation.

He pulled away from your breast with a breathless sigh, mouth shiny and pink, and leaned in to chase the wet path down your stomach. You watched his tongue trace the same line the ice had carved, warm and wet, mouth open and panting against your navel as he moved lower and lower. Every kiss was a blessing. Every lick, a declaration.

And then he stopped at the waistband.

His nose brushed it gently. His breath was a humid puff across your lower belly. He looked up at you through damp lashes, cheeks flushed, curls curling slightly with sweat, his tongue running absently over his lower lip before he tilted his head–so soft, so careful.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice low and quiet, almost bashful despite everything. You nodded immediately, breath hitching.

”Y–Yeah.” He helped you stand with that same steady grace, his thumb sliding along the elastic at your hips, eyes never leaving yours–not even for a second. Then he slowly tugged them down. The fabric peeled from your thighs with a sticky reluctance, damp with sweat and tension and heat. He bent as he went, lowering himself with each inch until he was on his knees again, breath ghosting across your inner thighs.

Your hands trembled as he sat you down at the edge of the bed once more, steadying you with one hand on your hip, the other bracing your thigh. You watched as he pulled your legs gently over his shoulders, a smile coming up on his lips.

Bob’s breath hitched the moment he saw you–already glistening, already soaked, slick with heat and want and sweat. He stared like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he’d stumbled into something mythic, something divine. And then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the bowl.

The ice clinked gently as he dipped his fingers in, searching by feel. When he pulled one out, the cube was already slick in his grip, catching the dim light like crystal. He held it there for a second–then looked up at you.

“C–Can I put this on you?” He asked softly, voice breathless with awe.

You nodded without a pause, lips parted, heart thudding somewhere in your throat. “Yes… do it.”

He smiled.

And then he moved–slow, reverent, a priest in the presence of a miracle.

He brought the ice to your center, resting it just above your clit, and immediately–you felt it. A single drop fell.

You gasped.

The cold dragged across your head, contrasting so violently with the flushed wetness of your core that your hips jerked. Another drop slid between your folds, trailing downward like a teasing finger. Your whole body shivered–and that’s when Bob leaned in.

He licked the first droplet as it passed your clit.

And then he lost himself.

His mouth met you with heat so sharp it made your knees lock around his shoulders. His tongue licked up the length of your folds, slow at first, but with increasing urgency. The chill of the ice was still there–he never removed it, just held it against you, letting it drip while he worshipped you with his mouth.

You moaned–a high, breathless, broken thing–and your fingers dove into his hair, yanking just enough to feel him groan into you. It was obscene.

The ice kept dripping. His mouth kept moving. And the contrast was too much. Cold sliding into hot. Wet meeting wetter. His tongue was everywhere–flicking, flattening, curling against your clit, lapping up the melting droplets like he needed them to survive. Every moan that rumbled from his chest vibrated into you. He wasn’t holding back. He was devouring you.

Feral. Controlled. Utterly consumed.

You tried to speak–tried to tell him how fucking good it felt–but all that came out were broken syllables and a whispered, “Oh my God… Bob, please–”

He answered by moaning into your core, low and guttural, dragging the flat of his tongue up from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating pass. The ice cube shifted slightly, grazing your skin, making you cry out as your body jolted again.

And then–he slipped two fingers inside you.

You nearly sobbed.

They pushed in slow but deep, curling instantly. He knew exactly where to touch you, exactly how to fuck you with his hand while his mouth never stopped moving. His lips sealed around your clit, tongue swirling, licking away each cold droplet before it even had the chance to fully fall.

“Fuck–Bob–don’t stop, don’t you dare–” You whimpered, legs trembling.

He didn’t.

His fingers thrust harder. His tongue licked deeper. And when you rocked your hips forward–desperate for more–he groaned again, rutting subtly against the bed, lost in the taste of you.

The heat in your belly cracked wide open.

You felt the wave before it hit–felt your thighs tightening, your walls fluttering around his fingers, your back arching towards him.

“Fuck!” You cried, one hand gripping the edge of the sheets, the other twisted tight in his curls. Your orgasm ripped through you like wildfire, your whole body locking up before it collapsed into tremors, your thighs clamped tight around his neck, shaking. He held you through it. Tongue still moving. Fingers slowing just enough to prolong it, to guide you down from the cliff as gently as he’d brought you there.

When your body finally eased, when the waves started to ebb and your limbs stopped trembling, he pulled back–slowly, reluctantly.

His face was soaked.

Completely, reverently drenched. His lips were swollen, his cheeks glistened with your slick, your sweat, and faint trails of melting ice. His eyes were glazed with something carnal, but soft–softer than anything should be after what he just did to you.

He looked like he’d just returned from the edge of something sacred.

He exhaled, licking his lips slowly, pulling his fingers out gently before looking up at you like you’d just changed the orbit of his universe.

“…You ta–taste like fucking salvation,” He whispered, hoarse. Your thighs were trembling, your chest rising in ragged, shuddering breaths, your lips parting in the aftermath of the orgasm he had just wrung from you with nothing but his mouth, fingers, and a melting piece of ice. His tongue darted out again, slowly, to taste the last bead of wetness from your inner thigh.

Then, he lifted his hand–the one still holding the ice cube. It had shrunk to half its size now, slick and trembling between his fingertips. He raised it with the same care you might offer a relic, brushing it over your clit, before pulling it away completely.

”I wa-want you to open your mouth.” He instructed gently. You listened to him without hesitation. Bob brought the ice to his own lips, slipping it into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he chewed it slowly, the cold cracking and popping between his teeth. You watched every second like it was a ritual–like he was about to give you something sacred. And he was.

He slid your legs gently from his shoulders and rose to his full height, towering over you in the low, golden light. His face glowed with sweat and flushed a light red, as he cups your cheeks with his hands–fingertips damp, warm, trembling with care–and leaned in until his lips hovered just above yours.

Then–he parted his lips and let the water drip into your mouth.

You moaned at the first taste.

It wasn’t just water. It wasn’t just ice. It was you. Your taste lingered in it–your slick, your arousal, your salt and sweetness and heat. It tasted like shared sin. Like everything Bob had just taken from you with his mouth and was now giving back in liquid communion.

You swallowed slowly, lips brushing his, breath mingling.

And then—he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was intimate, filthy in how much love was packed between teeth and tongue. His lips crashed against yours, his mouth open, slick, tasting of melted ice and you and him. His tongue slid against yours, greedy and slow, like he was still trying to share the taste of you back and forth between your mouths.

You whimpered, hands flying to the waistband of his shorts, tugging at the tie. It loosened easily in your grip, and his hips jerked forward with a soft, broken sound.

Bob panted into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re go–gonna get hot again…”

You shook your head, smiling through the haze of pleasure still coiling in your belly. Your voice dropped to a sultry whisper, lips brushing his as you said, “Not if my legs are on your shoulders and you’re fucking me with my hips on the edge of the bed.” His entire body shuddered. His throat bobbed in a tight, desperate swallow. He didn’t even respond. Just–moved.

His shirt was off in seconds, ripped over his head and tossed somewhere you didn’t care about. You moaned at the sight.

You always moaned at the sight.

His chest was flushed and glowing, the heat making every line of him more vivid–shoulders broad, chest rising fast, his skin glistening with sweat and want. And then–his shorts dropped. He stepped out of them like he was shedding a burden. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, twitching at the air between you. He was painfully ready, his tip flushed, veins prominent along the shaft, his body trembling with restraint he no longer seemed interested in holding.

And still–he looked at you like you were a miracle.

He kissed you again before you could speak, devouring your mouth with a groan, hands gripping your hips with reverent, aching need.

Bob pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead still resting against yours, his chest rising and falling with ragged urgency. His blue eyes flicked over your face, searching, drinking you in like you might vanish if he blinked. You could feel the tremble in his thighs, the barely-restrained hunger in the way his grip tightened on your hips.

Then–gently–he guided you backward.

Your body yielded beneath his touch, melting into the mattress as your back met the damp sheets. The towel beneath you was bunched and wrinkled now, forgotten. All that mattered was him. The way he looked at you like you were something sacred, and the reverent hush that settled over the room as he bent to his knees on the bed, positioning himself above you.

He slid one arm beneath your thigh, guiding your hips down the bed ever so slightly, adjusting your body with the same care one might use to arrange something fragile–something precious. His touch was patient, but deliberate, until your hips were at the edge of the mattress and your legs could rise, slow and trembling, to rest over his shoulders.

The moment your calves draped across his skin, he paused. His breath hitched. You watched the awe flash across his face as he looked down at you–completely bare, flushed, and glistening with sweat. Your fingers reached for his hand, and he found yours instantly, weaving his fingers through yours, palms pressing tight like a lifeline.

Then–

He pressed his cock against your entrance.

The head of him was thick and hot, sliding slowly through your slick folds, smearing himself in the mess he had coaxed from you with ice and mouth and praise. He nudged your entrance gently, gliding in just enough to make your breath catch. Your lashes fluttered. His hips paused, trembling with restraint.

And then–he pushed.

You both moaned–broken and breathless–as he sank into you inch by inch. The stretch was slow, deliberate, perfect. His cock filled you in a way that made your whole body seize with need, the stretch burning just enough to make you tremble. He pressed forward until he was fully seated inside you–his hips flush with yours, his body rigid above you, the head of him brushing so deep you swore you saw stars.

Your hand tightened in his. His head dropped slightly, lips parting with a shaky groan.

“F-fuck…You feel so good…” He whispered, his voice hoarse, eyes screwed shut in overwhelmed bliss. Then, after a breathless second, he leaned down and kissed your calf–softly, reverently–before he started to move.

The first thrust was slow. Gentle. A pull and press that made your hips rock into his instinctively. He dragged his cock almost all the way out before easing back in, groaning at the way your walls clung to him.

You gasped, back arching. “Bob…”

He began a rhythm. Measured. Loving. Each thrust slow and deep, dragging against every aching spot inside you until your thighs were trembling and your core was fluttering with need. The sounds were obscene–wet, slick, breathless. Every push of his hips made you gasp. Every roll of your body made him moan.

“Feel so perfect,” He panted, his free hand sliding to your waist to anchor you. “So warm…So fucking tight…Fuck–”

He picked up the pace just slightly, hips rocking harder now, deeper. Your body jolted with each motion, the slap of skin against skin echoing beneath the hum of the useless fan in the corner.

Your walls began to pulse around him. You whimpered, breath shattering.

“I’m–I’m close…”

That was all it took for him to unravel a little more.

He let go of your hand and leaned down, bringing his weight forward until your knees were nearly touching your chest, his chest flush with yours, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so hungry it knocked the breath out of you. He moaned into your mouth as he thrust harder, deeper, every drag of his cock stealing another cry from your throat.

Your legs tightened around his shoulders. His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate.

“I’m go–gonna finish so deep inside you,” He groaned into your mouth, voice low and trembling. “I’m gonna fill you up so fuckin’ deep–you’re ne–never going to get rid of me.” Your entire body convulsed.

The orgasm hit like a wave, hot and endless. Your mouth fell open in a soundless cry as your back arched off the bed and your walls clamped down around him, milking his cock with fluttering, pulsing waves of pure pleasure.

“Fuck–fuck fuck fuck–” Bob gasped, his rhythm faltering. And then–with one final, deep thrust–he came.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you in thick, hot waves. You gasped as you felt it–his cum filling you, warm and devastating, the heat of it flooding your already over-sensitized body. His cock pulsed with every spurt, deep inside, pressed right against your cervix. Your hands clutched his back, fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped in pure, broken pleasure.

You could feel it.

The way it filled you. Coated you. Seeped so deep it felt like you were glowing from the inside out.

Bob moaned against your mouth, his hips stuttering once, twice, as he gave you the last of it, trembling. He stayed like that, buried in you, his forehead pressed to yours, your legs still locked over his shoulders.

The room was quiet but for the panting–your breaths, tangled and uneven, and his, rasping against your skin like wind through trees. Your hands slowly began tracing soft, lazy circles along his shoulders, fingertips dragging through the sweat and heat still clinging to his flushed skin. You could feel the way he was still trembling–just a little–from the aftershocks. Every breath he took made his chest rise against yours, pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where your heartbeat ended and his began.

And then–he laughed.

Quiet and disbelieving. Almost dazed.

You tilted your head, blinking up at him. “What?”

Bob shook his head, curls sticking adorably to his damp forehead, a flushed, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were half-lidded but glowing.

“You ju–just have so much control over me…” He murmured, voice still breathless. “And I lo–love it so much.”

Your lips curled in a slow, sultry smirk. You kissed him–soft and sensual, dragging your mouth across his like you had all the time in the world. You felt him melt into it, sighing, his hips still pressed to yours, his body heavy with contentment and heat.

Then–slowly–you slipped your legs down from his shoulders. The stretch burned instantly, a ripple of dull ache shooting through your inner thighs. You let out a soft groan, your face twitching at the sting.

Bob pulled back, eyebrows immediately knitting in concern. “You okay?”

You nodded, exhaling through the slight discomfort. “Yeah. Just…a little sore from the position. I may be flexible during missions, but when I have the weight of you pressing into me like that…” You gave him a pointed, teasing look. “It’s a different story.”

He flushed at the implication, letting out a shy little laugh before you reached up and brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered on his cheek, tracing the curve of it with a tenderness that made his lashes flutter.

Bob leaned into your palm instinctively, eyes slipping shut. Then he cracked a smile again, eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Y’know wh–what would be great?” He asked softly, voice low and hopeful.

You hummed. “What?”

He leaned forward until his nose brushed yours, his voice a conspiratorial whisper:

“A shower with you… Pr-Preferably a warm one. So neither of us are miserable.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, shaking your head as affection welled up in your chest. “Sounds good…” You whispered. “Can you carry me to the bathroom?”

His brows raised like you’d just told him the sun rose for him. “Of co–course,” he said with no hesitation, already shifting. “Only you deserve the five star treatment.”

You let out a soft laugh as he gently pulled out, the stretch and warmth making you sigh, his cum slipping and pooling between your thighs with a hot, sticky glide. He moved carefully, placing a kiss on your collarbone before sliding his arms between your back and the mattress.

You yelped lightly as he scooped you up in one smooth motion–like you weighed nothing at all. His strength was effortless, infused with the serum but wrapped in the gentleness that was uniquely Bob. He held you against his chest like you were precious cargo, one hand tucked under your knees, the other cradling your back.

You looped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips finding the warm skin there in a soft kiss. He smiled at the contact, turning his head to nuzzle your temple as he carried you toward the bathroom.

With one foot, he kicked the door open, stepping over discarded clothes and damp towels without missing a beat. The bathroom light flicked on, flooding the space with soft golden glow. You heard the quiet thud of the door shutting behind him and the click of the lock.

The air inside was warm already–trapped heat lingering from earlier, but not unbearable. You felt it shift as Bob moved toward the shower and set you gently on the counter’s edge, making sure you were stable before reaching for the faucet.

The pipes groaned as the water sputtered to life. Within seconds, warm steam began curling in lazy tendrils from behind the frosted glass.

Bob turned back to you with a smile, silhouetted in the hazy light, and asked softly, “Sh-shampoo or no shampoo?”

You grinned, eyes heavy, heart full.

“Shampoo,” You murmured. “Might as well go for the full spa package.”

He chuckled, Bob turned back from the shelf with your preferred shampoo already in hand, fingers slick from the steam curling up around you both. He stepped into the shower first, testing the water with his wrist, then held a hand out for you to follow. You took it wordlessly, skin still flushed and legs still weak, letting him guide you under the cascade of warmth.

The water streamed down your back in lazy waves, soothing the tension from your spine as Bob gently eased your head back beneath the spray. His touch was careful, reverent. Once your hair was wet enough, he tipped the bottle, squeezing a dollop into his palm, and then set to work.

His fingers threaded through your scalp like he was touching something sacred, slow and deliberate, working the shampoo in with gentle pressure. He never scratched too hard, never rushed. It was more massage than anything–his knuckles dragging lazy circles, thumbs brushing along your hairline, his eyes locked onto you the whole time like you were the most important thing he’d ever been trusted to care for.

Just before he let you rinse, he leaned in again–lips pressing to your collarbone in a kiss so soft it barely registered, just heat and breath and affection. And then his voice, low and warm and dripping with adoration, spilled over you like another layer of steam.

“You’re incredible…So fucking beautiful. Yo-You know that, right? So smart…So strong, and you let me–let me to–touch you like this, hold you like this. God, I’m so lucky. You taste like the sun. You feel like home. You make everything good again…”

You huffed a soft breath, overwhelmed and flustered, tilting your head just slightly to rinse the lather away. Bob’s hands helped guide the water down, careful not to splash you in the face. When you blinked through the droplets, still breathless from how he spoke like worship poured from his chest, you couldn’t help but murmur:

“You’re always so soft after sex.”

Bob stilled behind you for a moment, as if processing it. Then he leaned forward, voice tinged with surprise and a faint, teasing pout. “Am I no-not soft any other times?”

You laughed, turning in the warm spray to face him, droplets beading along his flushed collarbones. “You’re soft other times, Bob. But you’re way more soft after sex. Like…Melted marshmallow soft.”

He grinned, cheeks going red as he ducked his head slightly, the water slicking his hair to his forehead. “Well…We are releasing bo-bonding hormones, so…” He said with a small shrug, “How could I not want to be attached to you and be so–soft with you?”

You stepped closer, chest brushing his. Your lips met his in a warm, lingering kiss, water slipping between you as your hands smoothed up his arms. “You’re right…”

What followed was a slow, shared ritual of care. Bob washed your body in sections, treating each limb like it deserved a love letter. He murmured praise against your shoulder, your belly, the back of your knee. His hands glided with reverence, touching as if your skin might flake away like ash if he wasn’t gentle. And when it was your turn, you returned the care—rubbing slow circles into his broad back, tracing over his chest, lathering his curls with the same tenderness he’d shown you.

“You smell like sunshine and sin,” he whispered as you rinsed him off. “Like citrus and heaven. Like something I’m not supposed to touch, but I get to anyway.”

You giggled softly, pressing your lips to his neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” He breathed, eyes glowing.

You were just about to pull him into another kiss–foreheads close, smiles sticky sweet–when a shout rang out through the compound, muffled by walls but unmistakably furious:

“WHO TOUCHED MY BAG OF ICE!?”

You both froze.

Then, slowly, your gazes turned toward each other–eyes wide, lips twitching.

“…Oh no,” You whispered.

Bob’s eyes went round with guilt. “I-I’ll buy her another one–”

“She’s gonna kill us,” You said flatly.

And then the both of you burst out laughing, muffling the sound in each other’s shoulders as the water kept streaming, and the heat of the Watchtower still pressed in around you–but somehow, in that tiny sanctuary of steam and love and whispered giggles, you barely felt it anymore.

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blushpawss · 9 months ago

Text

period cramps

warning: fluff — soft!sylus taking care of you during your 1st day of period 🩷

main acc: @sushiyuzu

the cramps hit hard, making you double over in bed, clutching at your lower abdomen as the pain radiated through you. you’d tried everything—heating pads, painkillers, lying in every position you could think of—but nothing seemed to ease the discomfort. it was one of those days where your period felt like a heavy weight on your body, and no matter how hard you tried to push through it, you just felt drained.

sylus had been in the other room, giving you space, but it wasn’t long before you heard the soft padding of his feet as he came to check on you. you were curled up on your side, wrapped in blankets, but your face must have given away how much pain you were in.

he sat down on the edge of the bed, his crimson eyes filled with concern. “still bad?” he asked softly.

you nodded, unable to muster the energy to say much. the cramps had you feeling so weak that even answering felt like a chore. instead, you just closed your eyes and tried to breathe through it.

sylus didn’t push for more. instead, he slipped off his shoes and settled himself next to you, his large body filling the space on the bed. without a word, he placed his warm hand on your lower back, rubbing slow circles that were so gentle, you could almost melt into the touch.

“let me help,” he whispered, his voice soothing.

you sighed, grateful for his presence. the way he rubbed your back felt like he was trying to massage the pain away, his hand firm but careful. “it’s just really bad today,” you finally murmured, your voice strained. “nothing’s helping.”

sylus frowned, a flash of frustration passing through his eyes. “i hate seeing you like this,” he admitted, his silver hair falling into his face as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “i wish i could take it all away.”

you felt the weight of his words in the warmth of his touch. he always hated seeing you in pain, especially when there was nothing he could do to fix it. but even in moments like this, when all he could offer was comfort, he did it with so much care that it almost made the pain more bearable.

he stood up briefly, disappearing into the bathroom before returning with a fresh heating pad. he carefully placed it against your lower stomach, adjusting it until it was in the perfect spot. the warmth immediately began to soothe the cramps, at least a little.

“here,” he said softly, sitting back down beside you. “try this.”

you gave him a weak smile, grateful for the gesture. “you’re spoiling me,” you mumbled.

“you deserve it, sweetie,” he replied without hesitation. “especially when you’re feeling like this.”

he lay down beside you again, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist, pulling you close against his chest. his body was warm, solid, and the way he held you made you feel safe, like nothing else mattered but making sure you were okay.

“you know,” he said after a few moments of silence, “i read that massaging certain spots can help with cramps.”

you raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him through tired eyes. “did you really?”

he smirked, his crimson eyes twinkling with amusement. “i did. i looked it up earlier.”

“i can’t believe you looked that up,” you muttered, feeling a soft laugh escape your lips despite the pain.

“i’ll do whatever it takes,” he said with a shrug, then started gently kneading your lower back in slow, steady motions. “is this okay?”

you let out a long breath, feeling the tension in your muscles begin to ease under his touch. “yeah,” you whispered, closing your eyes. “that’s perfect.”

his hands worked magic, applying just enough pressure to relax your aching muscles without causing more discomfort. he was slow, deliberate, as if every touch was meant to ease your pain, and you could feel yourself starting to relax under his care.

“just let me take care of you, sweetie,” he murmured softly, his voice low and comforting. “you don’t have to do anything right now. just rest.”

you didn’t argue. the combination of the heating pad and sylus’ gentle massage was starting to lull you into a peaceful state, your body finally beginning to loosen up after hours of tension. the pain was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp, dulled by the warmth of his hands and the feeling of him beside you.

he shifted slightly, pulling you closer so that your head rested against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, a calming rhythm that made you feel more grounded. “i’ll stay right here,” he whispered, his lips brushing the top of your head. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you smiled faintly, your hand resting lightly on his chest as you snuggled into him. “i’m lucky to have you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

“no,” sylus replied softly, his hand continuing to rub soothing circles on your back. “i’m the lucky one.”

the two of you lay there in comfortable silence, the world outside forgotten as he held you close. the pain might not have gone away completely, but having sylus there, his warmth, his touch, made it so much easier to bear.

“just rest,” he whispered again, his voice so soft, like a lullaby. “i’ve got you, sweetie.”

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dollyswishingwell · 2 days ago

Text

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ First sight of the bump

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ part 3 of the pregnancy series, just adorableness

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They notice your bump is finally showing

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The gentle waves whispered against the sand as the breeze curled through the open windows of your estate, salt-sweet and warm. The curtains fluttered, and the sky outside was painted with strokes of peach and lavender.

You padded barefoot through the marble-floored living room, humming softly as you traced your fingers over the petals of the fresh peonies Rafayel had arranged that morning. He insisted flowers bloomed better when you were near them, something about your presence being “the only divine thing that exists on this wretched earth.” Typical.

You wore one of his oversized silk shirts again. Pale blue, unbuttoned low and slouched off one shoulder, brushing the tops of your thighs. It was soft and smelled like him, salt, bergamot, and something dark and oceanic. It was also the only thing that made you feel remotely cute today, as your body slowly began to shift with the baby growing inside you.

You’d been self-conscious about it all day, hugging a pillow over your belly when you sat, avoiding mirrors, unsure if it was actually a bump or just the extra cake Raf had fed you in bed this morning.

But then you heard his voice from behind you.

“…Pearlie.”

You turned, startled, to find Rafayel standing in the archway. He must’ve just returned from a meeting, his coat draped over one arm, hair tousled by the wind, his blue-and-pink eyes locked on you like he hadn’t breathed the whole time he was gone.

His gaze wasn’t on your face.

It was on the soft swell beneath the shirt.

His voice came out low, almost reverent.

“Come here.”

You hesitated, suddenly shy, fingers curling at the hem of the shirt. “Don’t look too closely,” you mumbled, half teasing. “I think it’s just bloat…”

But he didn’t laugh.

He crossed the room in a few silent steps, and then his warm hands were on your hips, thumbs brushing just above the bump, and he slowly sank to his knees before you.

You stared down at him, your elegant, cold, sea prince of a husband, kneeling for you again, but this time, in quiet awe.

“You’re showing…” he whispered, almost breathless. “It’s there. You’re, growing it. Them.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t expected him to look like that, like he was seeing a miracle.

“I thought I’d be the first one to notice,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your belly. Then another. And another. “And I am. Good.”

You giggled, wiping at your eyes without realizing you’d started crying. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“Of course not,” he said smoothly, trailing kisses in a lazy line across your bump. “I’m simply worshipping the shrine you’ve become. Isn’t that what husbands are for?”

You carded your fingers through his waves, and he rested his cheek against your belly, closing his eyes.

“Our little pearl,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re going to be the prettiest baby in the world. But still not as pretty as your mother.”

Then, with a sly smirk, he peeked up. “Do you want me to draw them? The bump. So we remember the first time we saw them like this.”

You nodded, tears in your lashes again.

He stood, scooping you into his arms with maddening ease and carrying you to the chaise by the window, mumbling to himself:

“Need softer pencils. Pink-toned paper. I want to get the shape of your thighs just right…”

And as the waves kissed the shore, he sketched you lovingly, over and over, bump and all, while murmuring about building a cradle carved from coral and naming the baby something “ridiculously romantic.”

You were already everything to him.

But now, you were his whole ocean.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

It was still early, sun barely stretching across the horizon, sea mist clinging to the windows of your bedroom like a soft veil.

Zayne had already returned from his morning run, quietly meticulous as always. His hair was damp, towel slung over his neck, and he wore a crisp white tee and grey joggers that still clung to him from the workout. The house was peaceful. Quiet. Safe. Just as he liked to keep it for you.

You, however, were lost in your own little ritual, humming softly at the vanity as you brushed through your hair in your pale satin slip. You didn’t think much of how the fabric clung to your stomach now, just slightly. Barely. You assumed it was just the angle, maybe the lighting. Maybe your imagination.

Zayne passed behind you silently with a glass of lemon water in hand, intending to remind you to drink it before breakfast. But then he stilled. Mid-step.

You didn’t notice it at first. You were too focused on trying to clip a bow into your hair just right. But then his reflection in the vanity mirror caught your eye, how he’d frozen completely, brow furrowed, gaze locked somewhere low. He was staring.

“…What?” you asked, blinking. “Is my clip lopsided?”

Zayne stepped closer, setting the glass down beside you without a word. His eyes never left you.

“No,” he said softly, voice steady but quieter than usual. “Turn a little.”

You frowned, confused, but did as he asked. The moment you twisted at the waist, the soft curve beneath the silk became visible from the side. Subtle. But undeniably there.

And Zayne… just stared.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, unless you knew him as intimately as you did.

His hand reached forward, almost hesitantly, and hovered just shy of your bump.

“I didn’t think…” he murmured, eyes narrowing in thought. “It’s showing.”

You gave him a bashful little smile and pressed a hand to your belly. “It’s tiny,” you said. “Probably just looks bigger when I’m sitting like this.”

But Zayne shook his head, firm and clinical. “No. It’s not bloating. The shape is consistent. Lower placement. It’s the uterus expanding.” A pause. Then more softly:

“It’s them. They’re growing.”

Your heart skipped.

And then, without asking, he slowly knelt in front of your chair, Zayne, your stoic, surgically sharp husband, on one knee, gazing at your bump like it was something holy.

“You’re changing,” he said, almost in awe. “And it’s not just physiological. You’re… glowing.”

You laughed, flustered. “That’s just the expensive skincare line you bought me.”

He smirked faintly. “No. That’s you. My wife. Carrying our child.”

His hands slid up your thighs and rested gently on either side of your stomach, and he leaned in to press a slow, reverent kiss to the bump. Then another. Then one more, just above your belly button, before resting his forehead there, breathing deeply.

“I should have noticed it last night,” he muttered into your skin. “I always inspect your body before bed.”

You flushed, smacking his shoulder lightly. “That’s not a clinical duty, Doctor Zayne.”

“I consider it part of your care plan,” he replied smoothly, before kissing your bump again. “Your body is officially under observation.”

You giggled, sliding your fingers through his black hair, heart aching with affection. “You’re being… so soft.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” he admitted, still kneeling there in his joggers like a man utterly undone. “You don’t even understand what you’ve done to me.”

Then, ever Zayne, he straightened, composed, and tapped your glass of lemon water with two fingers.

“Now drink all of this. And lie down for twenty minutes. I want to do a fetal positioning check before breakfast.”

“Zaynie,” you whined, but his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw.

“You’re glowing,” he repeated, this time like it hurt. “You’re not allowed to do it alone.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You’d woken up without him beside you, which was rare.

Xavier usually slept late. Or at least pretended to, just to stay curled around you longer, arms wrapped around your waist like he had no bones. But today, he wasn’t in bed. Instead, the faint aroma of tea and citrus hung in the air, he’d been in the kitchen.

Still half-asleep in one of his oversized button-downs, you wandered into the living room of the Linkon penthouse, rubbing your eyes. The silk barely skimmed your thighs, and the hem curved gently around your belly now, a small but undeniable bump that hadn’t been there last week. You didn’t even think about it.

Xavier was perched on the sun-warmed couch, shirt half open, his pale chest rising and falling slowly. A book was balanced in one hand, though his eyes weren’t on it. They were on you.

More specifically: on your stomach.

You blinked, shyly tugging the shirt hem down. “You’re staring…”

He didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head, eyes like glass under the sun, soft and stunned.

“You’re… showing.”

You looked down, hugging the fabric across your belly. “A little,” you whispered. “I wasn’t sure if you’d notice…”

“I always notice,” he said simply, closing the book and setting it aside.

He moved so gracefully, barefoot across marble, sleep-mussed silver hair falling into his eyes as he reached you. His fingers curled gently at your waist, thumbs brushing over the bump, feather-light.

“I felt it when I held you last night,” he murmured. “But I didn’t want to say anything. Thought it might make you shy.”

“I am shy,” you mumbled, flushing deeply.

He knelt slightly to press his lips to the bump, almost sleepy in the way he worshipped it, resting his temple there afterward. “…It’s real now.”

You nodded, fingers brushing through his hair. “It always was.”

“I know.” He exhaled softly. “But I can see them now. The tiniest little proof.”

You stood there for a moment, his arms around your hips, his cheek against your belly, the sunlight catching on his lashes.

Then he looked up at you, lips curling faintly. “They’re probably going to be just like you.”

“Clingy?”

“Pretty,” he whispered. “And dangerous.”

You laughed.

Xavier tugged you gently onto his lap, guiding you into a comfortable sprawl across the couch with him curled underneath you like a sleepy cat. He lazily pulled the shirt open just enough to see the bump again, resting his hand over it.

“Should I draw them today?” he asked, voice already thick with drowsy contentment. “Like I used to draw you, before we were married. I want to remember this. The very first time I saw you like this.”

“You mean the stick figures?”

You pressed a kiss to his jaw and tucked yourself into the crook of his neck.

He smiled softly.

“I’ve always been obsessed with you,” he whispered. “But now I think I’ll be worse.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

It was one of those lazy, golden hours where the world outside didn’t exist. Just you, Sylus, and the faint crackle of the fireplace he insisted on lighting even when it wasn’t that cold.

You were curled up in his lap sideways, your arms slung around his neck, one of his shirts hanging loosely off your frame. He’d brought you here for a “quiet week,” which, in Sylus-speak, meant locking down the whole property and letting his enemies wonder where the hell he disappeared to while he kissed you stupid between chess matches and ten-course meals.

Your lips were brushing over his in lazy half-kisses, giggly and clingy. He’d just said something smug, probably about how soft and cute you were for someone so dangerous, and you rolled your eyes, shifting closer to straddle him fully.

That’s when he noticed.

You felt his hands still on your hips, and his red eyes narrowed.

“…Wait.”

You blinked, still smiling. “What?”

He didn’t answer at first. One hand lifted from your thigh, slipping under the shirt. His palm flattened over your stomach, slow. Careful.

And then he smirked.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured, voice a purr against your cheek. “What’s this, kitty?”

You swallowed, suddenly shy under his gaze. “I—it’s not much yet—”

“You think I don’t recognize your body like the back of my hand?” he cut in, the words fond, amused. “It’s a bump.”

You buried your face in his shoulder. “Don’t say it like that…”

He laughed low in his throat, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “Oh, no. Don’t hide now. You’ve been strutting around here in my shirts like a pampered little queen and didn’t think I’d notice your tummy getting rounder?”

You pouted. “It’s small.”

“It’s mine,” he said simply, pressing a kiss to the swell of it through the fabric. “Proof.”

You watched as Sylus, your infamously ruthless husband, the one who once bought an entire arms syndicate just to dismantle it, gently tugged your shirt up and stared at the bump like it was something precious.

He traced slow, teasing circles with his fingers around your navel. “You’re already spoiling them, aren’t you? Eating pastries in bed. Sleeping in past noon. Getting massaged while you boss me around.”

“You like being bossed around,” you whispered, grinning.

“I like you,” he corrected. “And I love this. Every inch of it.” He kissed the bump again, then looked up through his lashes. “I’m going to be even worse now, you realize.”

You tilted your head. “Worse how?”

“More protective. More obsessed. You think I let you out of my sight before?” He chuckled darkly. “I should buy you another safe house. Or ten.”

You whined playfully, burying your face back into his neck. “You’re crazy.”

“For you,” he hummed, arms tightening around you. “And for the little tyrant you’re growing in there.”

Then, softer, barely above a whisper:

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”

You melted.

And for the rest of the evening, he refused to let you leave his lap, pressing kisses to your bump every few minutes like it was a prayer, murmuring what kind of empire your baby would one day inherit, as if it were already decided.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The rain tapped softly on the Skyhaven glass, distant and calming. Downstairs, the penthouse was silent, save for the quiet hum of the smart lamps dimming on their own and the occasional flicker from the fireplace.

You were curled up in Caleb’s private library, sunk deep into a velvet armchair with a half-eaten bowl of snacks in your lap and your tablet dimmed beside you, still on that silly slice-of-life drama you were rewatching for the third time. The scent of peach tea lingered faintly from your cup, long since gone cold.

And you? Dead asleep.

The hem of Caleb’s Farspace uniform shirt, stolen from him, of course, had ridden up a little as you slept, revealing just a sliver of your soft lower belly.

That’s how Caleb found you.

He’d just returned from a brief strategy meeting, storm-wet boots off, jacket abandoned somewhere, purple eyes already scanning for you the second the elevator opened. You weren’t in the bedroom. Or the kitchen. Or the couch.

But he knew.

You always fell asleep in the library when you were waiting up for him.

His expression softened immediately when he saw you: messy hair, drooling slightly, your body curled around a plush pillow with snack wrappers scattered at your feet. He stepped over them quietly, crouched in front of you, and went to brush a crumb off your tummy…

And froze.

His hand hovered midair, eyes locked on the small, unmistakable curve of your belly.

“…You’re showing.”

His voice was so low you might’ve missed it if you were awake.

Carefully, reverently, he reached forward and touched it, thumb brushing gently over the new swell.

Something in his face shifted. Like the soldier in him stepped back. Like the colonel vanished, leaving only Caleb, the boy who grew up loving you and never stopped.

You stirred slightly at the touch, blinking awake. “Mm… Cal?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just wrapped one arm around your waist, lifting you into his arms in one smooth motion.

You squeaked sleepily, curling into his chest. “I was watching something…”

“I saw,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “And stealing my shirt again, I see.”

You blinked again. “…Wait, is this about the snacks?”

“No,” he said quietly, still carrying you. “It’s about the bump.”

You froze a little. “…Oh.”

He looked down at you then, purple eyes soft, unreadable.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I-I wasn’t sure it counted,” you mumbled, flustered. “It’s just tiny. I didn’t want to make it a big thing—”

He stopped halfway up the stairs, tightening his grip on you.

“It’s a big thing,” he said seriously. “It’s the first thing.”

Your heart stuttered.

He walked the rest of the way in silence, setting you gently down on the bed, his hands still cradling your waist. He sank to his knees in front of you, pressing a kiss just under your navel, where the swell began.

Then another. And another.

“I’ve waited my whole life to see you like this,” he murmured against your skin. “To come home to you… and this.”

You felt your cheeks burn. “It’s really showing, huh?”

“Mmhm.” He looked up, smirking now. “Barely. But I see it. And I always will.”

Then he rested his cheek there, on the soft curve of your belly, eyes closed.

And for the first time since you told him the news, Caleb, Colonel Skyhaven, cold, calculating, famously unshakable, looked undone.

“I don’t care how many fleets I command,” he whispered. “This is the most important mission I’ve ever had.”

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