#and again for emphasis THE CURLS

[mmelolabelle]

I cannot believe people were so pissy about Assad’s casting as Armand, look at him —

The man looks like every homo-repressed renaissance painter’s wet dream - like 10/10 would paint him as Jesus or several angels into as many frescoes as possible.

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[fear-is-truth]

SQUID GAME : HOW THEY EAT YOU OUT

➛ warnings. — oral sex (f!receiving) ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ MDNI 18+ ➛ jackie's note. — a bit rushed; my apologies ➛ ft. nam-gyu (124) ‧ thanos (230) ‧ dae-ho (388)

NAM-GYU eats you out like it’s a punishment. like you did something to piss him off, and this is the (glorious) consequence—laid out beneath him, thighs hooked over his shoulders, his mouth hot and unrelenting against you. he doesn’t ease you into it. no teasing, no soft kisses, just his tongue swiping up your slit in one broad, wet stroke before his lips latch onto your clit. sucks hard enough to make you gasp, hands scrambling against the sheets. he smirks into you, barely giving you a second before diving back in, his fingers spreading you open wider so he can work his tongue deeper.

he’s messy with it, too. obscene, really. making sure you hear every wet, lewd sound as he devours you. when he pulls back for air, his mouth is slick, spit and arousal smeared all over his chin. “fuckin’ dripping,” he mutters, more to himself than you, “so easy.” his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you from squirming away. “stay still,” he orders, and when you don’t immediately obey, he presses a hand down on your lower stomach, pinning you in place. “didn’t say i was done, did i?”

and then he’s back on you, lapping at your clit, the cold metal of his ring grazing your skin as he presses two fingers inside, stretching you out without warning. the contrast—the warmth of his tongue, the ice of his ring—makes you shudder, a broken whimper slipping past your lips. he groans at that, greedy. fuck, he loves the way you sound. “knew you’d like that,” he taunts, fucking his fingers into you faster, mouth working in tandem.

his free hand moves, sliding up your body, and then he’s pressing those same cold fingers against your lips, smearing your own slick over them. “open,” nam-gyu orders. when you hesitate, he grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. his pupils are blown, his expression somewhere between cruel and wonder. “be good. taste yourself.” you part your lips, and he pushes two fingers inside, pressing down on your tongue. “good girl,” he drawls, before lowering his head again, tongue curling over your clit in quick, ruthless flicks. your moan is muffled around his fingers, eyes rolling back as heat pools low in your belly.

he can feel it inthe way your thighs tremble. he chuckles against you, low and mean. “gonna cum for me, baby?” he goads, curling his fingers for emphasis. “go on, then. make a mess.” and when you do, legs trembling, the moan breaking into a choked sob, nam-gyu doesn’t stop. just groans into you, drinking in every last drop, lips and chin wet with it. when he finally pulls away, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, grinning wolfishly down at you. “fuck… look what you made me do,” he muses, glancing down at the dark spot on his jeans. then he leans in, presses a languid, filthy kiss to your mouth, making sure you taste yourself on his tongue. “hope you’re gonna clean that up.”

CHOI SU-BONG eats you out like it’s his favourite pastime (apart from partying and taking drugs… or both) he’s got you spread out on the thin mattress, legs draped over his shoulders, knees shaking, and he’s barely even started. presses an open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another, dragging his tongue along your skin just to hear that little sigh escape your lips. “what, you nervous?” he taunts, looking up at you with that smug little smirk. “c’mon, señorita, i don’t bite—” his teeth scrape ever so lightly at the soft flesh. “—unless you want me to.”

and then he’s in, burying his face between your thighs like a man starved, tongue flicking against your clit before dragging down, teasing at your entrance, humming like he’s savouring the taste. and fuck, that little hum alone sends a jolt through you. he’s talking between licks, of course he is, lips slick and breath warm against your skin. “mhmm so good, fuck— could eat you for days.” then he moans, a low, satisfied sound as his tongue plunges deeper, and the vibrations make your whole body jerk. he’s insufferable, but he’s so good at it. alternates between deep, slow strokes of his tongue and quick flicks over your clit, gauging your every reaction. “that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “feels good, huh?”

you nod, or try to, but he’s already got a hand braced against your stomach, pressing you down, keeping you from arching up too much. su-bong looks up at you again, pupils blown open, mouth shining. “say it,” he drawls, before sucking your clit between his lips, tongue laving over it like he’s savouring something decadent. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans against you, rutting his hips against the mattress. “fuck, you’re killing me,” he pants, but he’s grinning, breathless and wrecked. “gonna let me make you come, baby? bet you’ll look so pretty for me.”

he doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop licking, doesn’t stop anything until you’re shuddering beneath him, crying out as he works you through it, murmuring praises against your skin because he simply can’t help himself. and when you finally go limp, chest heaving, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. “damn,” he exhales, crawling up to kiss you, slow and filthy, making you taste yourself on his tongue. “wanna go again?”

KANG DAE-HO eats you out like he’s got something to prove—not in an arrogant show-off way, but in that eager, wide-eyed, desperate-to-make-you-feel-good way. his big hands are warm, gripping your thighs as he presses tender, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of them, he’s savouring you, like he could do this all night and still not get enough. and when he finally buries his face between your legs, he lets out this quiet, needy moan, his breath stuttering against your skin.

eyes flicking up to meet yours. he’s got that lovesick look on his face, cheeks flushed, lips wet. “is this okay?” when you nod, breathless, he smiles—sweet and a little bashful—and then he’s back at it, tongue flicking over your clit in careful, deliberate strokes, humming softly. he can’t stop making little noises, soft groans and breathy whimpers, like he’s the one getting worked up from this. his grip on your thighs tightens every time you let out a sound, and fuck, when your fingers tangle in his hair and tug—just a little—he practically whines against you, grinding himself into the mattress, he simply can’t help it.

“so good,” voice muffled as he presses his tongue inside, slow and deep. “so fuckin’ good, baby…” he pulls back just to glance up at you again, lips glossy, panting a little. “you—hah—you taste…” he trails off, shaking his head like words aren’t enough. and then he’s right back at it, sucking your clit into his mouth, moaning low in his throat when you buck up against him. thick fingers slide into you next, careful, coaxing, curling just right, and the sound he makes when you tighten around him— “please, wanna feel it—wanna taste you so bad—” he pants, pressing kisses to your thigh between kitten licks, fingers never stopping. and when you do—when you arch off the bed, thighs shaking—dae-ho just groans, holding you through it, whispering sweet praises between kisses, licking you through every aftershock. when he finally pulls away, cheeks flushed, he just grins boyishly up at you. “holy shit,” his voice thick with awe. “can we do that again?”

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

-

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position. 

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood. 

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache. 

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish. 

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income. 

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air. 

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him. 

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss. 

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic. 

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt. 

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you. 

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance. 

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job. 

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit. 

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed. 

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.” 

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him. 

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment. 

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone. 

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are. 

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you. 

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you. 

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy. 

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking. 

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations). 

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too. 

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man. 

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin. 

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap. 

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind. 

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams. 

“Not bad,” you squeak. 

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Five days, Five bouquets

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?"

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: talk of a fake marriage for the sake of a mission; fluffff

Author’s Note: This is written for the writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I wasn’t planning on writing something so soon because I’ve still got a project going on right now, but your prompts and everything were just so alluring, I couldn’t help myself. I hope you enjoy this, my dearest. And I am almost entirely certain that this won’t be my only entry to your writing challenge, because I've got some more ideas lol. Here is a small continuation to this story: A Home for Now

Divider by @saradika-graphics ♡

Masterlist

“Again, Bucky?”

You don’t even try to mask your breathless laughter, the warmth of it slipping through as you rise from your seat.

The front door clicks shut behind Bucky and he scuffs off his boots half-heartedly on the door mat. There is a bouquet of flowers in his hand. And an even larger grin on his face.

The table before you is still cluttered with the remnants of your cover - documents, notes, a meticulously crafted facade of a life together.

A life that isn’t real, except for moments like these, when the borders become smudged just enough to make you wonder.

“‘Course, sweetheart,” he says, still smiling so wide, but his tone does not hold a trace of irony. “What kinda guy d’you think I am? Four days in a row and I just stop?” He scoffs as if the mere thought offends him. His voice is honeyed.

He stalks over to you standing at the table and holds the bouquet out for you. It is an understatedly beautiful arrangement of dusky pink roses, fluffy ruffled carnations, ivory lilies with petals curling slightly at the edges. Wisps of silvery foliage peek through, adding a breath of frost to the warmth. And then there are the deep inky leaves interwoven among the blooms, like something divine pulled from the shadows.

You take them with fingers that begin to tremble just slightly. His hand brushes over yours. A blush makes its way up your face just like every time.

You have been undercover for five days, posing as a married couple by orders from Nick Fury. And every day, even though it’s not at all necessary for you both to keep your cover, Bucky brings you a bouquet when he gets ‘home’ from his fake job.

He is embedded in a high-profile consulting firm, shadowing a suspect deeply tangled in covert operations, while you take a closer look at his wife. She’s not at all innocent. She manages high-stakes charity galas, the kind that funnel money into places they shouldn’t be. You play the devoted wife, hosting brunches, attending yoga classes she goes to, letting cautious friendships lead you to the information you need.

Five days. Five bouquets.

Each one different, but all of them hold some unspoken thing. Something that makes you shiver.

The choking in your throat is disguised with a roll of your eyes. “You do know we’re supposed to be laying low, right? Kinda hard when you’re single-handedly funding the local florist,” you tease rather lightly.

Bucky chuckles, low but bright, and you swear you feel the sound more than you hear it. “Oh c’mon, doll. Long as we’re playin’ house, I gotta keep my wife happy.”

This is a joke. It is all a joke. But your pulse is not laughing, only speeding up, tripping at the way he puts emphasis on wife. As if the word fits too well in his mouth, as if he could get used to it.

Bucky has always been a gentleman to you. Even outside of missions. But since you started this one, moving into the same house on the outskirts of town for the sake of your cover, the grumpiness and stoicism that usually surround his aura at the compound are completely lost here with you. You’ve never seen him smile as much as you have in the last five days.

You clutch the bouquet a little tighter, take a closer look, and take in the many appealing colors and scents. “Thank you, Bucky. I love those,” you say warmly.

His expression falters just a fraction like it does every time, not quite knowing what to do with genuine gratitude when it’s meant for him. Although you show it to him all the time. A flicker of something unguarded passes over his features before he covers it with a scoff that only makes it out halfway. He looks off to the side, shifting his weight. “Well, can’t have my wife thinkin’ I'm slipping already now, can I?” he laughs a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, the tips of his ears just the slightest bit of pink.

You turn with a huffed laugh and perform the task of putting away the flowers. Shaking your head, you start to get highly aware of the wedding band around your finger, a piece of fiction Tony gave you to wear. It looks so real, yet it is a lie. And you hate it.

“Do I need to remind you that we’re not actually married?” The words fall with amusement but they sit heavier in the air than they should.

The ring fits perfectly, Tony made sure of that. But it still somehow presses against your skin. As if to remind you that Bucky is not truly yours.

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. You see him tilting his head from your peripherals as you reach for a vase. His smile is softened. “Don’t matter, sweetheart. Might as well treat you like my wife.” His voice is quieter now, less teasing. But sure.

The kitchen and living room are already brimming with the past four days of his affections.

One arrangement graces the coffee table, another stands by the window, and two more are carefully nestled between books on the shelf at the wall to your left. A home suffused with color, with life, with something neither of you dares to call by name.

You feel the warmth of his gaze on you. He doesn’t say anything, standing there relaxed, still with that proud and fond smile on his face, watching you as if he is engraving in his memory the way you fuss over where to place this latest offering.

And maybe you take just a little longer than necessary because if you turn too soon, you’ll have to meet his eyes.

And you don’t know if you can right now.

You’re not sure if you’d be able to look away.

But you know you should. Because this is not real.

But maybe - and this is the hope speaking - it could be someday.

“Imagine someone thinking of you and buying you flowers.”

- sleepyurl

[valkyriexo]

Pheromoan | Lee Know

ᑉ³pairing; Best friend Lee Know x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Fluff, Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI ( not spoiling it but it’s smut just … it’s smut)

ᑉ³Authors Note; A huge thank you to @skzdreamer13 for beta reading—you're the best! 💖 Just a quick heads-up: I switch between Minho and Lee Know throughout this fic, so keep that in mind while reading. Hope you enjoy, and feel free to share your thoughts!

Lee Know’s house was quiet when you arrived, the evening air sending a chill down your spine as you stepped up to his door. You knocked twice, shifting on your feet as you waited. A few seconds passed before the door swung open.

And then....

He just stood there.

He looked frozen in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorknob, the other gripping his phone. His gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, he didn’t move. His fingers twitched slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. His brows pulled together, eyes flicking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time.

“…Hi?” you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

He blinked once, twice. Then, like shaking himself out of a daze, he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

Still a little thrown by his reaction, you stepped inside, kicking your shoes off and setting your bag down near the entrance.

The scent of coffee lingered in the air, strong and familiar.

Just like him.

You turned to face him, catching the way his fingers curled slightly around the hem of his hoodie. His gaze flicked up, meeting yours for half a second before dropping again.

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s with you?”

Minho exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, suspicion taking over. But before you could press further, he turned on his heel, walking toward the kitchen.

You frowned but followed him anyway, watching as he moved around the kitchen with that effortless grace he always had. He reached for a mug, fingers curling around the handle a little too tightly, and you swore you saw the slightest tremor in his hands before he busied himself with the coffee machine.

“You want coffee?” he asked.

“I thought you didn’t like making coffee for other people,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Minho scoffed, keeping his back to you as he poured the dark liquid into a mug. “I don’t.”

A pause.

“But you’re already here.”

Your lips twitched at his halfhearted grumble, but the nagging feeling that something was off didn’t disappear. He was avoiding looking at you, focusing way too much on pouring the coffee, like it required all of his attention. Brushing it off, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table as a grin tugged at your lips. 

“Okay, you are not ready for what I’m about to tell you.”

Minho finally turned, setting your mug down in front of you before grabbing his own. He lifted it to his lips, fingers curling slightly around the ceramic. “Yeah?”

“Well,” you continued, already getting into it, “So, you know how Yuna lives in the same apartment building as me, right? Like, literally two doors down?”

Minho nodded slowly, bringing the cup to his lips, blowing softly over the steam. “Mhm.”

“Well.” You leaned in, dropping your voice as if someone might be listening. “I was leaving for work this morning, just stepping out into the hall, minding my business...when bam! Who do I see walking out of her apartment at six in the morning, wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

Minho’s fingers twitched around his mug, but he took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. “Who?”

“And I don’t mean ‘oh, he’s just an early riser, out for a morning stroll’ kind of vibe. No. This man stumbled out of there looking wrecked. Shirt all wrinkled, tie shoved in his pocket, hair a mess......like he’d just rolled out of bed.” 

Minho swallowed hard, then subtly shifted… just an inch. His eyes flicked to the side before returning to his cup.

You didn’t notice.

“And listen,” you continued, waving a hand for emphasis. “At first, I wasn’t even thinking SCANDAL!!! I was just trying to get a good look at this man. Like, good for you, Yuna, finally with a man, you know? I was ready to send a whole ‘you go, girl’ text.”

Minho cleared his throat, barely audible. His fingers flexed against the mug before he slowly lowered it, resting it on the table.

“But then,” you said, dragging it out for effect, “I saw who it was.”

Minho’s grip on his cup tightened.

You leaned in, eyes wide. “Minho.” 

His jaw tensed.

 “.....It was Park Jin-young”

Minho’s nostrils flared just slightly.

“And then—then—he saw me. The second we made eye contact, his entire soul left his body. Like, this man panicked. He froze, looked back at her door like he could somehow undo reality, then speed-walked down the hallway like a guilty teenager sneaking out after curfew.”

Minho finally moved...lifting his cup back up to his face, but instead of drinking, he pressed it against his lips like he needed the heat to ground him.

You kept going.

“And Yuna?” You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, she was even worse. I caught her peeking through the door crack, wearing somebody’s oversized hoodie.....definitely not hers, by the way.....like she was trying to assess the damage before committing to showing her face.”

Minho’s fingers drummed against the table.....slow, measured taps.

His knee started bouncing.

“She gasped. Like, full-on, hand-over-mouth, eyes-wide, like she just got caught committing treason. And then—do you know what she said?”

He inhaled deeply, pressing the cup harder against his lips, eyes unfocused.

“She had the audacity to look me dead in the eye and say—” You threw up air quotes. “‘It’s not what it looks like.’”

Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. He shifted again, subtly angling himself away from you.

You scoffed, oblivious to his distress.

“Like, girl. It is exactly what it looks like.”

Minho’s fingers tapped against his cup, slow and deliberate. His jaw flexed, then loosened, then flexed again.

“And listen, I know it’s technically none of my business, but JYP? JYP?! Of all people?” You shook your head in disbelief. “I mean, come on. She could have—”

“Are you wearing a new perfume?”

You stopped mid-sentence.

“…What?”

Minho’s voice was lower now, rough, like he was barely keeping himself together.

His fingers curled even tighter around his cup, his knuckles just barely turning white. His jaw flexed, and when he finally did look at you, his pupils were slightly blown, his breath coming just a little too fast.

“Your perfume. It’s different.”

You stared at him, momentarily thrown. That was what he had to say? That was what had him completely zoning out while you were delivering the hottest scandal of the year?

Lifting your wrist instinctively, you sniffed your skin. It smelled like…

....well, nothing.

“I literally wear the same perfume every day,” you said slowly.

Minho didn’t respond right away. Instead, he exhaled. Long, measured, controlled. Then, without another word, he stood up from the table, taking his coffee with him, and walked straight to the sink, bracing his hands on the counter.

You blinked. “Minho? What is wrong?”

He shook his head once, exhaling hard through his nose. “Nothing.”

But his grip on the counter told you it was definitely not nothing.

Was there something on your dress? A stain you hadn’t noticed? You subtly glanced down, smoothing your hands over the fabric. No, everything looked fine.

…Wait. Your breath.

Panic flared in your chest as you clamped a hand over your mouth. Oh, God. Had younot brushed well enough? You discreetly exhaled into your palm and took a quick sniff.

Nothing.

So what the hell was going on?

Minho didn’t turn around right away. Instead, he stayed at the sink, his back to you, fingers curling around the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His shoulders rose with a deep breath—then fell, slow and controlled, as if he was trying very hard not to spontaneously combust.

You frowned. “Minho?”

No response.

You tilted your head, about to push again, when, suddenl, he moved.

Without a word, without even glancing at you, he took a single step to the side. Then another. Then another.

Your eyes narrowed. “........What are you doing?”

Minho ignored you. Another step. Then another. Like he was casually relocating to the opposite end of the kitchen for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Your brow furrowed as you tracked his painfully slow retreat. He wasn’t even subtle about it. By the time he finally stopped, he was standing absurdly far away—back pressed against the fridge, arms crossed tightly over his chest, coffee cup abandoned on the counter like he didn’t trust himself to hold it anymore.

You stared.

He stared back.

A full five seconds of complete, suffocating silence passed between you.

Then—

“So,” Minho said, voice a little too even, “Yuna.”

You blinked.

“…Huh?”

Minho nodded, as if he was conducting a business meeting and not acting like a man on the verge of a breakdown. “Yuna,” he repeated. “You were talking about Yuna.”

Your lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, squinting at him. “Are you—?”

“I think,” he cut in, voice clipped, “you should finish your story.”

Your mouth hung open for a second. Then, your gaze dropped pointedly to the ridiculous amount of distance he’d just put between you.

“You want me to finish my story,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“From over here?”

A single, sharp nod. “Yes.”

You blinked again.

Then, after a long pause—“Okay, what is wrong with you?”

Minho’s jaw clenched. “I already told you. Nothing is wrong.”

You scoffed. “Nothing? You’re literally standing in another area code right now.”

He exhaled, closing his eyes for half a second before forcing them back open. “I’m just comfortable here.”

“Comfortable,” you echoed.

“Comfortable,” he confirmed.

You let out a breath, eyeing him like he was losing his mind. And honestly? Maybe he was. His hands were gripping his own arms way too hard, like he needed to physically hold himself back from something. His jaw was so tight you were surprised it hadn’t cracked.

What the hell was happening right now?

You took a slow step toward him.

Instantly, he stiffened.

You took another.

His back pressed further into the fridge.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re acting so weird right now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Minho inhaled sharply, looking like he wanted to melt into the wall. His fingers flexed against his biceps, then dug in tighter. You swore you saw the tips of his ears turning pink.

“You’re not finishing your story,” he said suddenly, desperate to redirect. “What happened next?”

You tilted your head, suspicious. “You really care that much about Yuna and JYP?”

“Yes.”

A slow blink. “...Minho, do you have a fever?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Finish the story. I'm so interested. ” He said with a deadpanned face.

You raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully. You weren’t sure what kind of internal battle he was fighting right now, but whatever it was... it was serious.

But fine. He wanted to play this game? You’d play.

You took another step forward.

Minho’s eye twitched.

Suppressing a grin, you propped your hands on your hips. “Where was I?”

His throat bobbed. “Yuna.”

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, feigning excitement. “So Yuna’s standing there, looking guilty as hell, right? And she knows she’s caught, but she’s still trying to act like nothing happened. And I’m just standing there, like—” You threw up your hands. “Girl. What are we doing here?”

Minho didn’t respond.

Because you had taken another step.

And now, the space between you was dangerously small.

You pretended not to notice the way his whole body locked up. “But do you know what the worst part was?”

Minho’s fingers curled tighter. “W-What.”

You leaned in slightly.

His breath hitched.

“She tried to change the subject,” you murmured.

Minho swallowed.

Your lips curled. “Sound familiar?”

Silence.

He was having a crisis.

But it had nothing to do with JYP or Yuna

Because whatever perfume you were wearing, whatever scent was clinging to your skin, was messing with his head.

It was subtle, but there. Just enough to seep into his senses, curling around his thoughts like smoke, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

“You,” he bit out." Are a problem"

You froze. “…What?”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring slightly as he looked at you—really looked at you—like he was on the verge of something dangerous. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looked frustrated,like he was mad at you, but not in the way he usually was.

“This—” he gestured vaguely at you, at the space between you, “—this isn’t normal. I don’t look at you like this. I don’t—” His voice faltered, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t think about you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

Like what?

Minho let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “But I do, don’t I?” His eyes flicked to yours, something raw and real in them. “I have for a long time.”

Your stomach flipped, your breath catching in your throat as realization started to dawn.

“Minho…”

His name barely made it past your lips before he was stepping closer.

His scent, warm, familiar, ..... and him... wrapped around you, overwhelming in a way that made your pulse jump.

“I thought I could ignore it,” he muttered, voice tight, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Thought I could just—pretend.” He huffed out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “But then you show up here, wearing that damn perfume, looking at me like that, and I can’t.”

You felt lightheaded.

Like that?

How were you looking at him?

“I don’t get it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line. He hesitated—just for a second—then exhaled, slow and shaky.

And then—

“…I like you.”

Your entire brain short-circuited.

“…What?”

His eyes finally met yours, dark, sharp, sincere. His jaw was still clenched, his fingers still curled like he wanted to touch you but couldn’t.

But his voice?

Low.

Graveled.

Deadly serious.

His voice, lower than you’d ever heard it, brushed against your ear as he spoke.

“I like you,” he repeated, slower this time.

Your stomach flipped.

Minho let out a quiet chuckle, breath warm against your skin.

“Still confused?”

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Minho liked you.

Minho.

Your best friend.

The person who had always been there. Who made fun of you relentlessly but never let anyone else do the same. Who acted like he didn’t care but always, always noticed when something was wrong.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Minho let out a slow breath, his expression shifting....something resigned creeping into his eyes.

“Say something,” he muttered.

You didn’t know what to say.

So instead—

You reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

Minho sucked in a sharp breath.

You hesitated, searching his face, then—

Screw it.

You tugged him forward, closing the space between you. The second your lips met his, he froze.

For a single, breathless moment, he didn’t move….like his brain was still trying to process that this was actually happening. That you had just pulled him in, kissed him like you’d been waiting for this just as long as he had.

A sharp inhale and a split-second of hesitation later... and then his hands were on you. 

One curled around your waist, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer like he’d been holding himself back for far too long. His lips pressed against yours, firm and certain, like he was making up for all the time he had wasted pretending he didn’t feel this way.

His breath was warm, his grip just shy of desperate, like he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because Minho kissed like he had something to prove. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones, make sure you knew exactly what he had been holding back all this time. It was slow, intoxicating, and just a little rough.

And God, he was desperate.

Your back hit the counter before you even realized he was moving you.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours, his grip on your waist unwavering. His breathing was uneven, lips just barely brushing yours as he exhaled.

You swallowed hard, staring up at him, lips tingling, heart racing.

Your lips parted, your mind racing to catch up, but Minho was already moving…his hands sliding up your waist, his lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—

Teasing.

Testing.

Waiting for you to break first.

And God, you were so close.

“Minho,” you whispered, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.

He groaned, a low, almost pained sound, before pulling back just enough to look at you in the eyes.

“You have no idea how hard I’m trying to be respectful right now,” he admitted, voice rough, ragged.

You swallowed, heart hammering.

Your breath was still uneven, lips still tingling, and yet Minho was staring at you like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers flexed against your waist, and you swore you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your dress.

“Say something,” he murmured, quieter this time. “Or I’m gonna start thinking that was a mistake.”

Your heart lurched. A mistake? The way he kissed you, like he’d been waiting forever, how could he even think that?

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

Minho swallowed, his grip on your waist not as confident as before. “No?”

“No, it wasn’t a mistake.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his dark eyes scanning your face for any sign of doubt.

And he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he wanted to ruin you.

He was searching…waiting…giving you one last chance to stop this before it went too far.

But you didn’t want to stop.

So you pulled him down, closing the space between you in a kiss that was nothing like the first. This one was desperate, hungry, a silent plea for him to understand everything you couldn’t put into words.

Minho groaned against your lips, his control finally snapping as he kissed you back just as fiercely. His hands tightened on your waist before sliding up, fingers skimming over your ribs, your back, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body, the way he moved against you—it was dizzying.

His fingers dug in just enough to make you shiver before he lifted you onto the cool surface in one smooth motion, stepping between your legs and caging you in with his body. 

The sudden shift sent a gasp tumbling from your lips, and Minho swallowed it whole, his mouth never leaving yours.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough.

His hands slid down, skimming the hem of your dress before slipping beneath, his fingertips dragging fire up your thighs. Your breath hitched as he gripped them, pulling you closer until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The low groan he let out sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, ghosting over your jaw, then down the curve of your neck. He paused there, his breath hot against your skin, his hands flexing against your thighs like he was battling himself.

Minho groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his control snapping like a frayed thread.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, voice strained, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. His hands continued to trail, and one made its way to your clothed heat.

Your breath hitched as you felt him rub you through the fabric.

Your fingers slipping under his hoodie, nails scraping lightly against his skin. “And what does that make you?”

Minho lifted his head, his dark, blown-out eyes meeting yours.

“Absolutely fucked.”

His eyes locked on yours, and suddenly, everything slowed down.

It wasn't desperate anymore.

It wasn't rushed.

He was staring at you, his eyes dark, his lips parted slightly, and you realized, in that moment, exactly how long he had wanted this.

For months.

For years.

For longer than he had ever let on.

He was looking at you like he had waited forever for this.

"You're sure?"

"Yes," you breathed. Your chest was rising and falling fast, your heart pounding.

"Okay," he murmured.

And then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugged them down.

You shivered, the air cold against your skin, and Minho let out a sharp exhale, his hands trailing down your thighs, spreading your legs wider.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice rough, heavy.

His fingers slipped between your wet folds, the pressure of his thumb on your clit making your breath catch in your throat.

As he continued his teasing, you could feel yourself giving in, the pleasure clouding your judgment. Your hips rocked against his hand, seeking more, and a moan escaped your lips as he slid a finger inside of you.

The feeling of his fingers inside you, curling up just the way you liked, was almost too much to bear.

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice filled with desire. You watched as he kneeled before you, his head dipping between your legs. His tongue finding your clit as his fingers plunged deeper into your pussy. You cried out, your body writhing in pleasure as he licked and fingered you. 

He hummed against your clit as his tongue teased your tight hole.

“oh my fuck.” Your eyes closed tightly as his tounge continued to explored your pussy, darting out to swipe along your folds.

Your moans becoming a melody to his ears.

"You taste so good," he said, his voice muffled

Your hands grip his hair, tugging at his dark hair and forcing his face deeper. It was as if he knews all your sweet spots, as if you had done this before, thrusting his long digits inside of you once more.

He gripped your waist tighter, pulling you closer as he began to thrust his tongue in and out of you, fucking you with his mouth.

You were trembling now, the pleasure almost too much.

It wasnt long before your mouth fell open in a silent scream and your cunt clenched around his fingers, walls spasming as you reached your orgasm and your cum trailed down the expanse of your thigh.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he growled.

But Minho wasn't done with you. Not even close.

"I need you," he groaned, his voice hoarse. "Please."

You couldn't refuse him. Not when he was looking at you like that, with pure, unadulterated want.

He stood up and you could see his cock straining against his jeans, his breathing ragged.

You leaned forward, your lips capturing his in a heated kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth. He moaned against your lips, his fingers tightening on your hips.

You reached down, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. You managed to unbutton them and shove them down his thighs, revealing his achingly hard cock.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, stroking him slowly, reveling in the sounds he was making.

He groaned, his hips jerking against yours, his breathing becoming more ragged as you continued to tease him.

"Do you want me?"" he said, his voice hoarse.

You lifted your hips, allowing him to position himself at your entrance.

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with desire and want.

You nodded. "Yes."

He pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply as he slowly slid his cock between your folds, the tip smearing his precum along your entrance before he pushed in, slow and deep, stretching you out. You gasped against his lips, the feeling of him filling you overwhelming.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, his voice shaking, his hands tightening on your thighs. “You’re... Fuck. youre so tight, baby-”

His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer as he began to move, his cock stretching you.

You could feel the heat of his length throbbing inside of you, the friction sending sparks shooting down your spine.

"You feel amazing," he growled, his voice strained.

He was holding back, trying to take things slow, but you needed more.

"Minho..." you whimpered, your body writhing beneath his.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured, his fingers gripping your hips tighter.

He moaned, his thrusts growing harder and faster. Your fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Your eyes rolled back with each deep slam of his cock into your squelching wet cunt, and your free hand scrambled to cover your mouth in an awful attempt to muffle the loud noises spilling out of your mouth.

"Don't." he grunted. "I want to hear every moan."

Your body was trembling, your cunt clenching around his cock.

"Please, baby," he groaned. "Let me hear you."

You could feel his cock twitch inside of you, the familiar tightening in your stomach as the pleasure built.

""Ahh- Fuck. I'm gonna-gonna n-n-nn"

You could feel yourself nearing the edge, the pleasure threatening to consume you.

His thrusts became harder and faster, driving his cock deeper inside of you.

"Oh my-"

The pleasure was overwhelming, coursing through you, consuming you, sending sparks shooting down your spine and a wave of warmth to pool in your belly.

Your vision blurred, and for a moment, it was like everything was suspended, the world going still.

As you rode the waves of your climax, your body tensed and convulsed, the pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Minho groaned, his body shuddering as he came.

He was still thrusting in and out of you heping you ride out your orgasm. you could see where your bodies were connected and the milky white ring that was forming at the base of his cock.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged as his arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

You could feel his heartbeat, thudding wildly against yours.

His warmth surrounded you, his arms tightening ever so slightly, as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. Your fingers curled into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp, and he exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a shudder.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. The only sounds in the room were your breaths, still uneven, still tangled together.

Minho pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder before shifting, just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched yours, and for the first time all night, the usual confidence in his gaze had softened into something quieter.

His fingers traced idle patterns against your skin, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should break the silence.

“…Are you okay?” His voice was low, almost careful.

Your heart clenched. You knew Minho—knew the teasing, smug exterior he put on for the world. But here, now, there was none of that. No walls, no masks. Just him.

His gaze dropped, his fingers flexing on your skin again. “I’ve been trying so hard to pretend I’m fine just being your friend. To act like I didn’t want more.” He let out a soft, humorless chuckle.

Your chest ached. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing against his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours, something flickering in his expression. Hope. Relief.

“Yeah?” he murmured, like he needed to hear it again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Minho exhaled, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with the kind of gentleness that made your heart stutter.

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—something important—but instead, he just kissed you. Slow, lingering, like he was savoring the moment, grounding himself in it.

And then, just as slowly, he pulled back.

You swunging your legs a little where you still sat on the counter. Minho reached for his jeans, slipping them on before turning back to you with an unreadable look.

Then—

“…What perfume was that?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

Minho tilted his head. “The one you wore today.”

You frowned, thrown off by the sudden topic shift. “I don’t know? I just grabbed one from my dresser.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You just grabbed one?”

“…Yeah?”

Curious now, you hopped off the counter and dug through your purse sitting near the entrance and pulled out the small glass bottle. You turned it over to check the label—

And immediately froze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Minho caught the change in your expression immediately. “What?”

You hesitated.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“…It’s a pheromone perfume.”

Silence.

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, very slowly—

“You what?”

“I didn’t know!” You held up the bottle defensively. “I just thought it smelled nice! I had no idea—”

Minho dragged a hand down his face. “So that’s why I couldn’t focus today.”

You bit your lip. “…Maybe?”

He exhaled sharply, staring at you like you had just changed the entire trajectory of his life. Then, rubbing his temples, he muttered, mostly to himself—

“This whole time, I thought I was losing my mind.”

You winced. “Uh—”

Minho turned his gaze back to you, dead serious. “You’re never wearing that again.”

You pouted. “But—”

He narrowed his eyes. “I swear to God.”

You grinned, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands as you hopped down from the counter. “Fine, fine.”

Minho eyed you for a moment longer, then sighed, pulling you into him again, his chin resting on top of your head.

You giggled. “So… does this mean you are obsessed with me?”

Minho stilled for half a second.

You barely had time to react before he leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered—

“You have no idea.”

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Congrats on 1k pookie!! You deserve this 🫶

Can I please have Kimi Antonelli with 3, 8, and 18?

WOULDN’T IT BE NICE TO LIVE TOGETHER?

1K SPECIAL - KA12

Soft make-out session + Cuddling + Comparing hand sizes

SUMMARY: Your morning routine with Kimi!

WORD COUNT: 432

WARNINGS: Fluff, some suggestive comments

FEATURING: Kimi Antonelli x Reader

NOTE: Awkward. Sorry you’re just now getting this

A SOFT KISS TO YOUR SHOULDER. That’s how most mornings started. You’d awake with a slight groan, stretch your arms out over your head, and then lazily melt back into the mattress. All while Kimi was making desperate— yet futile— attempts at awakening you. He’d kiss every inch of bare skin that he could, whispering words of encouragement to finally rise and shine for the day.

This morning you rolled over to face him, and he readjusted his arms accordingly. He nearly melted when you tucked yourself against his chest, curled up so peacefully. But he wouldn’t stand for this! It was time to get up. So, he tried shaking you awake, and when that didn’t work he tried singing awfully loud in your ear. Emphasis on awfully.

“Y/N,” He whined, pressing his nose to your neck before he kissed you again. He wasn’t making it easy to stay awake, especially with how tight he was clinging onto you and the way his breath tickled your skin ever so gently. “Come on, vita mia, it’s time to wake up.”

“Noo,” You draw out, pulling away in your still-sleepy state. Kimi leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You lean against him, lips moving in perfect harmony. He can feel the way you grin victoriously, especially when he rolls over onto his back, holding your waist as you rest atop him elegantly.

“Was this your goal?” He asks when you pull away for air. You don’t answer, and instead just lean back in for another kiss. He doesn’t complain. He loves having your lips on him! His hands slide up your back, tracing soft circles along the smooth skin. He tries to chase after you when you reel back, but you press your index finger to his mouth and slowly push him back down. “Hm?”

“Let me see your hands,” You command softly. He’s confused, but he listens. You like that a lot. You intertwine your fingers, taking in how his palms nearly engulf yours. You grin, turning them to the side to show him. “Look at how massive your hands look.”

You say it with such joy. Kimi’s not sure why. He doesn’t care though, because when you’re happy, he’s happy. “You know what they say about big hands?”

“What?”

“Better to-” As if your realization kicks in, you lightly hit his arm. He laughs. “Hey! I was gonna say ‘Better to hold you with!’”

“Are you ready to get up now?” He teases, pecking your cheek. You respond with a sigh.

“I suppose…”

“Grazie, vita mia.”

[kurokawaia]

Wearing the Uchiha symbol for the first time

Sasuke Uchiha 彡 Fem!Reader

MDNI 18+ | NSFW | WARNINGS :: the last! Sasuke (so like 19-20 y/o), fem!reader, afab, established relationship, rough sex, cervix kissing, manhandling, overstimulation, creampie, no protection, mating press, begging, possession, dracyphilia? praise, mention of UTI, very lovey dovey at the start before the real uchiha comes out 😈, reader is described to be shorter than sasuke + more . (total word count 2.1k+)

SYNOPSIS :: Sasuke sees you in his clan symbol for the first time and wastes no time in acting on that possessive impulse that rises over him | inspired by this drabble

Your body is aching all over, hair is exceedingly dishevelled, pesky red splotches left over your neck and chest. In addition, Sasuke has just slumped himself on top of you causing a huff to leave your swollen lips. "Sasuke," you managed to breath out, the words coming out strained. "Get yourself off, you're heavy!"

"You weren't complaining an hour ago," he mumbles against your skin, trailing up kisses from your breasts to the dip of you neck. A pleased sigh of content exits from your mouth, your arms curling around Sasuke's upper back before you let your fingers entangle with his black hair, nails lightly rubbing his scalp.

A pout forms on your lips. "Well that's different," you reply before you subtly roll your eyes. "When a six foot man drops his weight, of course I will loose my breath. I never said I didn't like it when you lay on my slowly." Emphasis on the word 'slowly' because truly you didn't mind, you love the times were Sasuke can laze on you, arm wrapped around your figure, his head smooshed against your breasts. Sasuke loves it, you love it.

In return Sasuke just lets a hum vibrate against your neck before lifting his head from below your ear. Your breath is stolen from you while you gaze into his duel coloured eyes and how his hair falls softly against his pale skin. And there you go falling in love all over again. Closing both your eyes simultaneously, Sasuke's lips brush against your own, planting a kiss.

This is before you suddenly break away from the kiss, and situate your hand on his cheek, pushing him away from you almost comically. "Stop teasing," you jokingly say, bringing your free hand to cover your blush coated face.

"What was that for?" Sasuke says confused, wondering if you were mad but the expression on your face says otherwise. He couldn't help a soft smile rise on his lips seeing your lips curve into a smile, the tone you spoke in also indicated you weren't made but he couldn't be too cautious.

You sit up as Sasuke does as well so your head doesn't smack into his, resulting in him straddling your hips while you lean on your palms. "I need to go pee," you tell him, placing a kiss on his cheek. "Unless you want no sex for a week or two when I get a UTI." When he doesn't reply you knew what his answer was, yes he is going to let you go piss. "I'll start the bath up as well, I'll be really quick I promise."

Sasuke reluctantly let you go, his eyes trailing your naked figure as you walked into the bathroom. (you piss rn and wash ur hands i aint writing what it feels like to piss 🤗) A shiver befalls you and goosebumps rise all over your skin, you quickly wrap your arms around yourself, trying to find something to cover yourself with.

The closest thing to you was Sasuke's dark blue nemaki which was discarded after the both of you undressed each other before. You slip on the soft cotton, threading your arms through and tying the sash loosely around your waist. Even without looking at yourself in the mirror, just by feeling and gazing down, you can easily tell that it's massive on you.

Leaning over, you twist the bath tap on to the hottest setting and plug the hole up. You stretch your arms above your head, trying to release dome of the built up tension from before. Walking back over to the bed, leaving the bathroom, you notice Sasuke wasn't there causing a small frown to come onto your face. You sit down on the edge of the bed wondering where Sasuke was.

That was until you almost had a heart attack seeing a figure move inside your shared wardrobe, it was just Sasuke. "Did you put the water on hot again?" Sasuke asks and your eyes widen.

"Oh, I did," you sighed, it's so cold outside, it's snowing! so turning it on hot fully made sense but it also made sense that the water would still take a while to cool down to actually bathe in it. "I'll go turn it down!" You stand up from the bed and you were about halfway to the bathroom.

Sasuke walks out the wardrobe and the pj's he was holding for you instantly just dropped as his eyes to what you are wearing. Frankly, he couldn't care less with what you were wearing more so to the symbol on the back of it. Time slows for him. The Uchiha crest sewn onto the back of the nemaki, his nemaki. You're wearing his Clan symbol on your back. Sasuke's eye couldn't help but flare up into that all familiar shade of red with spinning black tomoe as he gazes upon your figure.

Sasuke catches up in a few quick strides. Before you can turn the water down, his arm is around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. A startled gasp escapes your lips, your heart racing from the sudden move from sasuke.

"You're not going anywhere," Sasuke murmurs into your ear, the heat sending tingles down your spine.

"Sasuke, what--" you were effectively cut off was you were picked up and tossed onto the bed, his eyes never straying from yours as he moves over you, straddling your hips, his weight pinning your confused self down.

His lips press against your own and his hand moves to hold the back of your head above the pillow, making sure you wouldn't dare stray from him. You weren't complaining, not one bit, especially not as Sasuke's tongue slithers into your mouth causing you to moan into the rough kiss.

All you could do was indulge into the kiss, both of your breathy pants and moans getting swallowed by one another. You claw onto his shoulder, trying to find some stability while you arch into his toned abs, feeling them through the cotton.

Sasuke breaks the kiss, staring intently into your eyes and your breath was almost stolen from how possessive he was gazing at you. You wondered if you had did anything that would provoke such feelings but you honestly didn't know what you had did.

"You're mine, you know that," Sasuke mumbles, only a centimetre from your lips. His fingers thread under the topstitching of the nemaki, his fingers only slightly grazing your skin and it didn't do anything to help the pool of arousal gathering between your legs. "You know what that means?" 'That' referring to the nemaki and you finally realised.

You can only nod, words failing you under his intense stare, and you think if you were to speak you'd only fumble over your words. His lips crash down onto yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless, his hand gripping your hips possessively.

"You belong to me," he growls against your lips, his hand roaming, claiming every inch of you as his own. The nemaki slips from your shoulders, leaving you exposed beneath him. His lips follow the path of the fabric, marking you with kisses that burn like fire.

"Sasuke..." you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continues. The sensation of his lips, his hands, his weight pressing you into the bed—all of it overwhelms your senses, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Slowly, Sasuke undoes the sash and you thought it would help if you shimmied down the material off your arms but he stopped you, his hand pressing you down back to the bed. "You're keeping that on," he says against your skin. "You're okay with that, love?"

You nod frantically, simply just wanting his touch against your skin. "I need words. Say it," he presses, wanting to hear the word spill from your swollen lips.

"Yeah," you breathlessly say. "I'm okay with that, I just-- Please, I need you. You know I'm all yours."

"That's my girl," Sasuke smirks before everything fell into place. Your body now folded up into a tight mating press under Sasuke's body. And tears were falling from your pretty eyes down your skin from the pleasure and the over stimulation. Sasuke's cock was nuzzled perfectly up against your cervix, resting there and he kept all his cum up in your silky walls.

"Sasuke," you mewl out through sobs. "It's too much."

It's been two rounds already, in the same position, and your poor body getting folded into that position. Your back and knees were beginning to ache, but you loved how his dick trusted so perfectly up into your cunt, you see stars every time you gush around his cock.

Sasuke lowers down to your trembling body, tingles were getting sent all throughout your body from the kiss, he was being so rough yet deep. The breath was stolen from your lungs every time he moaned into your moan, and you had the same effect on him.

"You're doing so good for me," he hums against your skin, inhaling your naturally sweet scent. "You're going to take me, going to take everything I give you.

"Feels s' full though, Sasuke," you sob. "Don't think I can anymore."

He presses his lips to yours, his tongue entangling with your own and you both moan into each other's mouths. Sasuke drags his length out, a breathless sigh emitting from your mouth into his own, relief crossing your features, thinking that the two of you were done.

But then, all of a sudden your head was thrown back in overstimulation, and a moan strung from your mouth as his cock slides right back into your cum filled walls.

"Sweetheart, please," Sasuke begs into your ear, breath tickling your skin. "I need you right now... I know you want more too... you can take it for me, you do it all the time."

"O-Okay," you whimper, your walls fluttering helplessly around his cock. "Just one more... as much as I want more... I don't think I can."

His movements became faster, his cock thrusting into the depths of your needy hole as strained moans and whines left your throat. Sasuke was panting in your ear and an occasional deep groan slipped past his lips, the sounds which made your cunt flutter tightly around his length.

Sasuke was filling you up to the hilt, his throbbing pink tip hitting that soft, gummy spot in your cunt that caused you to scream out in fulfilment. "I know, my love," He breathed, causing you to let out a moan and sigh, body shaking with pleasure. "Taking it real good."

Your body tried to arch away from the pleasure, not being able to take the strong rolls of Sasuke's hips, but as you arched your back away, his thrusts only aimed deeper, harder into your G spot.

"Please, I wanna come," you cry out mewling. "So big, you feel so big, Sasuke."

Sasuke hunched over you, pulling you closer to him and connected your mouth in a sloppy, wet kiss, forcing his tongue inside your mouth, grunting into you while he swallowed your moans.

"Making you feel so good, aren't I?" Sasuke groaned his head tilted forward, sweat beading on his forehead as we watched your fall apart and tremble from his dick, broken moans slipping past your plump lips.

"Gonna fill you up," Sasuke groans. "You're taking me so deep, deserve to have my cum."

"'Wanna come, please," you beg, wanting to feel the release, desperate as the tears stream down your flushed cheeks. "Want it so bad."

You clench around his length as he increases his pace, instantly accommodating to the speed but your moans escalate. "Such a good girl," He leaned down and mumbled in my ear chased with a deep moan that stirred my insides clenching around his length..

"Come on," he moans and you spasmed around his length as your high washed over you, your legs shaking as his weight pressed down even more than it was as a deep groan leaves his lips, filling you up once more.

As silence washes over you two and your limbs straighten, falling comfortably into each other, holding each other close, no words needing to be spoken. "You're intense sometimes, Sasuke," you say lightly.

"I can't help it when it comes to you," Sasuke replies, getting up from your figure and sitting on the edge of the bed as you do the same. He feels your head lean on his shoulder and his chest swells. "I love you," he mumbles and a hopeless smile rises onto your face.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," you confess, pulling him down for another tender kiss. "I love you too- Oh my goodness the water!"

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

taglist :: @enouche @adlct515 @slutoru1207

[orangeblossomsintheair]

ARMS | CS55

u wake up with his arm around you. that’s the plot i fear

the first thing you noticed when you woke up was the heat. it wrapped around you like a blanket, thick and stifling, and you groaned softly, shifting against the sheets as you tried to find a more comfortable position.

but then you stopped. because something wasn’t right.

you opened your eyes, squinting against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, and immediately found the culprit: carlos’s arm. his bicep, to be exact, and it was... right there. practically in your face.

you blinked, momentarily confused by your predicament, until reality hit.

sometime during the night, your fiancé had flung his arm over you and kept it there. and now it was resting just above your head, caging you in completely.

“oh, come on,” you muttered, half-exasperated and half-amused. you turned your head slightly, trying to shift away, but all that accomplished was pressing your cheek closer to the ridiculous mountain of muscle.

you huffed softly, lifting a hand to push at his arm but couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbled out of you.

his muscles, even in complete relaxation, were ridiculous, thick and defined, warm under your touch. you poked him lightly, muttering, “what are you, a steel bar?”

tilting your head back, you glanced at him.

he was sprawled on his back, taking up most of the bed, his curls a chaotic mess against the pillow. his lips were parted, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, completely unaware of how obnoxious he was being.

“carlos,” you tried, your voice a sleepy grumble.

he didn’t move. of course, he didn’t.

you huffed softly, lifting a hand to push at his arm, but your fingers froze midair. because now that you were looking at it, at him, it was hard not to take in how unfairly beautiful he was.

your attempt to be annoyed crumbled instantly as you took him in. his jawline, dusted with faint scruff, caught the light just right and the freckles that decorated his cheeks were like a sprinkle of stardust. the warmth radiating off him was a comfort, even in the heat of midday summer.

you groaned again, quieter this time, because as much as you wanted to complain, the warmth and sheer solidity of him felt stupidly nice.

you rolled your eyes at yourself, trying to shake off the distraction.

“carlos..” you said again, louder this time, shoving at his arm for emphasis. he shifted slightly, a low hum rumbling in his chest, but his arm stayed firmly in place. If anything, it moved closer, the curve of his bicep now brushing against your forehead.

after a moment, you sighed in exasperation.

fine. if he wouldn’t wake up, you’d have to get creative.

without thinking, you tilted your head and in one swift motion, sank your teeth into his arm, the pressure firm but not painful, just enough to make your point.

he jerked awake instantly, a sharp inhale breaking the quiet. “Dios mío, what-” His voice was rough, accent thicker and gravelly with sleep, as he shot you a bleary-eyed look.

“good morning,” you said sweetly, even as you glared at him.

carlos blinked down at you, his arm still hovering near your face. his confusion melted into something amused, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. “did you just.. bite me?”

“you gave me no choice,” you shot back, shoving his arm off you. “you were suffocating me with your bicep.”

he chuckled as he stretched out beside you, clearly unbothered. “you could’ve just moved me.”

“i tried,” you said, glaring at him. “you’re like a human rock.”

carlos grinned, leaning closer until his face was inches from yours. “admit it, you like it.”

you rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed under his teasing gaze. “next time, I’m biting harder.”

he laughed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back against him before you could protest. “mm.. don’t threaten me with a good time, baby..”

you blinked at him, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “excuse me?”

"yeah," he drawled. "biting, maybe it’s my thing now. maybe I should look into it, explore this side of me…"

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. "you’re impossible," you muttered, but the edge of annoyance had faded, replaced by the warmth of his teasing.

carlos’s smile softened as he pulled you closer, his hand sliding into your hair, and his breath tickled your ear as he whispered, “i should pin you down more.. give you an incentive.”

you huffed out a laugh, poking him in the chest, “is this a territorial thing? you like being claimed?”

he shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. "you never know, cariño. it could be our thing now."

before you could respond, he kissed the tip of your nose, cutting off any retort you might’ve had. And for a second, as you melted into his arms, it seemed like maybe this was your thing now.

[cumironi]

warning. fem! reader, daddy kink! toji, fingering, degrading, you give him viagra.

toji fushiguro has never felt this way before in his life. he’s always been a sexually charged man— always had a high libido, but this? this is becoming ridiculous. he’s not sure what the cause of it is, but he’s sitting at his desk at work. his fingers mindlessly type away at the keyboard, hand fiddling with the mouse, but his thoughts are only on one thing.

why on earth is he feeling so hot? fuck, and why is his cock so hard? why are beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead? he glances at the clock feverishly, muttering a curse to himself as he realises he’s only two hours into an eight hour shift. fuck, what does he do? what does he do?

the first thing he can think of is you, grabbing his phone with slightly shaky hands as he opens up your contact and presses on the call button. he glances around, making sure nobody in the office is close enough to hear, and listens to it ring. the moment you pick up, you hardly get a greeting out before he’s hissing into the receiver.

“alright, ya’ fuckin’ brat, what’d ya do?”

your response on the other end is a stifled giggle and a denial of responsibility on your part. he curls his upper lip, knowing immediately that that laugh means you do have something to do with this.

“don’t fuck around with me, girl, i know it’s your doin’. now tell me, what did you do, why is my cock so damn hard right now?”

you let out another small giggle, shaking your head even though he can't see you through the phone. you lean back against your pillows, stretching out comfortably as you reply in a light, teasing tone. “aw, poor baby. having some... trouble down there?” you ask innocently, drawing out the last word for emphasis. you can practically picture the scowl on his face, which only makes you grin wider.

“maybe if you're a good boy and beg nicely, i'll tell youuu..” you trail off suggestively, enjoying the power you seem to have over him in this moment. a thrill runs through you at the thought of reducing such a strong, confident man to pleading for relie— and all from the comfort of your own bed, no less.

he grunts, rolling his eyes at your innocent act. how you think you can fool him, he doesn't know. maybe because you're so fucking young? whatever the reason, it's working. he feels his cock throbbing in agreement with your suggestion, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“beg, huh? alright then, princess,” his voice drops to a low purr, “on your knees for me, sugar. show me just how much you want to help your big bad toji.” he chuckles, shifting in his seat as he waits for your response. he knows you won't disappoint— not when there's fun to be had.

you smirk to yourself, quite pleased with how easily you've gotten under his skin. you sit up straighter, crossing your legs primly as you respond in a sweet, sing-song voice.

“ohhhh toji, you know i'd love to! but...” you draw out the word dramatically, “...i don't think i will. after all, i'm comfy right where i ammm.”

you giggle again, delighting in the frustrated noise he makes on the other end of the line. you can almost feel the heat of his glare through the phone, and it sends a delicious shiver down your spine.

“besides, didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to make demands? if you wanna play, you gotta learn some manners first,” you punctuate your words with a wink, even though he can't see it.

his eyes narrow, the annoyance clear in his gaze as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “well isn't that just fucking rich? demanding manners from someone who clearly hasn't learned them yet themselves.”

he lets out a huff, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. but despite himself, he can't help but smile at your antics. “fine then, brat. how ’bout this? how ‘bout i give you a little taste of what you're denying me?”

there's a pause as he takes a moment to adjust himself, the sound of rustling fabric filling the silence between you both. he clears his throat, his voice dropping lower still. “how ‘bout i take matters into my own hands instead?”

you bite your lip, trying to suppress the excited flutter in your stomach at his words. you can practically imagine the sight of those large, capable hands wrapping around his thick length, and it sends a wave of warmth pooling between your thighs.

“that sounds... tempting,” you admit, your voice dropping to match his sultry tone. “but i'm still comfortable here. and besides, i'm not sure how well you handle rejection...”

you let the implication hang in the air, knowing full well how much it would irk him. you can already picture the look of stubborn determination on his face— the same look he gets whenever he sets his mind to something.

he snorts, a hint of amusement lacing his voice despite the growing irritation. “rejection? from you? well, ain't that just a fucking shame. please, kid, you don't know the first thing about turning me down.”

his fingers drum impatiently against his thigh, the tension in his body palpable. “look, i'm giving you a choice here. either you get off that damn bed and come play with me, or i'll just have to find my own release. and trust me, it won't be pretty.”

there's a dangerous edge to his words, a promise of things to come if you continue to deny him. he's not used to being teased like this, and it's starting to grate on his nerves. but goddamn if it's not also turning him on more than he cares to admit.

you shiver at the threat in his voice, a thrill of excitement mixed with a touch of fear. you know exactly what kind of'release' he's referring to—and the thought of it has your core clenching with need.

“ohhh, I'm shaking in my boots,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady despite the ache building inside you. “but you know what they say, baby... pride comes before a fall.”

you pause, letting the weight of your words sink in. “and honestly? i'm not sure i'd want to be around for the aftermath of your tantrum. seems like it might get messy...” you trail off, leaving the invitation open-ended. you're playing with fire, you know— but the thought of seeing him lose control, of witnessing the raw desire etched across his features, is too enticing to resist.

his patience snaps like a twig underfoot. “fuck it,” he growls, standing abruptly and pacing the room in agitation. “i‘ve had enough of your games, brat.”

he stops in front of the window, gazing out at the cityscape below as he tries to regain his composure. “listen up, kiddo. i’m coming over. and when i do, we’re gonna forget all about these silly little teases and get down to business.”

there's a finality to his tone, an unspoken command that brooks no argument. he's made up his mind, and now it's time for you to comply. “be ready,” he adds, his voice low and warning. “or else.”

your heart pounds in your chest at his declaration, a mix of anxiety and anticipation swirling within you. you quickly scramble off the bed, your feet hitting the floor with a soft thud as you rush to prepare yourself.

“or else what?” you challenge lightly, attempting to mask the tremble in your voice. “you gonna spank me like a naughty child? or maybe you'll just have to punish me some other way...” you let your words hang in the air, suggesting all manner of punishments that send a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins. you know you're pushing him, testing his limits—but part of you craves the chaos that follows such reckless behavior.

he laughs, but there's no humor in it. “don't tempt me, girl,” he warns, each syllable dripping with barely restrained lust. “because believe me, when i get my hands on you, you won't be sitting down for a week.”

he hangs up without another word, leaving you staring at the phone in disbelief. seconds later, there's a sharp knock at the door, followed by the jangle of keys. he must have kept a spare set, you realize, your heart leaping into your throat as the door swings open and he fills the frame.

he looks pissed. and turned on. and maybe a little bit crazy. “hello, sweetheart,” he drawls, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him with a resounding click. “ready to pay for all that attitude?’

he stalks towards you, a predatory glint in his eye.

your breath catches in your throat as he approaches, the air charged with tension and expectation. you stand frozen in place, unable to tear your gaze away from the fierce intensity in his eyes.

“i... i don't know,” you reply coyly, tilting your head to the side as you feign innocence. “attitude's kinda my thing. what makes you think i'd want to change?” you take a step back, retreating until your back presses against the wall. the cool surface provides a stark contrast to the heat radiating off your flushed skin.

he closes the distance between you in two long strides, one hand slamming against the wall beside your head as he looms over you. his free hand finds your hip, gripping it possessively as he leans in close.

“oh, i‘ll make you want to change,” he promises darkly, his breath hot against your ear. “i‘ll make you beg for it, princess. i‘ll make you scream so loud the whole damn neighborhood will hear you.”

he punctuates his words with a rough grind of his hips against yours, the hard bulge of his arousal pressing insistently against your stomach. “sooo, what's it gonna be, sugar? you gonna be a good girl for daddy? or do i need to teach you a lesson?” his hand slides higher, skimming along your ribcage until his thumb brushes the underside of your breast.

a gasp escapes your lips at the contact, your nipples hardening instantly beneath the thin fabric of your top. you squirm against him, feeling the throbbing pulse of his arousal against your belly.

“i... i...“ you stutter, caught between defiance and desire. “daddy? who said anything about daddies.” your protest falls flat, though, lost amidst the haze of arousal clouding your senses. you arch into his touch, seeking more friction against your sensitive flesh.

“teach me then,” you whisper, a daring gleam in your eyes. “show me how a real man handles a naughty girl.”

a low chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. “with pleasure,” he purrs, his grip tightening on your hip as he pulls you closer. his other hand moves lower, slipping beneath your skirt to find your panties damp with anticipation. “seems like someone's eager for their lesson,” he taunts, circling his fingertips around your swollen clit.

he pinches the sensitive nub firmly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. but when none comes, he smirks. “good girl,” he murmurs approvingly, his fingers continuing their torturous dance.

“now why don't you show daddy how much you want this?” he coos, leaning in to capture your bottom lip between his teeth. “bend over and spread those legs nice and wide.” a whimper escapes you as his fingers work their magic, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body. you're already so wet, so desperate for more of his touch.

“please,” you breathe, the word falling from your lips unbidden. “i need... i need...” you trail off, unable to articulate the overwhelming hunger consuming you. instead, you obey his command, turning and bracing your hands against the wall. you look back at him over your shoulder, your eyes hazy with lust.

“like this, daddy?” you ask feigned innocent, slowly bending at the waist and arching your back. you reach back with one hand to lift your skirt, revealing the soaked patch of fabric clinging to your ass. “is this what you wanted?” you purr, spreading your thighs wider in blatant invitation.

a guttural groan spills from his throat at the sight before him. “fuck yes,” he growls, stalking forward to press himself against your exposed rear.

his large hands cup your ass cheeks, kneading the supple flesh roughly as he grinds his rock-hard erection against your panty-covered cleft. “such a pretty little slut for me,“ he praises, his hot breath fanning across your skin.

without warning, he yanks your panties aside and plunges two thick fingers into your dripping channel. “god, you're so fucking tight,” he grits out, pumping his digits in and out of you at a brutal pace.

he curls them slightly, stroking that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle. “come on, baby,” he urges, his voice low and commanding. “ride my fingers like a good girl.”

a high-pitched moan tears from your throat as he penetrates you, your inner muscles spasming around his invading digits. the combination of pain and pleasure sends you spiraling into a frenzy of desire. “yes, yes, please!” you chant, pushing back against his hand shamelessly.

your pussy clenches greedily around his fingers, soaking them in your juices as he fucks you relentlessly. the sounds of your own arousal fill the room—moans, whimpers, the obscene squelch of his fingers moving in and out of your cunt.

“‘m going to cum,” you warn, your voice strained and breathless. “if you keep doing that, i'm going to cum all over your hand.”

a wicked grin spreads across his face at your confession, his thrusts becoming even more insistent. “then let go, sugar,” he encourages, adding a third finger to stretch and fill you further.

he quickens the pace, driving into you with a relentless rhythm designed to push you over the edge. “let me see how much you love being fucked by daddy,” he taunts, biting down on your shoulder to muffle his own growing arousal.

the sensation of his teeth on your skin only heightens the pleasure coursing through you, making your orgasm that much more imminent. “that's it, just like that, gooddd, ” he coaches, feeling your walls clench and flutter around his fingers.

a keening cry splits the air as your climax crashes over you, waves of intense pleasure ripping through your body. your pussy convulses around his fingers, milking them for every drop of satisfaction they can provide.

“toji!” you scream his name, the single syllable carrying the weight of your surrender. your entire world narrows down to the feeling of his hand inside you, coaxing every last tremor of bliss from your quivering frame.

gradually, the aftershocks subside, leaving you limp and panting against the wall. “fuck,” you curse weakly, trying to catch your breath. “what did you do to me?”

a satisfied smirk plays on his lips as he watches you come undone under his touch. “just warming you up for the main event,” he teases, pulling his slickened fingers free from your spent pussy with a lewd pop.

he brings his glistening digits to his lips, licking them clean with a lascivious grin. “but we're not done yet, brat,” he says, his voice laced with promise. “it's time for daddy to get some attention.”

he steps back momentarily, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside. his shirt follows suit, revealing the chiseled expanse of his chest and abdomen. he unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness, letting you take in the full extent of his arousal. “spread those legs wider,” he commands, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his pants.

a shiver runs through you at the sight of his bare form, his muscles rippling as he moves. there's something undeniably primal about seeing him like this, stripped bare and ready for you. a shaky laugh bubbles from your lips, still tingling from the aftermath of your orgasm. you glance back at him over your shoulder, taking in the sight of his naked lower half.

“like this?” you ask, parting your thighs even further, exposing yourself fully to his hungry gaze. “is this enough for you, daddy?”

you watch as he discards the rest of his clothes, his muscular physique on full display. the throbbing bulge in his groin draws your attention like a magnet, its size promising pleasures untold.

“are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, tilting your head to the side and giving him a coy smile. “because i really hope so,” you added, your voice dripping with feigned nonchalance. “after all, ‘m just a naughty girl looking to satisfy her daddy.”

a low chuckle rumbles in his chest, his eyes darkening with raw lust. “naughty girl indeed,” he agrees, prowling forward until he's standing directly behind you.

his hands roam over your hips, gripping your flesh possessively as he positions himself at your entrance. “but daddy has other plans for you,” he whispers, pressing the head of his cock against your drenched folds.

he gives a slow, measured thrust, sinking into you inch by delicious inch. “feel that, sugar?” he asks, pausing to allow you to adjust to his size. "that's just the tip."

a gasp tears from your throat as he finally fills you completely, stretching you in ways you never knew possible. the sensation of being so utterly claimed by him leaves you breathless, your mind spinning with pleasure.

“oh god,” you moan, clutching at the wall for support. “you're so big... always so big,” you trail off, lost in the exquisite agony of having him buried inside you. he doesn't move for several long moments, allowing you to acclimate to his presence. the tension coiling within you is almost unbearable, each beat of your heart echoing the throbbing pulse of his cock pulsating inside your clenching walls.

“move,” you beg, finally finding your voice, “please, fuck me already.”

a smirk tugs at his lips at your plea, his hands tightening their grip on your waist. with a fluid motion, he begins to withdraw, only to slam back into you with bruising force.

each thrust hits deeper than the last, driving you further onto the edge of sanity. “like that?” he asks, punctuating his words with another punishing thrust. “does daddy feel good inside you?”

he sets a ruthless pace, fucking you with a precision that borders on cruel. every stroke sends shocks of pleasure radiating through your body, lighting up your nerves like fireworks on the fourth of july.

“you're so tight around me,“ he growls, leaning over your back to whisper in your ear. “so wet, soooo perfect.”

a strangled whimper escapes your lips as he hammers into you, the sheer intensity of his movements threatening to reduce you to a quivering mess. the sound of your bodies colliding echoes throughout the room, a symphony of carnal desires.

“mhm, oh god yes,” you moan, bracing yourself against the wall as he continues to ravage you. “so bigggg, daddy.” you reach back to grab hold of his ass, urging him to pound into you harder, faster. the sensation of his thick length splitting you open is overwhelming, sending jolts of ecstasy shooting through your veins with every brutal thrust.

“i can't...” you pant, struggling to find the words amidst the haze of pleasure clouding your mind. “i can't hold on much longer...“

a surge of possessive pride courses through him at your admission, fueling his desire to claim you entirely. “hold on, sugar,” he grates out, his voice rough with lust. “daddy's not done with you yet.”

he pulls back slightly, only to ram into you with renewed vigor. the angle of his thrusts hits that sweet spot inside you, triggering an avalanche of pleasure that threatens to engulf you whole.

“come for me again,” he demands, biting down on your shoulder to mark you as his once more. “show daddy how much you want it.” he quickens his pace, his hips snapping forward with abandon. the slap of flesh against flesh grows louder, the sound mixing with your cries to create a lewd chorus of carnality.

a keening wail tears from your throat as he strikes that perfect chord within you, sending you spiraling toward obliviation once more. the coil of pleasure inside you tightens, ready to snap at any moment.

“toji!” you scream his name, your voice cracking with need. “i'm gonna—”

your sentence cuts off abruptly as your orgasm washes over you, tearing through you with the force of a tidal wave. your inner walls clamp down hard on his cock, milking him for everything he's worth.

“fuck! fuck!“ you sob, riding out the waves of your climax, “’m cumming, ’m cumming!”

a guttural groan rips from his throat as your velvety walls spasm around him, the rhythmic squeezing pushing him closer to the brink. “that's it, baby,” he praises, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. “milk daddy's cock.”

he continues to thrust through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure until it borders on pain. “such a good little slut,” he growls, one hand coming up to tangle in your hair. he yanks your head back, forcing you to arch your spine as he pounds into you mercilessly.

with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. a hoarse shout tears from his lips as he finds his own completion, his seed spurting forth to paint your insides white.

the sensation of him filling you up, marking you as his, is indescribable. your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your legs growing weak beneath you.

“oh goddd,” you pant, collapsing against the wall for support. “you're so deep... so full, daddy.”

the warmth of his cum flooding your womb sends another ripple of pleasure coursing through you, extending your high well past its natural end. you can't help but push back against him, desperate for every last drop of his essence.

you lean back against him, feeling his strong arms wrap around your waist. the warmth of his body pressed against yours, coupled with the lingering throbs of pleasure coursing through your veins, is simply heavenly.

a satisfied sigh escapes him as he slowly eases out of you, his cock slipping free with a wet pop. he turns you gently in his arms, pulling you flush against his chest.

“feeling better now, brat?“ he teases, his voice still laced with the remnants of his satisfaction. “or do you need some more of daddy's special attention?” he nuzzles into your neck, planting a series of gentle kisses along your sensitive skin. despite the harshness of their lovemaking, there's a tenderness in his touch that speaks volumes about his affection for you.

“you're amazing when you come undone like that,” he murmurs, his hands roaming over your curves with reverence. “always so responsive.”

a contented hum vibrates in your throat as he holds you close, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. the tender kisses he plants on your neck send pleasant shivers down your spine, a stark contrast to the intense passion of mere moments ago.

“i think i might need a little more,” you admit, tilting your head to grant him better access. “just to make sure all that pent-up energy is drained away properly.”

you thread your fingers through his hair, guiding his lips to the crook of your neck where you know he loves to suck and bite. “and maybe some cuddles afterwards,” you add, a playful glint in your eye. you press yourself even closer to him, savoring the solid warmth of his body against yours. your fingers finding his nipple, pinch the hardened bud in between.

a low chuckle rumbles in his chest at your request, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “cuddles, huh? you're really milking this ‘needy’ thing for all it's worth, aren't you?”

he captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your gasp as his tongue delves into your mouth. the nip of his teeth on your bottom lip has you whimpering into the embrace, your fingers tangling deeper in his hair.

breaking the kiss, he trails his lips down your neck, pausing to suck a dark bruise into your skin before moving lower. “as for that pent-up energy,” he murmurs, his hot breath washing over your collarbone, “daddy's got just the thing.”

he drops to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs as he pushes them apart. “spread those pretty legs again for me, sugar.”

[oopsiedaisydeer]

Tummy request bc wtf I need more

Reader is insecure about her stomach, but Matt uses her love for his tummy to make her feel better ✨ (just fluff plssss)

ᴍᴀᴛᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴜᴍᴍʏ

fluff, banter, tummy, affection, physical touch, teasing, body positivity, comfty, squishy, domesticity

word count - 500ish

You’re lying on Matt’s bed, hoodie pulled down as far as it’ll go, arms crossed over your stomach like it’s a reflex. You don’t say anything, just scroll aimlessly, but your quiet feels different tonight. More… self-contained. Matt notices.

He flops down beside you and scoots close, close enough to bump your shoulder with his. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

You shrug. “Just… not feeling good right now.”

His face softens instantly. “Wanna talk about it?”

You pause. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper: “I just… I wish I could be more comfortable with my body. My stomach.”

Matt blinks. Then without missing a beat, he says, “Excuse me, what? The greatest tummy of our generation?”

You let out a tiny snort despite yourself. “Matt.”

“No. No no no.” He dramatically throws an arm across your waist like he’s guarding treasure. “This tummy? This one right here? Do you even know how often I think about it?”

“Matt.”

“I’m serious. The way it moves when you laugh?”

You try to hide your smile, and he definitely notices.

“The way it rises and falls when you nap on the couch with your hoodie half-zipped and your hair all messy? That’s art. That’s cinema. I could write a love letter to it.”

You laugh, really laugh, and your stomach does a little bounce under his arm. He gasps, eyes wide. “There it is. The tummy giggle. My favorite phenomenon in the known universe.”

“Stopppp,” you groan, burying your face in his hoodie.

“Nope,” he says, full of chaotic devotion now. “You always say you love my tummy, right? You call it soft and safe and comforting. You squish it like a pillow every time we watch a movie.”

And then suddenly, without a word, he shifts, scoots down the couch, and very dramatically lays his head on your stomach, nuzzling you.

You freeze. “Matt.”

“Shhh,” he hums, nuzzling into the soft skin there. “I’m doing something important.”

You laugh nervously, hand hovering awkwardly over his hair. “What are you doing?”

“Appreciating my favorite pillow,” he says simply, eyes fluttering shut. “Very rare. Very luxurious. Not everyone gets access.”

“Matt,” you murmur, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks.

He peeks one eye open. “Seriously.” His hand gently squeezes your waist for emphasis.

And then, soft as anything, he presses a kiss to your stomach.

You flinch a little, not because it hurts, but because it means something. The way he does it so naturally. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world to show love this way.

He kisses you again. And again. Little ones, barely-there, scattered like dandelion fluff across your skin.

“For the giggles it does when you’re half-asleep and I say something stupid,” he murmurs between kisses.

“One for how it moves when you laugh really hard and can’t catch your breath.”

Another.

“And another for how warm it is after a long day, when you curl up and tuck your feet under me like a cat.”

You cover your face with your hands, giggling now. “Stop, you’re so embarrassing.”

You peek out from between your hands, meeting his eyes.

“You really like it?” you murmur.

“I love it,” he says, brushing your hair back. “It’s home.”

creds to @bernardsbendystraws for the dividers <3

a/n: tummy yummy mummy

taglist: @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturns-mermaid @shortnsweetsturnz  @cowboylikenat @camzeecorner @courta13 @sweetshuga @st7rnioioss @throatgoat4u @shadowthesim237 @emely9274 @sturnberries @bluestriips @lovergirl4gracieabrams @chrisslut04 @tezzzzzzzz @strnilolover @vanteguccir @chrislova @riasturns @sturnsblogs @darksturnz @httpssturns @mi-co-uk @ribbonlovergirl @lovesturni0l0s @grace-sturnz @auttysturnz @kier-with-a-k @malsmind @edu4rd0ss @pink1man

[colouredbyd]

"If you look closely, you'll see them!"

Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: you swear regulus has dimples but no one believes you, not until he walks in and finds you with his eyes. the room stills, and for a breathless moment, they begin to see what you always have.

warnings: pure fluff, mentions of cold deameanor, some mild language, grumpy x sunshine kinda?

w/c: 3k

a/n: my headcanon is that regulus is very much taller than sirius and he has dimples!!! i said what i said guys, argue with me !! also this has been in my drafts for a good 7 months </3

masterlist

"Regulus Black does not have dimples!"

Sirius declares for the third time that afternoon, sprawled across the common room sofa with his legs thrown carelessly over James’s lap, his voice carrying that unbothered arrogance he wielded like a second skin.

"You’re hallucinating."

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you stand firm before the Marauders, unyielding in your defiance. Mary is nestled against Remus’s shoulder, her eyes glimmering with barely-contained amusement as if she knows something the others don’t.

"I am not hallucinating," you retort, voice dripping with indignation, hands finding your hips in a stance that borders on stubbornness. "I’ve seen them! They’re right here."

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

It was as though the universe had woven this small, delicate fragment of softness solely for you to uncover, a secret threaded carefully into the very fabric of him, waiting patiently for your hands to find it, to hold it like something sacred and fragile and wholly yours.

[ohsoimaginari]

painful reminders || jwy

synopsis: in which your boyfriend undergoes a cramp simulator

cw: fluff, crack, established relationship, intended as a nonidol!au but can be read otherwise, periods, one mention of vomiting, brief mentioned of a period from hell, absolute theatrics, reader calls wooyoung youngie, one jagi used i think?, fem!reader, boyfriend!wooyoung

words: 2641

edited but nobody’s perfect ~.~

an: this is absolutely ridiculous. i cannot stress this enough.

it

is

ridiculous

but i have no regrets. had sm fun writing it. okay let’s continue ^•^

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Having to deal with period cramps is arguably one of the top five most painful experiences one has to go through every month or so. You’re sure many agree. And for you, most times on the first and last day, they would absolutely wreak havoc, as if your uterus was out for vengeance.

There would be nothing more you could bring yourself to do than to curl up in a tight ball with a heating pad on your lower abdomen, the strongest painkillers you could find in your system and a whole lot of hoping and crying that it would end soon. And that was when they were being courteous.

It was an awful time, truly despicable and without mercy in every way and you dreaded each time your period drew closer and closer. Which is why you don’t understand why your boyfriend, Wooyoung, would ever want to experience something akin to that.

“What?”

You stared at your boyfriend dumbfounded as he held out the unthinkable machine to you. “It’s a period simulator. I ordered it online. There’s so many of them so it was a little confusing choosing the best one but a lot of people say this one’s the closest to the real thing.”

You blinked. Then again, mouth slightly agape as you continued to look at him with a mix of disbelief and horror.

You shook your head as if to clear your already existing thoughts to make room for better processing of the words that had come out of his mouth.

“So, let me get this straight,” you started slowly.

“You want me—“ you made a point to gesture to yourself for further emphasis—“to put these patches on you—“ you pointed at him—“so that they can simulate period cramps?”

Wooyoung nodded as if you had asked him any other mundane question that required his active response.

“Yes.”

You paused, processing his answer but it still refusing to register in your brain.

“You want to feel how period cramps feel?”

“Yes,” he simply answered again.

You still couldn’t believe what you’d heard was true, trying to convince yourself it had to be some sort of fever dream.

Once I wake up, I have to remember to drink my vitamin C, you thought because that was the only explanation you could think of.

“Willingly?”

“Yes,” he said.

Too calmly.

Too honestly.

He had no sense of apprehension to him, no sense of doubt. He was sure, so sure it bewildered you. What on earth could have possibly possessed him?

You pictured him sitting in front of his laptop and searching for the contraption in the first place, typing in the letters to form the words period pain simulator, and reading through every review for each product meticulously. How many of these products or reviews there were in the first place, you didn’t know.

Did you even want to know?

“Why?” Your question came out a lot more exasperated than you had intended. You didn’t mean for it to happen, you were simply too puzzled to fully comprehend the situation at hand.

He smiled at you sheepishly, his smile managing to dazzle you for a bit, only adding on to your current bewilderment.

“Well, I see how much they affect you and I’ve heard stories of how awful they can feel and I’ve always been a bit more curious. It’s my way of trying to understand you better.”

Your heart swelled but that still didn’t change the fact this was an odd, albeit slightly amusing now, request. You simpered, nearly giving in but still willing to talk him out of him. “Youngie, you don’t have to do this to understand me better. What you do already is more than enough.”

Wooyoung simply shrugged, clearly determined to go through with his plan no matter what you’d say to him.

“You’ve told me you’ve experienced them while doing normal things. I just want to know how bad it could get.” You sighed, admitting defeat.

“Okay. If you insist. But remember, this was your idea,” you responded a little reluctantly. You eyed him with hesitation drawn on your face from the encouraging words he gave you as he handed you the machine and you examined it.

It was similar to the blood pressure monitors you’ve seen before but instead of one sleeve, it had for small patches you had to paste onto your lower abdomen.

You read the instructions carefully before proceeding to paste them onto yours first.

“I’ll put them on first so I can give you an accurate-ish experience of mine.”

You were doubtful this would even come close to the real thing but anything to humour your boyfriend who was enthusiastically encouraging you to proceed, still no qualms about his own future experience with the machine on show.

You eyed him strangely before looking at the screen. There was a giant 0 in the middle that would go all the way up to ten and another graphic of a bar beside it to better illustrate the intensity level. You pressed start, bracing yourself to experience these godforsaken cramps when you weren’t even close to your time of the month.

You wondered if you could even accurately remember them because as soon as you were finished with your period, it was as if you had no recollection of the torment you had gone through.

But when the intensity was on level one and you felt that slight tug in your abdomen, you knew you would have no problem remembering.

The first two stages were not so intense, as expected and you told him so. “This is usually just before my period starts or the day before, warning be that it could start any day now. So not too bad. I think you’ll be fine.”

He nodded fervently. You couldn’t tell anymore whether it was from excitement or nerves.

The machine automatically cranked itself up to three and the pain slightly intensified but still bearable. This was reminiscent of the pain you’d experience on the day you were meant to start. Still nothing bad.

By four, you could clearly feel them and were shocked at how accurate they actually were. “It’s not too bad but this is around the time where I should start making sure I have the equipment I’ll need because it only gets worse from here.”

You could’ve sworn you saw him gulp and his expression was now a lot tamer, as if it was finally dawning on him what he would have to go through.

“Remember, you don’t have to do this,” you reminded him as the pain heightened to six. It was nothing you couldn’t really handle but around the time where you have to make sure your heating bad is prepared and you’ve already taken a painkiller.

He paled when you tell him this but still persisted.

Seven, you told him, was when you’re waiting for the painkiller to kick in but it’s unbearable now and eight is when it’s on your worst days; where your hunched over from the pain, gripping fiercely at whatever was in reach and tears threatening to run down your cheeks. You’ve only ever experienced a nine twice in your life—where you felt so much pain you vomited on both occasions but you wouldn’t let it get that far.

Even you had your limits.

You only had to sit down at eight but was still going strong enough to narrate your experience for him. “Eight is usually the limit. It’s around there where I have to lie down or sit down and wait for it to subside but after I’ve taken my painkillers it lasts around fifteen to twenty minutes so it’s not that bad.”

Wooyoung had grown silent by this time but he seemed a bit encouraged by your vocalisations for each round.

It didn’t stop you from worrying for him.

He helped you put on the patches on himself in the correct spots and stood comically rigid, his back as straight as a ruler and fists clenched on either side.

You snorted.

“We really don’t have to do this. It’s good enough you help me through my time but you don’t have to actually feel what I feel.”

“No, no, no,” het lets out quickly, shaking his hands in protest and trying his best to steel his nerves.

“I can do it. I’ll be okay.”

You sighed before preparing yourself, and him, to press start.

“You ready?” He didn’t respond with words anymore, simply aggressively nods and clenches his jaw.

You pressed the button and at the sound of the click, he screamed.

You immediately stopped and attended to him, concerned. “Are you okay? Did it hurt already?”

If that was the case, you weren’t even sure you’d make it past three.

Wooyoung sheepishly laughed and dismissed his reaction. “I’m sorry, I panicked. I’m sorry. No, continue. I’m ready now.”

You proceeded to press the button a little more suspiciously and cautiously than the first one, your worry only growing.

You saw on the screen the intensity was at level one and the only thing he’d done so far was slightly jolt from the pain. He assured you he was okay and that you should continue.

It steadily jumped from two until three. Wooyoung released an unrestrained curse that startled you but you couldn’t help your giggle. “Are you okay?”

Words had evaded him as he clutched on his lower half but gave you a thumbs up to show he was still fine.

By the time it reached four, more than you what you thought he would handle, his whole face had surprisingly turned a bright red and you could see small sweat beads forming on his forehead. Wooyoung had his eyes clothes tights and he had the same expression like when he was lighting heavy weights.

“Jagi, you have to breathe, okay? You have to breathe or you’ll pass out.”

Your concern was mixed with amusement and as much as you wanted to switch it off, you couldn’t help but find a little bit of sadistic humour at his reaction.

At number five, he let out such a yelp it took you by surprise and you almost dropped the machine but found your bearings soon enough.

His screaming wouldn’t stop now.

You tried to speak to him over the noise but you highly doubted he could hear you but you had to still try.

But before you could speak, Wooyoung fell onto all fours and cursed louder than before. “Should I stop?” You asked him, a bit startled as he crawled on the floor in what was obviously excruciating pain for him.

He shook his head once more (although not as convincing as the other times) but was now full on sweating.

By seven, the most peculiar thing happened: he began to undress.

“Hot…hot…” was all he could manage out as he took off the black t-shirt he’d worn which, if it were a different colour, you were sure would most likely be drenched in sweat.

You knew then that you had to make a quick executive decision and you switched the machine off.

His ragged breathing filled the air, as if he had run a marathon and he looked over at you with a dazed look.

“Why’d you…why’d you stop?” he croaked. “Because you would’ve died and how would I explain to your mom you died from period cramps?”

His haggard breathing continued as he stood up. “I was fine. I could still go on.”

He fanned himself and you scoffed.

“No, you couldn’t,” you said and gave him a sympathetic grin.

Once he’d regained his breath, he looked over to you with a newfound admiration in his eyes. “You stood there and spoke to me throughout that entire thing when it was your turn.”

You nodded.

“I’ve seen you do your chores after you’ve told me you had cramps.”

You nodded again. “I mean, they have to get done eventually right?”

He shook his head, still in utter disbelief. “You spoke to me. You’ve walked around, done your chores and have gone to work…while that was happening to your body?” His voice was tinged with incredulity and respect. You gave him another amused smile and nodded.

“Yes, Youngie. That happens while I carry on with my day. It only really gets immobilising around level ei—“

Before you could finish, he pulled you into a tight hug. You giggled into his arms before putting your own around him.

“I love you. I don’t know how you do it but I’m so proud of you.”

“For cramps?” You looked up at him with scrunched eyebrows.

“For enduring. But I promise you as long as I’m here, even when I’m not, I’ll find a way to make the whole experience a lot more bearable for you. No one deserves to go through that.” He suddenly poured, as if deep in thought. “I wish there was a way I could help everyone,” he mumbled under his breath.

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics but said nothing more.

As if suddenly struck with another realisation, he brightened.

“My mom! My mom’s probably gone through that too! I have to go call my mom and apologise to her!”

Before you could even ask him what exactly it was he was apologising for, Wooyoung had already gone in search of his phone.

You carefully repackaged the machine into the box it came in and prepared to store it when you overheard his conversation with his mom on the phone.

"...And I promise I'll continue to be an even better son that you deserve, mom. I'm sorry for the headaches I've given you. The pain you've already been through is enough, I shouldn't have added on. I love you, mom."

You stifled your giggles as you placed the box in a safe location, hopefully far from Wooyoung's reach again.

When you returned to where he was, he looked dejected. You raised your eyebrows and sat next to him, ruffling his hair. Usually he'd shoo your hand away with more vigor but he only did so weakly this time.

"What's wrong?"

He turned to you with a pout. "My mom. she hung up on me. She asked what I was going on about and then I told her and even told her I loved her but she hung up on me."

You covered your snort with a sudden cough before cooing at him and bringing in him for a hug, hopefully hiding your expression.

"You have to understand it's not everyday you hear your son tell you he willingly experienced something most women hate going through." Wooyoung sighed but cuddled into you more. Just then, his phone pinged and he picked it up, reading the message he'd received and then smiled.

"It's my mom. She says she loves me too and that I should take care of myself and you."

He pocketed his phone and pulled you closer to him again, his mood much lighter than previously, even if you knew he wasn’t all too displeased about his mom’s earlier reaction.

“I promise you and her that you’ll never have to worry about me again. Especially on your period. Or worry about your period, actually. I still can’t believe that happens every month. Every month?”

You chuckled but nodded your head as your boyfriend went on about the unfairness of it all and how he’ll do anything in his power to make sure yours go by smoothly from now on.

And he did.

He insisted on being included on your period tracker and now every time your first or last day near, you always have some painkillers, chocolate and a heating pad waiting nearby and a helpful boyfriend who’s ever so eager to give you any type of message you might like.

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an: i’m gonna try to be consistent with at least one post per month again but i’m back in school rn and the workload is ungodly but i’ll try my best!! anyways i know this might be completely ridiculous but i’ve always wanted to do this prompt with someone and wooyoung seemed perfect for it lol i’ll write something better and more serious for him one of these good days i promise!! okay enough of me rambling bye for now <3

[sixeyesonathiel]

infinite void? more like infinite errands!

being married to the strongest sorcerer has its perks—like teleporting across continents for pudding at 3am—but for gojo satoru, nothing could have prepared him for the emotional rollercoaster that is your cravings. between taho diplomacy, gummy-related interrogations, and gelato-fueled meltdowns, he faces his most terrifying foe yet: love, in its most hormonal, snack-obsessed form.

a/n: enjoy the 6k words of satoru suffering, simping, teleporting, and getting emotionally whiplashed by the love of his life <3 i’m literally dozing off while formatting and proofreading this, if you see any error pls tell... i sleep now 😪

even gojo satoru—the strongest sorcerer alive—trembles before the wrath of his pregnant wife’s 3am food demands.

the curtains are drawn shut, casting a warm, drowsy amber across the bedroom. outside, the soft hum of cicadas lingers in the summer air. inside, you’re nestled in a fortress of pillows like some spoiled, slightly overcooked bao bun, one leg propped atop a plush bolster and the other tucked under a heating pad. the air smells faintly of lavender balm and something vaguely sugary—leftover cravings from the previous night.

satoru sits at the edge of the bed, thumbing through a baby names book with one hand and absentmindedly holding your ankle in the other, gently massaging in slow, practiced circles. he’s wearing a navy blue hoodie with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows, silver hair mussed from sleep and sticking up like the petals of a windswept flower. his blindfold is pushed up into his hair, revealing the full brilliance of his eyes, which scan the pages with a kind of amused seriousness. the light catches on his long eyelashes as he blinks, casting delicate shadows on his cheekbones.

“how about... ‘tangerine’? no? okay, okay—‘yuzu’?” he glances up at you with a teasing glint in his eye, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as his thumb draws a gentle circle around your ankle bone.

you don’t even open your eyes. “that’s a fruit.” your voice is muffled, cheek squished against a pillow, a strand of hair stuck to your slightly parted lips.

“so’s our baby, technically,” he grins, pushing his thumb slightly deeper into a sore spot near your heel. “a little fruit of our loins—” his eyebrows dance mischievously as he speaks, fingers drumming playfully against your skin.

“satoru.” you scrunch your nose in mock annoyance, shifting slightly against the pillows.

“right, sorry. sacred temple. your womb is a sacred temple.” he straightens his posture dramatically, placing his free hand over his heart with exaggerated reverence.

you groan into the pillow, but your toes curl at the ankle massage. then suddenly you bolt upright, eyes flashing. “did you just compare our CHILD to FRUIT?” your hair falls messily around your face as you rise, one sleeve of your oversized t-shirt slipping off your shoulder.

he freezes, thumb mid-massage, his confident smile faltering. “i—well, technically the size comparison apps do that all the—” he swallows visibly, adam’s apple bobbing as he realizes his tactical error, fingers stilling on your ankle.

“our baby is NOT an AVOCADO!” you shriek, tears already forming, your lower lip quivering dangerously as you clutch the nearest pillow to your chest.

“of course not!” he backtracks frantically, dropping the book with a soft thud onto the carpet. “more like... a sacred vessel? a divine manifestation? the culmination of—” his hands gesture wildly in the air, silver rings catching the light as he searches for appropriate words.

“i want taho,” you interrupt, mood switching instantly, voice honey-sweet again, batting your eyelashes as you tilt your head to one side.

“taho,” he repeats, relieved for the simple request, shoulders visibly relaxing as he brushes a strand of hair from his forehead.

“but not from the vendor on the main street,” you continue, your expression dead serious, finger wagging for emphasis. “it has to be from the old man who sets up by the mango trees. and only if he’s using the special brown sugar from his cousin’s farm, not the store-bought kind. you can tell by the smell—it’s more molasses-y. and make sure he gives you extra arnibal, but not too extra, like three tablespoons extra, not four. and the tofu needs to be from this morning’s batch—if it’s from yesterday, it’ll be too firm. the silken texture should wobble EXACTLY three times when you shake the container gently. oh, and ask him to put the sago pearls on the side, not mixed in, so they don’t get too soft on the journey back. and the container needs to be warm but not hot, like exactly the temperature of a baby’s bath water.” you count each requirement on your fingers, leaning forward with increasing intensity.

he’s gone before you finish the sentence, a soft whoosh of cursed energy rippling through the room, leaving behind the faintest crackle in the air and the subtle displacement of the bedsheets where he once sat. no sparkles or dramatic flair—just quiet efficiency. he’s done this too many times to make a show of it anymore.

five minutes later, he’s back, hair tousled by wind, hoodie now zipped halfway up and clinging to him like he’d been sprinting through alleys. his cheeks are slightly pink from the sun, a thin film of sweat glistening at his temples.

“manong said i looked too pale to be out in the sun,” he mutters, placing the warm taho container in your waiting hands with reverence, his long fingers brushing against yours. “he gave me extra arnibal out of pity.” he smooths down his windblown hair with quick, slightly embarrassed movements.

you sit up, eyes half-lidded with sleep but sparkling with delight. “tell him your wife’s a goddess carrying divine offspring next time.” you wiggle your eyebrows, accepting the container with grabby hands.

“i did,” he says, dropping to sit beside you and poking a straw into the taho, his knee bumping playfully against yours. “he gave me a thumbs up and told me to ‘hang in there, hijo.’” he mimics the old vendor’s gravelly voice, complete with a sage nod.

you snort, mouth full of silky tofu and syrup. “you’ve become a local.” a small dribble of syrup escapes the corner of your mouth.

then you pause, straw halfway to your mouth. “wait. what did you tell him about me exactly?” your eyes narrow suspiciously, straw frozen in midair.

satoru looks up, sensing danger. “just that my beautiful wife is pregnant and craving taho?” he leans slightly away from you, instinctively creating distance as he senses the mood shift.

“did you tell him i’m enormous?” your eyes narrow further, nostrils flaring slightly. “did you make the universal ‘big belly’ gesture with your hands? did you MIME my WADDLE?”

“what? no!” his eyes widen in genuine panic, hands raised defensively. “i would never—” his rings catch the light as his fingers splay in protest.

“because i DO waddle,” you continue, lower lip trembling, your hands moving to cradle your belly protectively. “i waddle like a PENGUIN. a FAT penguin.” a tear slides dramatically down your cheek.

“you glide gracefully,” he insists, looking increasingly distressed, reaching for your hand with tentative movements. “like a... majestic... swan?” his voice rises at the end, betraying his uncertainty.

you burst into tears. “swans have LONG NECKS. are you saying my NECK is LONG?” you wail, shoulders shaking, sleeve slipping further down your arm.

“no! your neck is perfect! everything about you is perfect!” he’s practically pleading now, the mighty gojo satoru reduced to stammering, his usual composure completely shattered. “i love your waddle! i mean—your not-waddle! your walk! your everything!” he runs a hand through his hair in agitation, making it stand up even more wildly.

you take another sip of taho, suddenly calm again. “this is really good. thank you, baby.” you smile sweetly, all traces of distress vanishing as you delicately lick syrup from your lips.

he exhales slowly, shoulders slumping with visible relief, a hand pressed against his chest as if to calm his racing heart.

he leans in, stealing a bite with a second straw like you’re sharing a milkshake. his leg nudges against yours under the covers. “anything for my darling, my queen, my slightly hormonal ray of sunshine.” his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, the blue in them almost luminous in the amber light.

“i’m gonna cry.” your bottom lip wobbles dramatically, eyes immediately filling with tears again.

“is it the hormones or the taho?” he asks, thumb gently wiping a drop of syrup from your chin.

“yes.” you sniff loudly, leaning into his touch.

he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple, his fingers grazing the fine baby hairs at your nape. his palm moves to your belly, rubbing slow, warm circles through your oversized sleep shirt. “next craving, just say the word. i’ll be back before you can say ‘global import taxes.’” his breath is warm against your skin, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

“i want the sour rainbow gummy strips. the ones from that specific konbini in osaka. not the one near the train station—the one three blocks east with the cat that sits in the window. and it HAS to be the package with the blue corner, not the green one. the blue ones are more sour. and they need to be from the middle shelf, not the bottom one, because the bottom shelf ones get too warm from the heating vent. oh, and make sure they were stocked today, not yesterday. you can tell because the fresh ones have a slight bend in the plastic wrapper.” you count off each requirement on your fingers again, eyes bright with determination.

he exhales like a man being sent on a divine quest, but his eyes sparkle with determination. “for love, for honor, for vaguely sour artificial fruit flavors that meet seventeen specific criteria.” he gives a dramatic bow, hand flourishing over his heart.

and then—pop—he’s gone again, the air beside the bed displaced, your hair rustling slightly from the force.

you blink at the empty space where he’d been. then you sigh, deeply content. being married to the strongest sure has its perks.

thirty minutes later, he returns with a crinkly plastic bag and three different brands of rainbow gummies. his shirt is sticking to his back, and there’s a leaf tangled in his hair, which is now flattened on one side as if he’s been running his hand through it repeatedly.

“why did it take so long?” you raise a suspicious eyebrow, biting down on a chewy strip, your eyes narrowing as you examine his disheveled state.

he flops dramatically onto the bed, limbs splayed like a marionette cut from its strings. “turns out it’s a limited seasonal item. had to fight off three middle schoolers for the last pack. almost got arrested. worth it.” his chest rises and falls rapidly as he speaks, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his collarbone.

“you better have gotten me the fizzy ones.” you poke his side with your toe, examining the bag with critical eyes.

he holds them up like sacred relics, eyes sparkling with pride. “with extra sour powder. i had to charm the cashier.” he wiggles his eyebrows, a strand of hair falling across his forehead.

your expression shifts instantly from hunger to outright murderous. “you WHAT?” tears well up in your eyes faster than he can blink, your hands curling into claws. “so you’re just out there batting your pretty eyelashes at konbini girls while i’m here looking like a BEACHED WHALE?” your voice rises dramatically, one hand gesturing wildly at your belly.

“i—i didn’t mean—i just smiled i swear—!” he stammers, sitting up quickly, the leaf falling from his hair onto the bedspread.

“did she give you her number?” your voice rises an octave, hands curling into claws. “did you TAKE it?” your nostrils flare dangerously as you lean toward him.

“it was for the gummies!” he sputters, looking genuinely terrified for the first time since sukuna, pressing himself back against the headboard. “she was going to sell them to someone else!”

you burst into tears, full-on ugly crying now. “of course she was! everyone wants a piece of gojo satoru! meanwhile i can’t even see my own FEET!” you gesture dramatically at your legs, sleeves flapping with the motion.

he stares at you, bewildered and panicking. “love, darling, light of my—” his hands hover helplessly in the air between you, unsure whether touching you would help or make things worse.

you snatch the gummies from his hands and stuff three strips into your mouth at once. “i hope she was UGLY,” you mumble through your full mouth, tears still streaming, cheeks puffed out with candy.

“horrifically so,” he swears solemnly, though you both know he’s lying. “multiple heads. fangs. probably a curse in disguise.” he draws an X over his heart, eyes wide with false sincerity.

you narrow your eyes, then suddenly break into giggles, mood shifting like mercury. “you’re so full of shit.” a piece of candy falls from your mouth onto your shirt.

“you’re glowing with divine fury. it’s hot.” he grins, reaching out to brush the candy away, his fingers lingering on your shoulder.

“shut up and feed me before i change my mind about forgiving you.” you open your mouth like a baby bird, eyes challenging him.

he does, reverently. he even wipes the sugar dust from the corner of your lips with a soft tissue, fingertips lingering for half a second longer than necessary, like you might disappear if he doesn’t stay connected.

between bites, you mumble something about wanting a foot rub later. he nods solemnly like a knight accepting a royal decree, his hand already moving to your ankle.

the afternoon sun shifts through the curtains, painting gold across your shared bed. satoru has taken up his position at your feet again, thumbs working magic into your arches. you’ve half-dozed off, the sugar crash hitting hard after demolishing most of the gummies.

suddenly, you jolt awake. “i need pickles. but not just any pickles. i need the half-sour ones from that jewish deli in new york. the one with the red awning, not the blue one. and they have to come from the barrel on the left side, not the right side. the right side ones are too garlicky. and they need to have been brining for EXACTLY seven days—any less and they’re too cucumbery, any more and they’re too soft. and i need them sliced lengthwise, not in rounds. oh, and can you bring back some of their mustard too? but only if it’s the batch made on wednesday, because thursdays they add too much turmeric.” you sit up suddenly, hair wildly messy on one side, eyes bright with newfound purpose.

satoru blinks, trying to mentally record all these specifications, his brow furrowing in concentration. “anything else, my love?” he asks carefully, fingers pausing on your foot.

“yes. i need to dip them in chocolate pudding. not store-bought. it has to be the pudding from that café in paris with the blue chairs. the one that uses madagascar vanilla beans and that specific brand of dark chocolate that’s 73.5% cacao, not 70%, not 75%.” you clasp your hands together as if in prayer, eyes gleaming with devotion to this new craving.

he stares at you for a long moment, then simply nods, a lock of silver hair falling across his forehead. “pickles from new york, pudding from paris. got it.” he rises from the bed, stretching his long arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

“and satoru?” you call as he prepares to teleport, fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “don’t mix them before you get back. the pickle juice makes the pudding separate.”

pop.

you watch him through heavy eyelids as he focuses on your feet, his expression soft but concentrated. his hair falls forward, obscuring his eyes slightly. you’ve memorized every curve of his face, every microexpression, but somehow seeing him like this—so gentle, so devoted—makes your hormones riot. one second you’re overcome with love so intense it hurts, and the next you’re irrationally annoyed that he’s breathing too loudly.

“what if the baby has your eyes?” you murmur drowsily, tracing circles on your belly with your fingertip.

he looks up, startled by the question, his hands pausing momentarily. “let’s hope not. might be a handful at parent-teacher conferences.” a strand of hair falls across his eyes as he tilts his head thoughtfully.

“but they’re beautiful.” your voice softens, eyes meeting his with unexpected tenderness.

his cheeks color slightly, a rare show of bashfulness from the normally confident sorcerer. “flattery will get you nowhere, except perhaps another foot rub tomorrow.” he ducks his head, focusing intently on your feet again, but not before you catch the pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“i’ll take it.” you sink back into the pillows with a contented sigh.

three nights later, you bolt upright at 3:42 a.m. and slap his arm. “toru. TORU.” your hair is a wild nest around your face, eyes wide with urgent purpose.

he sits up with a start, hair standing on end like he just got electrocuted, blindfold askew across his forehead. “what? labor? demons? is it sukuna again? i’ll kill him with a slipper.” his hands are already forming a seal, cursed energy crackling faintly around his fingers.

“no. i want that specific grilled cheese sandwich from that diner in brooklyn. the one with the checkered floors, not the one with the neon sign. and it has to be made by the old guy with the mustache—not the young one, he uses too much butter. make sure they use the white cheddar, not the yellow, and the sourdough bread needs to be toasted for EXACTLY three and a half minutes so it’s golden brown but not dark brown. and tell them to cut it diagonally, not straight across, and to let it rest for exactly forty-five seconds before wrapping it so the cheese sets but doesn’t harden. oh, and NO pickles on the side—actually, yes pickles, but the half-sour ones from the jar under the counter, not the ones they put out for everyone else.” you grip his arm tightly, eyes shining with fevered intensity in the darkness.

he stares at you, groggy and incredulous, one eye half-closed, his silver hair flattened on one side. you stare back, eyes wide and a little watery, lower lip caught between your teeth.

“please?” you whisper, your lips puckering in a pout. your hands rest protectively over your belly, thumbs brushing together in circles, nightshirt stretched tight across your rounded form.

it works. it always works.

pop.

he’s back in twelve minutes, the scent of butter and garlic clinging to his hoodie. he places the sandwich in your lap like it’s a newborn, the white paper wrapping still warm to the touch.

“i tipped the guy a hundred dollars. he gave me his grandma’s pickles too.” he drops a small jar beside you, condensation beading on the glass, his movements slow with lingering sleepiness.

you grab the sandwich reverently, as if it’s the last meal on earth, inhaling its aroma with closed eyes. “you’re a good man.” your voice is almost solemn with gratitude.

“remind me of that when i’m sleep-deprived and covered in spit-up.” he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, stifling a yawn.

“you already look like someone who owns ten diaper bags.” you take a bite, a string of cheese stretching from your mouth to the sandwich.

“they’re color-coordinated. don’t underestimate me.” he flicks his wrist as if displaying an invisible catalog, slumping back against the headboard.

you eat in thoughtful silence, savoring each bite like it’s ambrosia, then suddenly burst into tears. “it’s so good,” you wail, mouth still full, a crumb catching on your lower lip. “why is cheese so BEAUTIFUL?”

satoru blinks rapidly, caught off guard by the emotional whiplash, his hand freezing halfway to your shoulder. “do you... want me to get another one?” he asks cautiously, weighing each word.

“NO!” you snap, then immediately reach for his hand with a desperate look, nearly knocking over the pickle jar. “yes? maybe? i don’t know what i want anymore!” your grip on his fingers is almost painful.

he watches you with a mixture of adoration, exhaustion, and mild terror, chin propped in his palm. the baby kicks, a sudden flurry of movement that makes you pause mid-emotional breakdown.

“active tonight,” you mumble through a mouthful of cheese, placing a hand where the kick landed.

satoru’s hand finds your belly without hesitation, his palm warm through your thin nightshirt. his eyes widen slightly as another kick meets his touch, lips parting in quiet wonder. “strong like their mother.”

“flatterer.” you roll your eyes but can’t stop your lips from curving into a smile.

“no, really,” he insists, voice uncommonly soft, fingers splaying gently across your rounded belly. “not even six continents of distance could keep you from your cravings. that’s power.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “power would be being able to get my own damn sandwiches without feeling like a beached whale.” you brush a crumb from your chest with exaggerated dignity.

he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the dim light. “i’d cross every ocean for you. for both of you.” his breath is warm against your face, voice dropping to a whisper.

“even for pickle juice at four in the morning?” you tilt your head, eyes challenging despite their softness.

“especially then.” he presses a gentle kiss to your nose.

one week later, you demand gelato from venice. “and not the tourist kind. the real kind. specifically from that tiny shop on the corner of via garibaldi and that alley with the blue door—not the green door, the BLUE door. and only the pistachio flavor made by the old lady, not her son. he churns it too much and it gets icy. make sure they scrape it from the bottom left corner of the container because that’s where it’s creamiest. and it needs to be in the white paper cup, not the plastic one, because the plastic makes it taste different. oh, and if they offer you that wafer cookie thing on top, say no. unless it’s the rectangular one with the sugar crystals, not the round one.” you pace the bedroom as you speak, one hand supporting your lower back, the other gesturing emphatically.

“you want me to teleport to italy,” he repeats, eyebrows rising slowly, fingers pausing on the book he was reading. “at eleven at night.”

“don’t act like you haven’t done it for fun.” you narrow your eyes, hands moving to your hips.

“but that was pre-baby that was me being whimsical. this is you being a gremlin.” he marks his place in the book with a finger, head tilting to one side.

“this gremlin has swollen ankles and can end you with a look.” you point at your puffy feet for emphasis, toes wiggling ominously.

he sighs, closing his book with a soft snap. “you know what? fair.”

he disappears before you can finish your smug grin. twenty minutes later, you’re eating gelato while satoru rants about pigeons, his hands gesturing wildly, his normally perfect hair windswept and slightly damp from italian humidity.

“i tried to eat it there, for like, the whole experience,” he says, hands gesturing wildly, a smear of pistachio at the corner of his mouth. “but the pigeons. babe. the pigeons wanted blood.”

you lick the edge of your cup, then suddenly narrow your eyes. “wait. so you had time to sit down and try to eat there? while i was here SUFFERING?” you point your spoon at him accusingly, eyes widening dramatically.

his face falls, genuine distress flashing in his eyes. “it was—i thought—maybe thirty seconds?” he holds up his thumb and forefinger to indicate the tiny amount of time, shoulders hunching defensively.

“you went SIGHTSEEING?” your voice rises to glass-shattering pitch, spoon clattering to the floor. “i bet you took PICTURES for the MEMORIES!”

he swallows hard, looking like a man facing execution, adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “i just—you always say i should appreciate the moment and—” his fingers twist nervously in the hem of his shirt.

you burst into laughter so abruptly he physically startles, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. “your FACE! oh my god, you should see your face right now!” you continue giggling, one hand clutching your belly, then just as quickly, your expression turns somber. “this gelato needs chocolate sauce. why didn’t you think of chocolate sauce?” your lower lip juts out in dramatic disappointment.

his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “i... can go back?” he offers tentatively, already half-rising from the bed.

“no, it’s fine,” you sigh dramatically, gazing forlornly at your gelato, stirring it with slow, mournful movements. “i’ll just suffer. alone. with my inferior dessert.”

he looks genuinely pained, caught between panic and confusion, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “i’ll be right back—”

“NO!” you grab his wrist, suddenly desperate, nearly upending the gelato cup. “i was kidding! don’t leave me! what if the baby comes while you’re hunting for chocolate in venice?”

“it’s... week twenty-three,” he says carefully, like he’s disarming a bomb, eyes fixed on your grip on his wrist.

“anything could happen,” you whisper intensely, clutching your gelato protectively to your chest. “anything.” your eyes are wide and serious, a tiny dot of pistachio on the tip of your nose.

here's your text with straight quotation marks replaced by curly ones:

he hasn’t known peace since week sixteen.

some nights, when the cravings subside and the world grows quiet, you find him with his head resting against your belly, whispering stories about infinity and curses and all the places he’ll take them someday. sometimes you catch fragments—tales of mountains that touch the sky, oceans that glow in the dark, cities where time moves differently. his fingers trace gentle patterns on your skin as he speaks, his blindfold discarded, eyes soft in the dim light.

“did you just tell our unborn child about that time you beat sukuna’s ass at shinjuku?” you ask sleepily one night, fingers playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

he doesn’t deny it, lips curving into a smile against your skin. “they should know their father is very cool.” he turns his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“tell them about the time you cried watching that documentary about penguins.” you tug gently at his hair, fighting a smile.

“betrayal,” he whispers, but his lips curve into a smile against your skin, his thumb drawing circles near your navel. “fine. i have many dimensions. emotional depth is sexy.”

“mmmm,” you hum, fingers threading through his silver hair, enjoying the silky texture between your fingers. “i liked when you said the penguin couples who stay together forever reminded you of us.”

even in the dark, you can tell he’s blushing, the tip of his ear turning pink where it peeks through his hair. “i was sleep-deprived.” he mumbles against your belly, hiding his face.

“you’re always sleep-deprived. occupational hazard of loving me.” you trace the shell of his ear with your fingertip.

his laugh is soft against your belly, breath warm through the thin fabric of your nightshirt. “worth it.”

by week twenty-five, he keeps a backpack by the door labeled ‘snack quest gear.’ inside are a passport, an umbrella, three currencies, spicy dried mangoes, a backup blindfold, and wet wipes. he updates it weekly like it’s a mission kit. sometimes you catch him restocking it with the focus of a soldier prepping for battle, his brow furrowed in concentration as he checks off an invisible list.

he has a spreadsheet for cravings. with timestamps. and detailed reviews. you rated the brooklyn grilled cheese 9/10 but deducted a point because he forgot the pickle slice on the side. he never made that mistake again. you’ve caught him studying the spreadsheet late at night, highlighting patterns like he’s tracking a particularly elusive curse.

sometimes he tries to guess your cravings before you say them. he warps in with takoyaki one afternoon while you’re quietly reading. you laugh so hard you cry, snorting inelegantly as you try to catch your breath.

“i just wanted ice,” you manage between hiccups, wiping tears from your cheeks.

he disappears and returns in thirty seconds with a cup of shaved ice in the shape of a swan, condensation beading on the outside of the glass. “do i win?” his eyes gleam with childlike hopefulness.

you nod, eyes glassy with laughter. “you win. you always win.” you accept the ice with both hands, your fingers brushing against his.

one morning you wake to find him gone, a note on his pillow: “emergency meeting. back soon. don’t have the baby without me.”

“HOW DARE HE,” you shriek to the empty room, suddenly and irrationally furious. you crumple the note into a ball and throw it across the room with surprising force. “he LEFT me. ABANDONED. in my CONDITION.”

the note bounces off the wall, leaving a tiny mark that you’ll definitely blame him for later. your hands shake with indignation as you grab your phone from the nightstand, nearly knocking over the glass of water satoru had carefully placed there last night.

you’re halfway through typing an all-caps text message about his betrayal when your mood flips entirely, and you’re suddenly overcome with guilt for being angry. tears spring to your eyes as you smooth out the crumpled note with trembling fingers.

“what if he never comes back?” you whisper dramatically to your belly, running your palm over the taut skin beneath your oversized t-shirt. “what if the love is gone? what if—”

your stomach growls, loudly, interrupting your spiral of despair.

“really?” you mutter to your belly. “now?”

you wait, hoping the feeling will pass, drumming your fingers impatiently against your swollen abdomen. it doesn’t. what you want—no, what you need—are those specific egg tarts from that tiny bakery in hong kong. the ones with the perfectly caramelized tops and the custard that’s somehow both firm and silky.

you reach for your phone, then pause, lower lip caught between your teeth. there’s something strangely satisfying about waiting, about knowing he’ll come back and immediately sense what you need.

two hours later, he bursts through the door looking harried, blindfold slightly askew, wisps of silver hair sticking out at odd angles. “sorry, sorry—gojo clan politics, you don’t want to know—” his long fingers adjust the blindfold, revealing a hint of that impossible blue beneath.

“i want egg tarts,” you interrupt, not bothering with hello. you shift your weight on the bed, one hand supporting your lower back. “the ones from mrs. chan’s bakery in hong kong, down the alley with the red lanterns. but ONLY if she made them after 10am today, because the morning batch uses eggs from the vendor who feeds his chickens fish meal and it changes the flavor. and make sure they’re from the third tray, not the first two—those are always undercooked in the center. they should be golden brown with EXACTLY seven visible burn spots on the crust, not six, not eight. and they need to still be warm, but not hot—exactly 27 minutes out of the oven. oh, and if she offers you the ones with the swirly tops, say no. i only want the ones with the flat tops, because the swirly ones have more air bubbles.”

satoru’s lips part slightly, his head tilting to one side in that way that makes your heart flutter despite your current state of hormonal chaos.

“how did you know?” you blink in surprise.

he taps his temple with a long, elegant finger, a smug smile playing at his lips. “twenty-seven weeks in. i’ve developed a sixth sense. i call it ‘pregnant spouse intuition.’”

your eyes immediately well with tears, your hands clasping together against your chest. “that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion.

he smiles, shoulders visibly relaxing, relief washing over his perfect face. “well, i—”

“or are you MOCKING me?” you snap, tears evaporating, eyes narrowing dangerously. you sit up straighter, nostrils flaring. “making fun of my PERFECTLY NORMAL cravings? laughing at my SUFFERING?”

his smile drops instantly, replaced by genuine alarm, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “no! never! i love your cravings! the more specific and geographically impossible, the better!”

your expression softens again, just as quickly, shoulders slumping as you rest one hand on your belly. “really? you’re not just saying that?”

he approaches cautiously, like someone trying not to startle a beautiful but unpredictable wild animal. his movements are fluid but hesitant, the fabric of his dark jeans whispering against his long legs. “i live to serve your every culinary whim,” he says with complete sincerity, a bead of sweat forming at his temple, catching the light as it slides down. “it’s my greatest joy in life.”

you beam at him, dimples appearing in both cheeks. “good. now go get my egg tarts before i burn this entire place down.”

pop.

forty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, box of egg tarts balanced on your belly, making indecent noises with each bite. satoru watches you with fond amusement, chin propped in his palm, the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds casting stripes across his impossibly perfect face.

“good?” he asks, already knowing the answer, one eyebrow arched above his blindfold.

you nod emphatically, flakes of pastry clinging to your lips. “she gave you extra?” you ask between bites, licking your fingers with unabashed pleasure.

“she thinks i’m part of a smuggling ring,” he admits, a dimple appearing in his right cheek as he smiles. “says nobody comes that far for egg tarts unless they’re selling them black market.”

“technically, i am a black market,” you gesture to your round belly with a sticky finger. “highest bidder gets premium goods.”

he climbs into bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight, pulling the blanket over both your bodies, his long, graceful hand curving instinctively around your belly. his thumb moves in lazy arcs against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“when the baby’s born,” he murmurs into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp, “they’ll never believe the lengths i went for snacks.”

“they’ll know,” you whisper, eyelids drooping, nestling back against his solid chest. “they’ll have inherited the craving powers.”

“my legacy lives on.” his voice is a low rumble you can feel through your spine.

just before sleep claims you, you hear another quiet pop beside the bed.

he’s gone again.

he forgot the soy sauce for your rice crackers.

he returns in under a minute, face pale with urgency, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, clutching the soy sauce bottle like it might save his life.

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his fitted black shirt, “i can’t believe i—”

“took so long?” you finish, voice dripping with sugar-sweet venom. you sit up straight, hair mussed from almost-sleep, eyes suddenly sharp and accusing. “were you chatting with someone prettier? someone NOT carrying thirty extra pounds of water weight?”

his eyes widen with genuine panic behind the blindfold, his knuckles whitening around the bottle. “it was forty-seven seconds! i counted!”

your bottom lip trembles dangerously, your fingers plucking nervously at the bedsheet. “you’ve never forgotten before. never.”

“i know,” he whispers, voice cracking slightly as he kneels beside the bed, offering the soy sauce like a penitent knight. a lock of silver hair falls across his forehead as he bows his head. “i’ve failed you. our sacred pact is broken.”

you snatch the bottle, still glaring, nostrils flared,

then suddenly beam at him with pure adoration, your entire face transforming in an instant. “thank you, baby. you’re the best husband ever.”

he blinks rapidly, emotional whiplash evident in his stunned expression. a muscle twitches in his jaw. he opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it, slowly rising to his feet with the careful movements of someone who has just narrowly avoided catastrophe.

smart man.

[faithsmadhouse]

Miss gurl your max fics are giving me everything I want and now I see you posted about chubby reader?? Please would u do a piece about strong max manhandling chubby reader who doesnt believe he can handle it and he proves her wrong 😼

Prove me wrong||Max Verstappen x Chubby!Fem!reader

Summary— reader thinks she’s too much for max and he proves her wrong

Warnings— brief mentions of oral f receiving, spanking, praise, manhandling, shower sex/wall sex. I also can’t remember what else

Word count — 2245

You were lounging on the couch, curled up with a book when Max came up behind you, hands slipping around your waist. His fingers brushed the soft curve of your belly, and you immediately stiffened, instinctively pulling away. “Careful,” you muttered with a laugh. “I’m not exactly lightweight, you know.”

Max scoffed, his hands tightening their grip. “You think I can’t handle you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m just saying… you’ve got cars to drive, not—”

Before you could finish, you found yourself lifted off the couch, strong arms securing you effortlessly. A gasp escaped your lips as your feet dangled off the floor, and Max’s smug grin appeared inches from your face. “What were you saying?”

“Max!” you squealed, hands clutching his shoulders. He didn’t even falter, his grip firm as if you weighed nothing. His hands slid to the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Light as a feather,” he teased, voice dripping with confidence. “Maybe I should carry you around all the time. Keep you close.”

Your cheeks burned, heart pounding as he began walking, steady and sure, as if he carried you every day. “Proved you wrong, huh?”

You swallowed hard, eyes meeting his. “Maybe you should try again…just to be sure.”

His grin widened. “Oh, I intend to.”

Max’s eyes darkened at your challenge, the flicker of something dangerous and thrilling sparking behind that familiar blue. Without another word, he tightened his grip, fingers pressing possessively into your thighs as he carried you effortlessly towards the bedroom.

You barely had time to process the shift before your back met the mattress, and Max followed, hovering above you. His hands didn’t leave your body—not for a second. They roamed over your curves, mapping the softness of your hips, the plushness of your thighs, the gentle swell of your stomach.

His eyes met yours, blazing with determination. “You think I don’t want this? That I can’t handle all of you?” His hands squeezed your thighs for emphasis, spreading them wider beneath him. “You’ve got no idea what I can handle, schat.”

Your breath hitched as he dipped his head, mouth tracing the line of your jaw, down to your neck. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer—closer than you thought possible. His touch was firm, possessive, like he was staking a claim. “I’ve been dying to show you,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing fire down your throat.

You gasped when his hands slid under your shirt, fingers brushing bare skin. He pulled back just long enough to peel the fabric over your head, his gaze drinking you in. There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, only raw hunger. “Perfect,” he whispered, almost reverent, before his hands gripped your hips and yanked you towards him.

The strength of it made you cry out, back arching as he settled between your thighs. His mouth was on you again—hot, demanding, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of your breasts, your stomach, your hips. He kissed every inch like it was something to be worshiped, and you were losing yourself in it.

“Max,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his hair as he looked up, eyes blazing. “I didn’t know—”

“That I could handle you?” he finished for you, lips quirking up into a grin. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading them wider. “Let me show you just how wrong you are.”

Max didn’t wait for permission. His hands, strong and unyielding, gripped your thighs and pulled—hard. You yelped as he dragged you closer to the edge of the mattress, your body sliding effortlessly under his control. The grin he shot you was wicked, eyes glimmering with unspoken promises.

“See?” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Told you I could handle you.” He didn’t give you a moment to reply before his hands slid beneath your hips, lifting you clean off the mattress with a strength that had your breath catching.

“Max!” you gasped, but he only chuckled darkly, turning you with ease until you were on your stomach, hips raised, knees digging into the soft sheets. His large hands spread across your ass, squeezing possessively before one slid up your back, pressing you deeper into the mattress.

“You’re always so quick to doubt me,” he murmured, voice husky as he leaned over you, his chest flush with your back. His hand was still splayed firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Guess I’ll have to remind you.”

You shivered as his lips traced the shell of your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Gonna take everything I give you, aren’t you?”

A whimper escaped your lips, but that wasn’t enough for him. His hand came down sharply on your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, fingers curling into the sheets. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, his hand soothing the sting with slow, deliberate circles. He shifted behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he positioned himself, his hands spreading your thighs wider, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “Look at you,” he murmured appreciatively. “All spread out for me… ready to be handled.”

Before you could even catch your breath, he gripped your hips again, pulling you back to meet him. The force of it sent a shockwave through your body, and you cried out, his name tumbling from your lips. He didn’t relent—instead, he set a rhythm that was unyielding, powerful. Every snap of his hips was punctuated with a grunt of satisfaction, like he was proving a point with every thrust.

You tried to push back, to meet his movements, but he wasn’t having it. One of his hands slid up to the back of your neck, pressing you deeper into the mattress, holding you firmly in place. “Stay still,” he commanded, voice dripping with dominance. “Let me do the work.”

And God, he did. He drove into you with a force that bordered on brutal, but you loved it, craved it. His grip was ironclad, pulling and pushing you exactly how he wanted, manhandling you like you weighed nothing at all. His hands roamed, squeezing your hips, sliding up to your waist, gripping you tight enough to leave marks.

“You still think I can’t handle you?” he panted, breath coming hot and heavy against your back.

“N-No,” you choked out, fingers clenching the sheets. “You can…you can.”

His laugh was rough and dark. “Damn right, I can.” His hand came down on your ass again, the sting mixing with the pleasure until you were trembling beneath him. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Max didn’t give you a second to catch your breath. His grip on your hips was relentless, large hands holding you steady as he picked up the pace, each thrust harder, deeper, like he was determined to make you feel him everywhere. Your moans spilled out, unrestrained and desperate, but it only seemed to spur him on.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let everyone hear how well you’re taking it.” His hand came down again with a sharp slap, and you cried out, the sting sending a fresh wave of heat through your body. He bent over you, chest pressing into your back as his mouth found your ear. “Knew you could handle it. Knew you could take everything I give you.”

His hand slid from your hip to your throat, fingers wrapping around the sides, tilting your head back until you were arching into him. The stretch of it made you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his teeth scraped along your neck. “Feel so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice dripping with pride. “So perfect… just for me.”

He straightened up, hands gripping your waist once more, and suddenly you were lifted—hauled up until your back was flush against his chest. His hand splayed across your stomach, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he held you up, your feet barely touching the floor. “See?” he whispered, his other hand slipping down between your thighs, fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles. “Told you I could handle you.”

Your hands flew back to grasp at his shoulders, holding on as he moved you with an effortless strength that made your head spin. His hand on your stomach pulled you tighter against him, making you feel every inch, every flex of muscle as he thrust up into you. It was raw, powerful, and you could feel how much he loved it—how much he loved you.

“You like that?” he growled, breath hot against your ear. His hand slipped lower, teasing you with just enough pressure to make your knees shake. “You like knowing I can do this? That I can throw you around however I want?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder. His grip tightened, and you felt the low rumble of his chuckle against your back.

“Good,” he whispered darkly. “Because I’m not stopping until you forget your own name.”

Without warning, he turned you in his arms, your feet barely hitting the floor before he lifted you again, your back hitting the wall with a thud that knocked the breath from your lungs. His hands were everywhere—gripping, exploring, owning every part of you as he buried himself in you again, hard and deep. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, holding on as he drove you higher, every thrust sending sparks down your spine.

“You still doubting me?” he panted, teeth grazing the side of your neck, his hands bracing your thighs as he held you there like you weighed nothing.

“N-No,” you stammered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Never… never again.”

“Damn right,” he growled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Now hold on, because I’m nowhere near done proving it.”

Max’s grin was feral as he held you against the wall, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands gripping your thighs with bruising strength. His breathing was ragged, eyes fixed on you with a hunger that made your stomach flip. “Still with me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice rough and dripping with satisfaction.

You could only nod, breathless and dazed, and his grin widened. “Good,” he murmured, shifting his grip. His hands slid under your thighs, and before you could process the movement, he lifted you—effortlessly—and began walking towards the bathroom.

“Max—” you started, clutching his shoulders. He didn’t break his stride, his grip firm and unyielding as he pushed the bathroom door open with his foot. The room was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered as he set you down on the counter, his hands never leaving your body.

“Think I’m done proving my point?” he asked, eyes glittering as he leaned in, his hands braced on either side of you. His gaze roamed over you—disheveled, breathless, completely under his control—and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Not even close.”

He reached over, turning the shower on, the water splattering against the tile with a hiss of steam. His hands returned to you immediately, sliding under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the counter, his mouth crashing against yours. It was messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

“Up,” he growled, tapping your thighs, and you barely had time to comply before he lifted you again, carrying you under the hot spray of the shower. Water cascaded over both of you, soaking your hair and slicking your skin, but Max didn’t seem to notice. His focus was entirely on you—on the way your body reacted to his touch, the way your breath hitched every time he pulled you closer.

Your back pressed against the cool tile, and he caged you in, his hands spreading your thighs with practiced ease. “I want you to hold on,” he commanded, voice husky as his hands slid to grip your ass. “I’m not letting go until you understand just how strong I am.”

You barely had time to react before he lifted you again, pressing you up against the wall. The water streamed down your bodies, mixing with the heat and urgency between you. His hips snapped forward, and you cried out, nails clawing at his shoulders as he set a relentless rhythm. The steam curled around you, fogging the glass as his hands held you firmly in place, your weight supported entirely by his strength.

“Max,” you whimpered, the sensation overwhelming as he drove into you with powerful, precise thrusts. He chuckled darkly against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice vibrating through your bones. “You still think I can’t handle you?” His hands gripped you harder, pulling you closer, deeper, until you couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe. All you could do was hold on, trusting him to keep you steady as he unraveled you.

Your legs tightened around him, hips moving with his, and his hand slid up your back, pressing you even closer. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with pride. “Take it. Take everything I give you.”

The water continued to pour over both of you, washing away the evidence of his dominance only for him to mark you again, harder, deeper. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving bruises that you’d find later—reminders of just how thoroughly he’d proven you wrong.

[1818havefaith]

2010'S GLAM - DARK EYES, PINK LIPS: FAITH’S GUIDE

OVERVIEW

This look mixes a matte base with glossy lips. The emphasis is placed mainly on the eyes, and the other focus is the lips. This is a good everyday look that can be worn for any occasion.

YOU WILL NEED

PRODUCTS

Primer

Baby Powder

Foundation/ Tinted Moisturiser

Concealer (not too light)

Pressed Powder

Setting Powder

Brow Gel

Brow Pomade

Lashes

Lash Glue/ Bonding Glue

Highlight

Brown Lip Liner

Pink Lip Gloss

Setting Spray

TOOLS

Powder Brush

Beauty Blender

Small Flat Brush

Eyebrow Brush

BASE

Apply primer all over your face

#faithtip: use a powder brush to apply baby powder all over your face

Your face will look ashy after this step, but applying foundation/tinted moisturiser will fix this

Blend it in with a damp beauty blender

#faithtip: dampen your beauty blender with setting spray for easier blending and a longer lasting base

After blending in your foundation/tinted moisturiser, apply a concealer that is only slightly lighter than your skin tone to the inner corner of your under-eye

Place concealer to the end of your under-eyes following the shape of your eyes

Blend it in well with a beauty blender

Take a powder brush and some pressed powder and apply all over your face

Now, apply setting powder to your under eyes following your eye shape.

Place a line of setting powder under your cheeks

Let the setting powder sit whilst you focus on another part of your face

EYEBROWS

Eyebrows play a very vital role in this look, they help your eyes stand out more

This step will be easier if your brows have a defined shape

Brush through your eyebrows with brow gel

Use a brow brush dipped in pomade, to draw a line at the bottom of your brow starting from the front of your brow to the end

Draw a similar line at the top of your brows

Fill in the space (don't fill in the very front of your brows to create an almost ombre effect)

Apply eyebrow gel on top

Then use a small brush to apply concealer underneath your eyebrows

Blend well with a beauty blender

Apply setting powder to under your brow

LASHES

Lashes are the main event for this look

Select thick and long lashes/ lash clusters that suit your eye shape

#faithtip D-Curl lashes are your best friend

STRIP LASHES

But for this step apply glue to strip lashes

Wave the lashes around for a bit so the glue dries a tiny bit and feels a little bit sticky

Place them on the lash line and adjust where needed (using tweezers or fingers)

CLUSTER LASHES

Strip lashes can also be cut into smaller pieces or use cluster lashes

Dip them into glue and wipe off the excess

Use tweezers to hold the lashes

Pull the top of your eyelid upwards so you can see underneath your eyelashes

#faithtip Wipe the glue on the part you are applying to then you can dip the lash in glue again before actually placing it underneath your lash

This make the lashes more firm and secure

Make sure it is not too close to your eye as this can be irritating

Fan your eyes if you can still feel wet glue

BACK TO BASE

Brush the setting powder away with a powder brush

You will need to make sure you do this properly because the powder won't move easily, because of how long it has sat there

Apply highlighter to the tip of your nose, your brow bone and your cupid's bow

Make sure to keep the highlight application light and smooth it out, so as to not look ashy and to keep the focus on your eyes and lips

Spray setting spray all over your face

LIPS

Use a brown lip liner, slightly darker than/ similar to your skin tone, to outline your lips

Apply pink lip gloss to your lips

Then top it all off with clear lip gloss.