#and this is my first long-form fic so bear with me

[itsabouttimex2]

Ahhhhh the Tang Sanzang and Wukong fic was so good! I adore the interactions between demon reader and them- though i am curious how did the rest of the JTTW crew react to the mischievous scamp of the forest?

Taken Aboard

Pilgrim Reactions:

(I had to use this gif again because there is jackshit for Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing in the LMK gif community. Give me my boys….)

Ao Lie is… rather confused that his master saw fit to bring along a child on this dangerous journey. After all, the path ahead is fraught with many dangers and perils. Perhaps the little one would be safer in the care of a monastery? Or even a kindly pair who had long wished for a child? Sure, they may be a demon, but they’re clearly not malicious or cruel!

However, the monk is set in his actions. Your wrists are cuffed with blessed bands, set to restrict when a sutra (separate from Wukong’s) is chanted. Your ragged clothing is replaced with a proper, covering cossack and walking shoes that they had to force your feet into as you screamed and kicked.

But in spite of the confusion he bears, Lie is a little happy, too! He’s got a little sister/brother to dote on now! As one of the gentler and less troublesome members of this little gang, he’s often tasked with watching over them, especially when the group is attacked by demons.

Though it takes him a while to coax you into actually taking him up on it, the white dragon horse frequently offers you rides. At first, you’re a bit too proud to accept, trudging along even as you tire from walking. He wants so bad for you to trust him, and maybe; in time, to consider him an older brother. And if that means he has to pester and push you into accepting a little bit of doting? So be it!

And one day you will accept. Worn to exhaustion from another demon attack and thoroughly admonished by your master after another escape attempt, your body is worn and sore. The fillets around your wrists have ground your skin raw, leaving you to whimper with each step that makes the cuffs jangle against your fresh wounds.

So, finally… you clamber up and onto his back with a few pained noises, sniffling into his lavish white mane.

“Brother Lie,” you hiccup, arms snaking around his neck. “Master got angry with me again.”

“Oh dear… did you try to run away again? Little one, it’s much safer to stay with your brothers and master!” Though his voice is not without compassion, he clearly sympathizes more with the monk who’s been intent on keeping you around. Mostly because he agrees with not letting something as small and precious as your little self take even a single step out of sight.

He… he just doesn’t want to lose you, that’s all! It’s not strange to want to protect a fellow demon! Why, you’re hardly more than a baby! Look at you, you poor thing! Tiny features and scrawny form and big eyes!

How could he risk you being unhappy? How could he risk you being hurt?

“Stay with me, little one! Big brother will find you something nice to eat! And then I’ll see if master has something for your poor wrists, hmm?”

———————————————————————

Sun Wukong is somewhat baffled that you’re being brought along, honestly.

Baby? A baby? A little forest-dwelling baby?Why, you’re no taller than his hip! Here, come here and “let him check your height” and then he snatches you off the ground with a grin.

“I may be no tree, but you’re hardly even a flower,” the monkey teases casually, throwing you into the air. “You haven’t even sprouted, bud! How are you going to keep up with such little legs? Aren’t you supposed to be the ‘Keeper of Great Beasts’, Y/N?” He catches you, then another throw, higher into the air. “Kiddo, they’d crush you under their feet and not feel a thing!”

“Wukong! Be gentle with the child! And stop teasing them!”

“Aww, but they like it,” he calls back to his master, patting your head as you flail to gain purchase from the arm he’s tucked you under, strangled by the accidental grip he has around your throat.

He’s, uh… not the gentlest or most responsible.

But- he makes for a good playmate! And that doesn’t sound all too serious or important, sure… but Y/N has a lot of skills they need to build, and socialization is one of them. Under Sanzang’s watchful eye are you pulled into many games and chases, helping you build basic skills and strength as you and Wukong wrestle or race.

I like to think he carries you on his back like a baby monkey when you get too tired, clinging tight to his strong-as-iron fur, nestling against the near-invulnerable fluff from behind.

“Brother Wukong, tell me your titles,” you say sleepily, having gaining some modicum of respect for the simian through constant playing and occasional training with him.

“And then tell you how I got them?” “And then tell me how you got them.”

This exchange essentially boils down “tell me a bedtime story,” and “sure, sweetie” but the only one who realizes that is the Great Monk, Tang Sanzang- who is trying very hard not to melt from the cuteness of it all.

Y/N getting to enjoy some measure of a happy and harm-free childhood in the form of the Great Sage’s furry arms, one hand thumping your back as he recites an old tale or two.

This massively improves Sanzang’s opinion of him, too. Seeing Wukong genuinely tamper down the ego and potential bloodlust (assuming he’s anything like in the novel) to be truly gentle with someone who definitely needs someone to trust and rely on… it’s quite redeeming of his character, certainly.

Probably tampers down his yandere behavior the best… until you get injured, and then all the other pilgrims get to see the strength with which he used to wreak havoc on Heaven.

And there will be blood. And bone shards. And brain matter. And eventually, the utter and thorough destruction of what was once a demon. No one can sway him from the carnage, not even the tightening-fillet sutra.

After all, isn’t every “big brother’s” job to protect his little siblings?

——————————————————————-—-

Zhu Baije is probably the most resistant to having you along, mostly because he knows he’ll have to be “polite” and “patient” with you around, some whelp dragged to the world from the root of a fallen fruit tree.

Often tries to trick you out of food, but gets petulant when you try the same thing with him. And then he has the gall to ask you to help him identify poisonous plants and berries for him to snack on. Under threat of the sutra being recited, you grudgingly give him proper advice.

Now, it’s not that he can’t be sweet and doting-

It’s just that he doesn’t want to be.

Also, he brings out the idiot in you very quickly, causing Sanzang to try and supervise any and all interactions between the two of you. Because when he doesn’t, you get this:

“Y/N, there’s a stronghold of demons here! What are we supposed to do?!”

Y/N, who has lived in a sprawling forest with big scary animals from the moment they were born: “…maybe we should try to make ourselves look bigger.”

“Brother Swine, come and help me overturn this log!” “S-Swine?! You little brat, you better call me by my name!” “Or else what… Brother Swine?” “Or else I’ll-“

“Enough,” calls the Great Monk, stern and tired. “Enough squabbling, my disciples! If we are to see this journey to the end, we must all cooperate! Please, Zhu Bajie, lend your hand to Y/N. They asked not out of laziness, but as acknowledgment of your strength!”

“…huh. Alright, then! I can help!”

But, slowly, he does come to care about you. Letting you rest your head on his gut like a squishy pillow, carrying you when you get hurt, making sugar-sweetened herbal tea to share with you, letting you hide behind him when Sanzang is looking for you…

And then he eats the first human being who tries to hurt you. All across you is a messy shower of splattered gore and sundered organs, painting your face and body.

It’s proof, crimson and wet, that he really does love you, in spite of everything.

——————————————————————-—-

Sha Wujing, to start off- adores Y/N. They’re tiny! They’re cute! They transform into adorable animals! They can talk to beasts and trees!

And… they treat him like a person. An actual, thinking, feeling, person.

He definitely tries to dote on the kid, and I think he’s a strong contender for being their favorite person. How monstrous he is! How powerful! Like the great beasts that lived in their forest, tall and proud and imposing!

Wujing reminds them of home, essentially. Y/N is constantly crawling all over him as they would the beasts of their grand forest. He allows the strange behavior, understanding that the kid’s never had real interaction with other people outside of toying with travelers or waylaying attackers.

Always kneeling my down to their level and trying to make the child feel safe and heard. He often shares tales of his river and interesting passerby, and Y/N responds in turn, speaking of their forest. The two of them laugh and bond over their shared experiences.

And off the side, Sanzang is listening in with horror all across his face as they compare stories of killing and eating invaders who dared come to their homes.

Lots of piggyback and shoulders rides, and just barely being able to peel over his red mop of hair. He’s also one of the only people who you let mess with your hair, allowing him to comb and braid it.

“Brother Sand,” you call aloud, a nickname just a touch more affectionate than those you’ve given his companions. “Come look at the creatures I have found in the riverbank!”

And man drops everything to spend a little more time with you, happy to let you push little creatures into his massive palms as he teaches you their names.

And maybe, if things go wrong… the bloody butchering and head-piking/skull-stringing of anyone who even looks at you wrong. Maybe.

In general, just an absolute delight.

——————————————————————-—-

Tang Sanzang believes entirely in the possibility of anyone becoming a better person through hard work and effort.

So little Y/N, the Guardian who Spreads Growth, Keeper of Great Beasts:

Put flatteringly: Is adopted by five men and treated as a cherished; if troublesome, little sibling who is doted on and allowed to become a better person. Lots of good food and cozy clothing, and they never go hungry or cold again. They’re taught to read and write, and never are without unconditional love.

Put unflatteringly: is forcibly displaced from their home and made to adopt new customs and styles, severed from that which they know and love to become someone else’s idea of “right”. Also they get torture bands slapped on their wrists.

Sanzang tries to be fatherly and kind with Y/N, attempting to delve into the “why” of any mischievous or cruel actions you commit instead of simply writing them off as “bad”.

“So… you thought that man was going to hurt you?”

“He smiled at me! With all his teeth! It was a threat, Master! And then he walked towards me with a hand out!”

“…I see. You were scared of being hurt, then?”

“I- No! No! I didn’t say I was scared! I wasn’t!”

Lots of “therapy sessions” to help work through your feral mindset and improve your problem solving skills.

In general, solving problems while trying not to be frustrated. For example:

Given that Y/N has never once cut their hair, it’s even longer than they are tall, and proves to be quite a bit of trouble. And they respond violently to his attempts to cut it, screaming and swiping like a feral cat. It takes a few weeks of nudging and asking, but Sanzang gets them to submit to a “trim” that cuts more than five feet of hair away and still leaves the little demon’s locks dangling down to their ankles. He’ll try for more later, but allows you to be for a while.

Then, cutting your nails. And washing the grime from your body. And getting you into shoes that you’ll keep on. He settles for boots with laces, given that you can’t tie or untie them. Y/N, you’re sitting on the ground in front of him seething because you aren’t flexible enough to bend forward and chew through the twine lacing. Also, in order for him to get them on in the first place someone has to restrain you, so one of your “brothers” is getting the silent treatment. (It’s Wukong.)

He won’t ever be “Brother Sanzang” or “Brother Monk”, but he will get something better:

“…father,” you’ll finally say after a full year of traveling with him, lying in a puddle of tears with your head in his lap. “Please… please forgive me, father.”

“Oh, Y/N… of course, of course. Come now, sit with me. Let me tend your wounds and wipe your tears. All will be well.. my child.”

And maybe, just maybe… he’ll think about taking one of your circlets off.

[hailsatanacab]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Danny Phantom, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Danny Fenton & Damian Wayne, Batfamily Members & Danny Fenton Characters: Danny Fenton, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Good Sibling Damian Wayne, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Danny Fenton and Damian Wayne are Twins, Danny Fenton Needs A Hug, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Not Phantom Planet Compliant (Danny Phantom), Bad Parents Jack and Maddie Fenton, Gun Violence, Blood and Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Mugging, Medical Torture, Vivisection Summary:

“If you ever find yourself in danger, go to Bruce Wayne. He will help you.”

His mother had loved him, in her own way. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have helped him escape. If she hadn’t, she would have dragged him back to the League of Assassins, to Grandfather. If she hadn’t, he’d be dead.

She loved him, but she loved the League more.

Jack and Maddie Fenton loved him too, they did, but they loved their work more.

They loved their work more.

--

After his parents react poorly to his reveal, Danny escapes to the only person he thinks can help him - Bruce Wayne. He doesn't know what to expect when he gets there, but it has to be better than where he is, surely? He certainly doesn't expect to be reunited with his long lost twin brother Damian. It's funny how things work out that way.

--------

Chapter 3!! Chapter 3!! Chapter 3!!

[phebbsl]

Just Benefits

Something I whipped while procrastinating on my other fics bc brainrot got to me. Lmk if there's any typos. May or may not make this into a full fic hehe

Sebastian x F!Reader

content: nsfw

MDNI!!!

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋅ ˚｡⋆｡˚☼˚｡⋆｡˚☁︎⋅ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆｡˚☁︎⋅˚｡⋆｡˚☼˚｡⋆ ｡˚☁︎⋅ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Sebastian who is completely shocked when you propose a friends with benefits situation with him.

Sebastian accepts because why the hell not? He finds you attractive and you’re steadily becoming one of his favorite people in the valley after some late night chats by the lake and generous surprises of his favorite gifts.

Sebastian has to smoke to calm his nerves as he walks down the mountain path to meet up with you for the first time. He makes sure to not litter on your property and stuffs the dirty cigarette butt into his pocket before knocking to enter. 

Sebastian decides to just kiss you after an awkward greeting. It’s slow and fumbling at first but the two of you soon find your bearings and it becomes deeper and neither of you can get enough. 

Sebastian lets himself get pulled to your bed, only to push you on it and beneath him so he can kiss you more, he can’t stop his hands from roaming your body and tugging at your clothes. 

Sebastian who asks for permission before pulling off your bottoms and gets harder with your shy agreement. 

Sebastian who can’t help but gawk at the wet patch already forming on your panties and ends up kissing that very spot, over and over until you beg him to just take them off. 

Sebastian who ends up making out with your clit, flicking his tongue piercing along your folds and pumping his long fingers in and out of you until you come for the first time. He doesn’t even notice that he’s been humping the mattress until after you’re done, he’s already so high from your taste and smell. 

Sebastian who eagerly shuffles off his jeans and boxers when you ask to reciprocate. He has to bite into his hands to keep himself from whining too much.

Sebastian nearly finishes in your mouth but pulls you off because he just needs to fuck you so badly instead. 

Sebastian who asks again to make sure you’re sure before slowly pressing into you so you can feel every single inch and vein.

Sebastian who has to grip your sheets hard because it's just so, so difficult not to immediately come, and he really doesn’t want to let you down. 

Sebastian listens to all the sounds you make to make sure he’s fucking you how you like, every gasp and moan is a direction to him. 

Sebastian who fucks you harder when you ask for it, who holds your legs open so he can angle his hips just right to thrust harder and faster right into the spot that makes you whine his name. 

Sebastian makes sure to rub your clit right when your legs start to shake and your voice gets all pitchy to help you climax. 

Sebastian comes when you do, unable to hold back when he feels your walls getting wetter and tighter, practically milking him. He continues to thrust into you though, working both of you through your highs. 

Sebastian feels awkward when the afterglow fades, he’s unsure of if you want him to stay or do aftercare, but ends up fetching you water and giving you some cuddles before deciding to leave as to not overstay his welcome. 

FWB!Sebastian starts coming over more often now, whenever he’s annoyed at home or just whenever you text him. 

FWB!Sebastian who starts to shamelessly introduces new positions and kinks to try after getting more and more comfortable. 

FWB!Sebastian who also figures out that he likes it when you praise him and that you like it when he makes sounds, so he makes sure to let out his moans and whimpers too, even if he thinks it a little embarrassing.

FWB!Sebastian who will smoke in bed afterwards if you allow it and if he notices that you find it attractive. Otherwise he weans himself off smoking more and more unconsciously if you don't. 

FWB!Sebastian who stays for the night almost every time now, he enjoys your bigger bed and doesn’t mind being the bigger or the smaller spoon, he goes along with whatever you prefer.

FWB!Sebastian alternates making breakfast with you whenever he stays over. He notices the new coffee machine that mysteriously appears soon after, and he hides his little smile and red cheeks with his hair when you enter the kitchen. 

FWB!Sebastian rarely jerks off anymore, he has you now, but when he does, it’s always to the thought of you.

FWB!Sebastian who ends up gravitating more to you whenever you join him and his friends at the Saloon on Friday night. He starts to arrive earlier and stays later just to talk to you more. 

FWB!Sebastian doesn’t even notice that his habits are changing, also waking up earlier as a result of your early schedule. 

FWB!Sebastian who finally realizes his feelings after some off handed comments from his mom and Sam about how different he acts when he’s around you. 

FWB!Sebastian doesn’t want to mess things up so he eventually resolves to just keep the friends with benefits arrangement because he’ll take what he can get. 

FWB!Sebastian really can’t stand it though. You consume every moment and every thought, he just wishes that you would feel the same. He starts to become more awkward around you now, and even avoids you sometimes because the butterflies in his stomach become too strong whenever he sees you. 

FWB!Sebastian who starts to fuck you gentler sometimes, as if he’s making love to you as a boyfriend instead of what it really is. He presses kisses to your forehead and cheeks tenderly and just wants to hold your hand. 

FWB!Sebastian accidentally confesses during a particularly intimate round of sex as he’s finishing, and he runs away when you ask him what he said as the two of you cuddle. 

FWB!Sebastian who panics in his room after because he’s really fucked it up this time now, hasn’t he?

FWB!Sebastian really avoids you now, burying himself back into work and sending clipped responses to your texts. 

FWB!Sebastian who eventually spills the whole situation to Sam because he just really needs to get it off his chest. Sam verbally hands his ass to him, and encourages him to really confess, because holy shit, everyone’s realized that the farmer is not as happy as they used to be. 

FWB!Sebastian feels so guilty when he hears that, he knows he has to fix the situation, so he prepares. 

FWB!Sebastian texts you to meet him at his place. When you arrive, he has his bike out and he asks you to go on a ride with him. His palms sweat in his gloves as he drives, and he can smell your scent even through the helmet. 

FWB!Sebastian akes you to his spot on the cliff. The view is beautiful that night, looking over Zuzu city, and the sky is clear for all the stars to shine, but he only has eyes for you. 

FWB!Sebastian says that the two of you need to talk, but he comes off as too serious, and you think he’s breaking up with you. He panics and confesses his feelings, not following the script he set for himself, but he can’t stand to see you cry. 

FWB!Sebastian who hugs you tight after you say you feel the same, he feels so overjoyed. He kisses you, you kiss back, and it really does feel like the two of you are in a movie. 

Boyfriend!Sebastian feels like he’s on top of the world when the two of you drive back to the valley, he screams out his happiness as he speeds along the empty highway and the two of you laugh the entire way. 

Boyfriend!Sebastian who can’t get enough of the way you smile at him when you get back to his place and remove the riding helmet. He loves the way it grows when he gives you the bouquet he stashed behind a bush. 

Boyfriend!Sebastian who races back with you to the farmhouse so he can properly worship you as you deserve, and this time as his girlfriend. 

[monzabee]

bad idea right? – ln4

masterlist

Summary: The one where seeing Lando tonight is a bad idea, right?

Pairing: lando norris x ricciardo!reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: mentions of breakups and also fighting, cursing, kind of a toxic relationship?, allusion to smut, it's criminal how long it took me to finish this fic

Request: this wasn’t requested, but the idea is veeery loosely from this tiktok right here! (i might def write the scenario in the tiktok in the future though)

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! it has officially been a month since i started my master's programme and i have to say it is absolutely kicking my ass, but thank you all for bearing with me while i adjust! this song has been stuck in my head for the last two-three (?) months and i really wanted to write a fic based on it. i also wanted to say that i've received all of your guys' requests, and i'm working on those, but it's harder for me to get out a request than a fic that just popped in my head because i tend to be more of a perfectionist with those - so, those are definitely on the way, don't worry! i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

It’s not that you don’t like spending time with your brother and his girlfriend – because you do, but considering the fact that spending a mere hour with them causes you to suddenly question your life choices (of being single), you are very eager to leave them alone for the night. Which brings us to the current situation, with you standing in front of your brother’s apartment complex in one of the hoodies you stole from the sample boxes, waiting for someone you should’ve never hit up in the first place. It was probably not your brightest idea to message Lando to ask him if he wants to go for a ride, especially because a) the last time you saw him a year ago the two of you were yelling and throwing things at each other and b) you’re definitely buzzed from the bottle of wine you hogged upstairs. But you know what they say; absence makes the heart go fonder, right?

So there you are with your phone in your hand, texting Lily in hopes of getting the tiniest bit of reassurance about your decision.

To lily m: i texted lando To lily m: he’s gonna pick me up From lily m: WHAT? NO To lily m: seeing him tonight To lily m: it’s a bad idea, right? From lily m: YES From lily m: DO NOT GET INTO THAT CAR To lily m: yes i know that he’s my ex, but can’t two people reconnect?

Fuck it, it’s fine, you decide as you quickly delete the last two messages. With a soft sigh, you wrap your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the cold air of the night. And while you could just wait for Lando inside the apartment building, you really don’t want to attract more attention to yourself. You can feel yourself getting more and more nervous as the minutes pass by, and you even contemplate cancelling the whole thing and going upstairs to sleep. Just as you’re about to give up on the whole thing, a car honk grabs your attention. When turn to look at the source of the sound, you see Lando’s unamused face through the open window.

He motions you to get in with his head, his voice as equally detached as he calls out, “Get in.”

Rolling your eyes at his behaviour, you do as your told. But you tell yourself that it’s not because he told you to, but because you’re cold. And so you get in the car making sure you slam the door as hard as you can, which makes him scowl as a small smile forms on your lips. “You know, you could really try on being more polite.”

“I’m picking you up in the middle of the night,” he points out as he puts the car on drive and starts driving off, “and put your damn seatbelt on.”

You give him a sideway glance as you put on your seatbelt, letting out a sigh, “Are you okay? I’m sensing some serious undertone.”  

Lando doesn’t answer you, mainly because he is smarter than he looks and he knows you’re trying to goad him into another fight. That’s what the two of you had always done, not that he hated you or vice versa, but the two of you mainly got along in fights which ended up in both of you twisted between the sheets of the whatever hotel you were currently staying in. And it had worked for a while, until of course it didn’t, and Lando was mature enough to admit that he had a huge role in fucking up your relationship.

“You changed your car,” you point out.

“Thought you’d appreciate a roof over your head this time,” he replies.

The car is silent as Lando drives down the now empty streets of Monte Carlo, and you find yourself involuntarily checking out his side profile because well, he always looked so good while driving. You suppose it’s only one of the things that didn’t change with time.

“So,” his voice draws you out from your thoughts, “why’d you call me tonight? Are you drunk?”

“I am not drunk,” you scoff, crossing your arms across your chest, “if you don’t feel like being here Lando, I can just get off and go home.”

“Now I didn’t say that, I simply asked a question.” He steals another glance at you, but this time a little smirk forms on his lips when your eyes meet and he sees your scowl. “It was a harmless question, really.”

Your voice comes off as clipped as you answer, “I’m not drunk.”

“Your cheeks are red,” Lando points out but the playfulness from mere seconds ago is gone, in fact, he’s more serious than you’ve probably ever seen him, “you either had wine or your rosacea is acting up.”

It takes a moment for you to take in his words, and there is no humour in his voice or on his face when you look at him to see whether he’s joking or not. “I had some wine,” you confess, voice much lower than before as you add, “but I’m not drunk.” One of his eyebrows rise up, and you find yourself mumbling, “Fine maybe a little bit, but not a lot.”

His jaw ticks as he mumbles, “Okay, whatever you say.” And as you try to assess whether his voice is cold or not, you see his hands tightening around the steering wheel.

“What?” You ask, a bit quicker than necessary (in your opinion), “What did I say?”

Now it’s his turn for his voice to be clipped, and his eyebrows furrow as he asks, “Did you only call me because you’re drunk?”

“No,” your reply is truthful to some extent, you suppose, you would’ve texted him even if you had no alcohol in your system. “I wanted to see you.”

He lets out a hum, “Why?”

It’s a hard question, and you contemplate not being a hundred percent honest – but deep down you know he deserves better, even if you had your differences. So, to reveal the truth, you turn your face away from him to look outside the window, “I missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t turn to see what his reaction will be. Everything is peaceful for a moment.

He takes you to a hill, the very one he took you for your first date. Though, it doesn’t carry the same excitement this time around. The two of you remain in the car with the windows rolled down, but the colder air doesn’t make you chilly. It’s silent, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Neither of you make the first move to start a conversation, and you don’t know if that’s because you’re both obstinate or he doesn’t want to be there. Though, you suspect he would’ve told you ‘no’ if he didn’t want to be there – not that he could ever tell you ‘no’.

It's unnaturally hard, you realise, not looking at him on purpose when he’s seated so close to you. Especially because you haven’t seen him in months. Not that you’d confess that to him, or let yourself have another weak moment where you say you missed him. Because you can’t. Because it’s not the way the two of you operate. Because he broke your heart but you’re not strong enough to let him go. With that last thought, you take a sharp breath, undo your seatbelt and get out of the car. You lean against the hood of the car and he soon follows suit. But where your hands are splayed behind your back, his arms are crossed over his chest.

“You’ve not been sleeping.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Because he is not dumb (or blind enough) to let the circles under your eyes slide.

And it’s a statement that might be true. You only give him half of a shrug, “So?”

“It means that something is bothering you.” You’re about to object, but he quickly shuts you down, “I once drove you around for four hours so you could sleep in my car, honey,” his fingers move to gently turn your chin towards him so he can look into your eyes, “and that was because you forgot to bring me back junk food from Australia.”

Even if you’re taken aback by his physical touch, you don’t show it as you stubbornly maintain your eye contact. “It’s the jet lag, I haven’t travelled in a while.” You gulp down a breath as you gently push his hand away, “And don’t call me that.”

“Why?” He turns his body to face you, “You’re just as sweet, aren’t you?”

“Lando,” you warn him, “don’t.”

He raises a brow, “Why not?”

“Because we’re friends,” your response comes off in an instant, “I only see you as a friend.” The biggest lie you’ve ever said.

“Friends,” he repeats, tests out the word, then shrugs, “sure. Now tell me what happened tonight that made you call me. Did you and Daniel fight?”

“What?” an involuntary laugh leaves your lips, and you catch the corner of his lips turning upwards just the smallest bit. “No, we didn’t, it’s not about Daniel. Can we just not talk about it, please?”

He gives you a firm nod, and you catch his grimace as he turns his attention back to the view in front of you. “You can tell me, you know,” he mumbles, “you used to.”

He’s right, you realise. You used to tell him all the little thought that popped into your head, whether it was nice or not, and he’d accommodated your thoughts. It was easier to talk to him, once upon a time, and you’re not really sure why it hurts so much right now that you can’t.

“Why do you care?” The question comes out quickly, and your voice is not as strong as you’d like it to be. “After everything, why do you care?”

“We’re friends, right?” The words tastes unbelievably sour in his mouth, and he has to restrain himself from making any sort of face, but it seems harder than it actually is for him to do and he questions whether it is worth it to

“Friends,” this time it’s your turn to test out the word, and it tastes as bitter as they come, “sure, can we ride around a bit more?”

“Fine,” he gives you a nod and motions you to get in the car, “but I have to get gas first.”

The fluorescent lighting of the gas station is definitely not the most flattering thing. So much so that you’re sure the unflattering light outside is exaggerating the bags under your eyes. But that situation of course doesn’t apply to Lando because even under the harsh lighting, he looks too pretty. And compared to earlier in the night, you don’t try to hide the way your eyes focus on him while he’s driving, though you hope you do a much better job at hiding the thoughts that come to your mind. Even after he’s parked the car in the nearest pump, you find yourself staring at his side profile a bit too long, which earns you a sideway smirk and you try your hardest not to react, but the smile you keep trying to fight is too strong and eventually you find yourself with the tiniest smile playing on your lips.

Lando turns towards you, meets your eyes and leans over the console, “Do you want anything from the shop?”

You blink once, trying to come up with anything, twice, then “Can you get me those gummy bears that I like?”

He gives you another nod, reaches into his pocket and then hand you his phone. Ignoring your questioning stare, he explains, “So that you can play music or something, the password is still the same.” Before he gets out of the car, he does the unexpected and leans in just a little bit more to press a feather-light kiss to your temple.

You watch him get out of the car and walk away from you with your mouth slightly hanging open. You contemplate trying to unlock the phone, because why would he tell you that his password is the same? And why would he trust you with his phone when the two of you have been broken up for over a year? With shaky hands, your fingers put in the password, calling Lando’s bluff. Oh shit, you think when the phone unlocks, now what? Throwing the phone out of your hands onto the driver seat, you grab your own and quickly type a new message to Kika, who of course got the news from Lily and has been blowing up your phone, while ignoring her dozen other messages who went unread in your text thread.

To kika: this was a bad idea kika Tokika: a very *very* bad idea From kika: please tell me you’re going home To kika: um… To kika: sure From kika: GET OUT OF THAT CAR AND GET YOUR ASS HOME From kika: NOW!!

Chewing on your lower lip, your eyes linger on the messages spamming your phone, and you contemplate just getting out of the car and trying to find your way back home. But you also can’t help yourself but think… what’s the worst that could happen if you stayed? Clicking the button on the side of your phone, you place it face down on your lap after making sure you silence it for the rest of the night. With the reminder of the abandoned phone on the seat next to yours, you open your window to let some of the night air in. As your phone keeps buzzing on your lap, your eyes focus on the figure that comes out of the convenience store – and by some grace of God, he doesn’t realise the way your eyes basically undress him as he approaches his McLaren.

There’s no smile on his face, in fact, if you didn’t know Lando, you’d say he looks like an asshole; not that he occasionally doesn’t act like one. He gives you that boyish smirk when he’s next to your window, signalling you to roll it down by tapping on it twice. Lando leans against the car, his eyes locked onto yours. “Got your gummy bears,” he says, holding up the package and handing it to you once you roll it down. “It was the last one too, you’re lucky.”

Giving a tight lipped smile to the man looking expectantly at you, you accept the packet of gummy bears. “Thank you, Lando,” the softening look in his eyes is, ironically, strong enough for you to choke on the next words that are on the tip of your tongue. “I–”

“I’m sorry to bother you, are you Lando Norris?” A third voice interrupts you, and you find yourself moving your gaze from Lando to the woman who’s excitedly waiting for a response.

“Yes,” he breathes out, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his voice polite but he’s also very annoyed at the same time – though the way he eyes up the stranger definitely makes your blood boil.

With his attention on the woman, you find yourself feel the tension in the air and quickly look down at the packet of gummy bears in your hands. You start absentmindedly picking at the wrapper, your mind racing with a mixture of emotions. As the conversation between Lando and the fan continues, you steal glances at them from the corner of your eye. She's gushing about a recent race, talking animatedly about the thrilling moments she witnessed. Lando, for his part, is gracious and engaged, taking the time to listen and respond. And despite the polite exchange, you can't help but feel a pang of jealousy. It's a reminder of the world he's a part of, a world where fans approach him with admiration and excitement. A world you used to share, but now only observe from the sidelines.

You watch the woman place her hand on Lando’s bicep, laughing at a (rather mediocre) joke he made about the understeer of the car. It’s not a funny joke by any means, and you are not scared to admit that the woman’s laugh that fills your ears makes your insides twist uncomfortably. You remind yourself that you're here by choice. You could have left at any moment. But there's something about this night, about being with Lando again, that you can't quite let go of. It's a confusing mix of nostalgia and longing, wrapped in a blanket of uncertainty.

The woman’s voice hits your ears as you hear her ask, “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Without letting them both know that you’re actively listening into their conversation, you attempt to subtly let out a warning cough, but Lando covertly smirks as he leans towards the car with his hand grabbing the lowered window – without caring about the possible finger prints he might leave behind, might you add. Without any hesitation, you let your fingers go of the packaging to thread your fingers with his.

While his thumb gently starts to draw circles on the knuckle of your thumb, he does his best to supress the chuckle building up in his throat. “That’s, um, very kind – but I’m with my girl, you see, and we are both pretty tired.”

Maybe you would’ve given her a friendly smile over a misunderstanding if you were in a better mood, but as the woman looks at you with wild eyes, all you can offer her is an annoyed pout, and soon after she leaves after apologising to you both for interrupting your plans. You watch her leave until there is a good enough distance for her to not hear you, and then turn to Lando and give him a glare as you hiss, “I am not ‘your girl’.”

He finally lets out the chuckle he’s been holding as he watches you letting go of his hand with an exaggerated push, and then diverts his amused eyes towards you, “Sure, whatever you say, jealous girl.”

“I am not– I wasn’t jealous!” you exclaim, eyes narrowed. When he starts walking towards the driver’s side, you can’t help but call out, “I’m not jealous!”

Lando is still chuckling to himself when he gets in the car, and even as he starts driving, completely ignoring your whining complaints. “That’s alright, honey,” he says, voice full of condescension, “it was very cute.”

“You are an ass.” You roll your eyes as you cross your arms across your chest. “Maybe I should’ve gotten off when I had the chance, that way you could’ve fucked her in the back seat.”

“Bold of you assume she’s the one I’d want to fuck in my back seat,” he raises an eyebrow, then shrugs “but sure.”

Your face scrunches up in disgust, “You’re, ugh, you’re just the worst, Lando.” Shaking your head in disbelief, you add, “I can’t believe I’m arguing with you over you fucking girls in your car.”

Lando manages to get out a disapproving tut, and then contends, “I never said I’d fuck girls in my car, I’d said I’d rather fuck you in my car.”

Completely baffled by this revelation, not that you should’ve been, you turn to him in disgust, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He shrugs again, noncommittally, and without paying you any mind continues to focus on the road.

“Well,” you laugh, breathlessly, “good thing that’s never happening.” Gently clearing your throat, you later can’t help yourself but add a silent, “Again.”

“If you’d rather a bed, that could also be arranged, honey.” Lando assures you, and you realise the little fucker has a smirk growing on his face.

“As if I’d sleep with you willingly,” you scoff.

A boisterous laugh is what you get from Lando, who tilts his head towards you, “Come on, I’m a good-looking bloke.”

“And I’m sure I’ve seen much hotter man,” you sing, but you just can’t remember when. So deciding to block out what Lando is rambling about, you pull out your phone to message someone who has the answer for you.

To lily m + kika: can you tell me someone who is hotter than lando? From lily m: alex From kika: pierre To lily m + kika: ew, be serious please From kika: what about the guy with the accent, from hungary? From lily m: the doctor? To lily m + kika: i think she meant the reporter From lily m: god no he was a creep From lily m: what about the surfer? From kika: oh yeah he was cute too To lily m + kika: i need someone hot, pleaseee From lily m: THE MODEL FROM MILAN From kika: WITH THE ABS From kika: and also porche From lily m: BUT ALSO THE ABS To lily m + kika: okay thanks To lily m + kika: love you guys

Getting lost in the conversation, with the aid of your ambition to prove yourself right and, naturally, Lando wrong, you don’t realise that he’s actually driven you back to his apartment instead of a bar or literally some other place that sells alcohol in that ungodly hour.

“This isn’t a bar.” You point out, eyebrows furrowed.

Lando dignifies your comment with a scoff, “Well aren’t you quite the detective?”

Crossing your arms across your chest, you basically hiss at him this time, “This is basically kidnapping.”

Lando glances at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “Kidnapping? Really? I thought we were just catching up.”

You shoot him a sarcastic look, but can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, sure. Catching up in the middle of the night at your place.”

He parks the car and turns to face you, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Well, here’s my proposal. I’ll go to my apartment and you’re free to either join me or drive my car back to Daniel’s – I’ll come pick it up tomorrow.”

You hesitate for a moment, considering your options as you watch Lando give you an assuring smile and handing you the keys before getting out of the car. Going back to your brother's place doesn't sound all that appealing, and Lando's offer, as questionable and a bad idea as it may be, seems like the lesser of two evils. Though, there is also the reality that if when you go up to his apartment, you’re probably going to do something that either you or your friends will regret tomorrow morning. Watching Lando’s retreating figure move further into the apartment building, you think, fuck it, it’s fine.

So, you wait for a few minutes, anxiously twirling the car keys in your hand to make him wait – but you’re pretty sure it makes you suffer just as much. You take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and then climb out of the car. Locking it behind you, you follow Lando into the building. The familiar scent of his cologne hits you as you step into the elevator, and a wave of nostalgia washes over you. The elevator ride going up to the second floor is pure torture, and it leaves you squirming in your place the whole time. Basically throwing yourself out of the elevator once it lands on the second floor, you realise that Lando has been waiting for you, standing and smiling at his door.

He gives you a teasing look as you approach, clearly amused by your slightly dishevelled state. “Took you long enough,” he remarks, unlocking the door and holding it open for you. But instead of saying anything or retorting back, you quietly follow him inside his apartment. Lando closes the door behind you, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. The dim lighting casts a soft glow, creating an intimate atmosphere. The first thing that catches your eye is the helmet collection he keeps in the living room. Without saying anything, you quickly make your way over to the shelves that display the helmets, trying your best to avoid his approaching footsteps behind you. The familiar design of a particular helmet has you instinctively tracing the number at the top, and the arms that hug your waist from behind makes you freeze for a moment. Lando's touch is both familiar and foreign, stirring up a mix of emotions you thought were long buried.

“That's from Monza, 2021,” he says, his voice close to your ear. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver down your spine.

You clear your throat, attempting to regain composure. “I remember,” you reply, your fingers still lingering on the helmet.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of the past and the uncertainty of the present hangs in the air. Lando breaks the silence, his voice low and measured. “I wasn't sure you'd actually come up.”

You turn to face him, meeting his gaze, but don’t attempt getting out of his arms. “I didn't think so either.”

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly leans in, his lips brushing against yours. It's a tentative touch, a testing of waters, and you find yourself responding to the familiarity of the kiss. The taste of the past lingers, and for a moment, it's as if the years haven't passed. But reality crashes back in, and you pull away, the distance now a necessary boundary. Lando looks at you, a mix of emotions playing on his face. There's longing, regret, and an unspoken acknowledgment of the complexities that bind you.

“I thought we could just catch up,” he says, his tone a mix of apology and yearning.

You turn in your place, facing him. “Catching up was never our strong suit, was it?”

“Not really,” Lando shakes his head, “no.”

You bite down on the corner of your lip, threading your fingers through his curls as you pull his face down to meet yours as you rise on your tiptoes, “It’s a bad idea, right?”

Lando lets out a supportive hum as he lets his lips softly brush against yours, “The worst.” And maybe he should have been the gentleman and pull away, but when he sees your eyes closing, he just leans in further to press his lips against yours – and the way you respond to his kiss? It's as if the world outside ceases to exist. The kiss deepens, each brush of his lips against yours reigniting a long-buried flame. Lando's hands find their way to the small of your back, pulling you closer, erasing the physical space between you.

You don’t complain as he pulls you towards his bedroom, or when he gently throws you on his bed, the anticipation hanging thick in the air. As he hovers over you, the weight of the past and the intensity of the present converge. His hands trace the contours of your face, memorizing every curve as if committing it to memory. And when the two of you get lost between each other within his sheets, the only thing that ends up coming from your mouth is either his name, or some sort of encouragement to keep him going. After he manages to wear you out, Lando decides that you’re definitely not going anywhere as he wraps you in his arms around you. The room is filled with the soft sounds of breaths syncing, hearts beating in tandem. Lando's fingers draw absent patterns on your skin while you check the messages that have accumulated in your phone. The glow of your phone illuminates the dim room, creating a subtle contrast to the warmth that envelops you. Lando's presence beside you adds an extra layer of comfort, a silent acknowledgment of the shared intimacy that unfolded moments ago.

From danny: please tell me you didn’t get kidnapped by the organ mafia From danny: wink twice if you’re alive From danny: this is not funny, where are you? From danny: fine i’ll ask alex to ask lily

Rolling  your eyes before sending him a text to let your brother know you’re okay, you decide to turn your attention to the group chat with Lily and Kika.

From kika: did you get home safe? From lily m: daniel is pretty stressed about it From lily m: please for the love of god tell us you’re home and not with lando right now To lily m + kika: omg just calm down i’m in bed To lily m + kika: and i’m going to sleep To lily m + kika: love you guys

You catch a glimpse of Lando’s grin over your shoulder as you click your phone off, but he only chuckles as he buries his face into your neck as he leaves small kisses to the skin there. “Well, I’m not lying, I just didn’t specify where I was.”

“Or in whose sheets,” his laugher gets louder as you jokingly slap him on the arm, “go to sleep, honey, we’ll be tired in the morning.”

And it might’ve been a bad idea to message him in the first place, but it certainly doesn’t feel like one.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up. 

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around. 

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready. 

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.  

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl. 

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite. 

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head. 

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you. 

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window. 

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off. 

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. 

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.” 

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order! 

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers! 

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out. 

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all. 

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders. 

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.” 

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you? 

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.” 

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it. 

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you. 

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.” 

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks. 

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter. 

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you. 

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual. 

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.  

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him. 

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests. 

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that. 

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers. 

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise. 

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?” 

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again. 

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces. 

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.  

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.  

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone. 

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.” 

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way. 

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you. 

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic. 

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger. 

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner. 

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway. 

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him. 

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.  

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way. 

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week. 

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier. 

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks. 

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman. 

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment. 

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.” 

“No--” 

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button. 

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat. 

“I don--” 

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--” 

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery? 

“I’m not expecting a delivery.” 

“Are you...” he says your name again. 

“... yes.” 

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation. 

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole. 

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.  

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real. 

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame. 

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.” 

[vagabond-umlaut]

'til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours

then her eyes look at me, love breaks my bones and I laugh

gojo satoru x wife!reader; 18+ content so mdni; mostly tooth-rotting domestic fluff w mild smut; baby-making stuff [it's breeding, y'all- but not written in a very spicy way... i'm too shy; wht's my fault in tht]; satoru & you're a bit too much in love w each other; not toxic tho... js a teeny-tiny amt too much– haha; satoru calls you cookie and minx; too many kisses written to count [and 1 mention of the words 'cum' and 'cunt' each– i said right, i'm too shy :))]; loserboy loverboy 'toru; tw: talks on conceiving; 2.6k wc

the fic title and summary don't rly hv a very strong connection to the fic plot— except the fact they fit satoru's character here to a tee ^_^

belongs to the series 'you make my heart flutter and fibrillate' but can be read as a stand-alone fic if you wanna

fic title from everywhere, everything by noah kahan // fic summary from a poem by charles bukowski // header frm pinterest // divider by @/benkeibear // jjk isn't mine

Gojo Satoru is in love with you. Entirely, utterly, whole-heartedly—

Simply put, the man adores you.

Reveres you even; your existence in both this world and his: one that has morphed to fit the shape and size of your form, your smiles, your frowns– Your husband believes he cannot be any more enchanted by you, any more ensnared by you than he already is...

Only to be proven wrong when you ask something of him.

The sweet croon of the music seems to dissipate away, as well as the quiet murmurs of the crowds, when Gojo sees you lift your head from where it lay on his chest. Eyes briefly flicking to where you both are in a gentle sway on the dance floor, amongst other couples; before they return to the shades on his face.

Growing an endearing quality of coyness as you gaze at him, features becoming suffused with warmth and hues before you repeat your ask to him; voice softening, trembling. Even more this time.

"'Toru," you say, fingers flexing from where they are looped around his neck, around his existence. Your smile is shaky, right at the corners of your mouth, before you take a deep breath to force them to stabilise– somehow, your husband realises.

He watches you draw in yet another deep breath, and ask, "You'll give me anything I want from you... won't you?"

He will.

Of course, he will.

Ask him to pluck the waxing gibbous from the night sky, to make you a pretty little pendant out of it— he will.

Ask him to burn this city to the ground, just so you've enough ash for your innumerable pots of cacti— he will.

Ask him to do anything and everything: whatever your heart desires– be it for a moment or for years— Gojo will do it for you, no matter the consequences he must face for it— for what bears any consequence to the sorcerer's life, if not your happiness and well-being??

He drags a hand from where it rested on your lower back, up the side, to your cheek, gently cupping the soft flesh there. Letting loose a tiny smile, fond, unguarded, true, when you lean into his touch.

"Ask away, cookie. Tell your 'Toru what you want."

"I..." you start. Voice soft and timid. Gaze darting away a second time, this time to the slowing pace of your and your husband's dance steps on the floor...

Before you raise your eyes, a mesmerising flurry of many feelings, to his concealed ones.

And Gojo swears, there's surely something different in you, making something different in him as well, when you look at him that way–

"I want to have your babies, 'Toru."

The first response you words elicit in him is a static— Noisy. Buzzing. Something that renders him dumb. Deaf and blind to everything and everyone except his wife, for a moment perhaps a tad too long...

The second response is him, very obviously, nearly dragging you off the dance floor, and having offered a bullshit explanation for leaving early to the party host, pulling you out into the toasty summer night.

Gojo teleports before the doors to the hall have been closed behind you both, not even for three whole seconds.

And bends down to smash his lips onto yours, the instant the familiar comforting feel of your home settles on his shoulders... seeps into his body, immediately setting him at ease... yet not at all at ease...

Especially because of these stupid fucking cockblocking trousers—

A loud pop! sounds through the living room, bouncing off its walls.

Soon followed by a mishmash of an aggrieved whine and an annoyed grunt from your husband, at the loss of contact with one of your best physical features to him—

it all melts away though when Gojo opens his eyes to find you looking at him with a slight sheen in your big round eyes and the tremor from before in your lips.

You push him away gently by the pads of your fingers— but the effort lasts only for a beat. Teeth biting down onto your lower lip, your small fingers let only a brief moment pass before twisting into the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer. Almost as if they're scared he might turn into smoke, if their hold is loosened even a pinch.

Gojo thinks you sound terribly puny when you finally break the thick silence layering over the entire flat–

Much too puny than he would like to hear his precious little wife be.

"Do you really want kids with me, 'Toru? You're not doing this just for me– just 'cause I want a family with you— you aren't, are you?"

"Do you..." Gojo starts then pauses for a bit to curb the chuckle nearly spilling forth his mouth, before resuming. The amusement in his tone can be reduced only so much, though— despite, or maybe due to the worry marking your pretty features.

Very unnecessary worry marking your very, very pretty features.

"Do you really think I'm that selfless– that good-hearted– cookie?"

Your brows furrow for a beat— before flattening in a look of complete sincere honesty. "You always think of me before yourself, 'Toru– don't want to pressurise you into doing anything you don't want to, is all."

"Oh, is it so?" he hums, mouth curving into a leisurely grin as he trails his fingertips from where they're entangled in your hair, dancing over the side of your neck until they reach the base of your throat– A faint pressure on the flesh there.

The ensuing hitch in your breath makes his grin sharpen, his trousers tighten. He lets his voice fall to an unhurried husk of a whisper.

"So you think I don't wanna have a family with you, hm?"

"Ah, it's not that," Gojo notes you waste not one moment to breathe back. He pulls you flush to himself by the other hand clutching your lower back, fingers digging in when you stutter, "I-I was j-just–"

"What will you do if I say I don't want kids, cookie?" He interrupts, still maintaining the low cadence of his tone.

Your fingers let go of his coat, soon followed by the re-emergence of that damn shaky smile of yours. Your husband doesn't like it one bit, but says nothing to hear your answer instead...

Albeit he knows what it will be, knowing just how much of a fool you never fail to turn into when it comes to matters involving him– a fact he usually loves about you, his pride and ego adore about you; but in this specific moment... Not so much.

Your soft mumble disrupts his internal groan, "I will never bring this topic up ever again in that case, Satoru. I promise you, I won't."

"And what if I say I wanna knock you up nice and good?"

You'll short circuit, is what Gojo predicts before the last word is even out of his mouth— and he's proven right, amazingly so, in less than a beat, when you do:

Eyes enlarging. Cheeks warming. Mouth opening and closing: once, twice then thrice... As if you're an adorable fish gasping for air in the onslaught of his simple [yet cruel– he knows you deem him so right now– how can you be so cute...] inquiry.

Deciding to grant his poor wife some much-needed mercy, the man bends down to whisper into your ear, lightly grazing the earlobe with his teeth, "If saying it out loud is too much, why don't you show your 'Toru instead what you will do, hm? I'm sure that will be easier."

"I..." you hesitate, the word still a wisp of your breath, until your hands return to the front of his coat. And you lean back a smidgen, features lighting up as you ask. Slowly. Carefully. Hopefully.

A knot, your husband never knew existed, loosens in the middle of his chest at the sight of your strengthening smile.

"Can I take this as your 'yes' then?"

"You can."

And that's the only reply Gojo finds he has to give to have your lips on his... Not too soft yet so very tender in the way they move against his own... Almost as if you're scared of hurting him... Terrified of causing even a pinch of pain to him.

Something between a moan and a squeak rips itself from your throat when the sorcerer bullies his tongue into the warm welcoming space of your mouth, simultaneously hooking his arms under your thighs to lift you. Mouths never leaving each other, not even for one second, as he kicks his shoes off, hearing you do the same, heels hitting the floor with a sharp clack!— And he finally, fucking finally, takes a step into–

"Bedroom, 'Toru!" Pulling away, you exclaim hastily, breathlessly, "Not the sofa or the kitchen counter this time, please."

"Too demanding, aren't we?" Gojo coos, licking his lips then stealing a small taste of the angry swollen redness of your pretty lips– Choosing to concede when you pout up at him, "Alright, fine— Can't really deny my amazing wife anything, can I?"

"No!" You giggle back cheekily—

And you're correct.

Extremely correct, your husband reckons, smiling softly as he moves out of you; out of the embrace of your wet, warm, maddening walls— A sharp hiss escapes through between his teeth, brows scrunching in momentary discomfort whilst he faintly registers your weak whimper.

Wasting no time to scoop back the load of creamy white cum leaking out your sore cunt, Gojo lifts your hips to keep a pillow beneath them. And stuffs his fingers into his mouth— exaggeratedly moaning with a smirk when he catches your cute little face of mortification.

"You're horrible," you mutter visibly exasperated, what with that huge roll of eyes you do when the sorcerer groans out yet again around his fingers in appreciation, shifting to lie beside you.

He removes his fingers with a loud pop!. Grinning like a Cheshire Cat when your eyes stay on them a bit too long for someone who sees it as horrible... Before they skitter away to reach his face.

He wraps an arm round you, dragging you closer until your boobs are squished against his pecs. A shiver of thrill runs down his spine at the wonderful– no, absolutely heavenly feeling.

"I'm in love, cookie," he offers besides a noisy lovestruck sigh in reply.

You, as usual, as expected, take only one or two moments before the not-too-annoyed scowl on your face gives way to a tender smile.

Wrapping an arm around him in return, you nuzzle your nose into the crook of his neck. He feels your lips on his skin more than hears your words they shape. Whispered into the comfortable darkness of your shared bedroom.

"Love is a force to be reckoned with, huh?"

Just love? Maybe... Maybe not... Truth be told, Gojo has no idea. And he has never been too keen on forming an idea either.

But your love?

It surely is, your husband muses to himself with no small amounts of delight or adoration, It did change the trajectory of his life, did it not?

He is supposed to be by himself— The Strongest, yes, but one with a solitary existence. He is supposed to be in this bed, awake and quiet, staring up at the ceiling whilst his senses easily fall prey to the heavy weights of his past, his mistakes, his unpardonable sins— vanishing long after the first rays of the sun have broken through the curtains...

Yet... with the love you've so obstinately kept safe for him throughout the years... here he is now.

Still awake– a bit restless, in fact– but the farthest from being alone.

The love of his life, safe, sated and smiling in his careful hold. Whilst his senses tingle in smug joy and content as his eyes, all six of them, rove over the innumerable proofs of his insatiable hunger, boundless ardour for you.

Starting from your kiss-bitten lips; to the multiple splotches of purple dotting the expanse of your neck, your chest, your stomach, down to the delectable inner aspect of your thighs; to the angry red nip marks left nearly all over your body, wherever he could get access, wherever you wouldn't gently push his mouth away from with a whine—

To, of course, your belly: Flat now but won't remain so for a long time. Becoming swollen and round with your babies– his babies– A perfect mixture of you and him. A perfect result of your mutual feelings...

An impossibly anxious gasp disturbs his smooth stream of thoughts, as well as the steady downwards flow of his blood...

He looks down to find you wrenching yourself away from his arms to get hold of the long-forgotten pillow— Ah. It's the pillow.

"It's too easy to get you worried over the smallest of things, y'know?" Gojo tuts, still moves to help you stuff the pillow to elevate your hips on noticing your wince on shifting.

You throw him a cross glare, which soon changes into an upset pout.

"Shut up, Satoru. This is not a small thing, this is a huge thing! What will happen if my chances of conceiving fall because of this mistake, 'Toru?" you suddenly erupt into an anguished screech.

Gojo feels his heart threatening to burst at the seams, just from how utterly cute you look. He knocks his forehead lightly against yours.

"Wanna go for another round, cookie?"

"Huh!?!?" you exclaim, eyes growing round and cheeks flaring up yet once more— Your husband intervenes however, before you return to your struggling-to-breathe-fish form, "Don't be so embarrassed, you little minx; you were spouting all sorts of debauched stuff some time back–"

He pauses for a beat, thinking if he should quote everything you said. Then deciding against it, so as to not have you short circuit yet again, repeats, amusement lacing his tone, "Tell me, do you wanna?"

"I'm not a minx," you mumble back.

And the sorcerer almost believes you, mind being swayed by the light glimmer in your gorgeous eyes, the plush flesh of your lower lip jutted out just the right amount, the enticing manner your eyelashes appear to be batting themselves at him in the faint moonlight streaming into the room via the light curtains...

Only for the slowly, steadily enveloping bubble to be popped.

By the feel of something soft and warm– your foot– travelling up the skin of his calf; the same moment he watches your fingers trail over his chest and the planes of his stomach. Tongue peeking out for less than an instant when your gaze drops to his fingers– the very fingers he was sucking on not even five minutes back—

Pushing the pillow away, Gojo climbs back atop you. A knee wedged to part your thighs while he bends down, face angled to swallow that endearing surprised squeak of yours with his insistent, impatient lips.

You were right.

Love is, for real, a force to be reckoned with.

But Gojo Satoru— No, his cookie's 'Toru in love with her– And now, in love with the idea of having a huge happy family with her as well...

That's a force only you know how to put a leash on.

[Not that you will ever—

You're as hopeless a goner for him as he is for you!]

hope this was an enjoyable read! pls don't plagiarise, translate or repost this ❤️❤️

masterlist

[oftenderweapons]

In Your Calvin's | JJK

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x reader (nicknamed Candy)

Wordcount: 9.6k

Genre: smut, fluff, pwp, established relationship

Rating: 18+ Minors, do not interact

Synopsis: Being Jeon Jeongguk's girlfriend is a great honour, but it comes with great responsibilities. When the commercial celebrating your boyfriend (very secret boyfriend) starts playing on everyone's and their mother's phones, it's time you face what it means to be loved by the most wanted idol of them all.

Warnings: Jealousy and general possessiveness. Swearing. Powerplay, switch!reader, switch!jk. Masochist!jk (?). Marking (hickey, writing on body with a pen), hair pulling (male receiving), edging (male receiving), spanking (male and female receiving). Teasing. Mild degradation. Dry humping. A very mild boobjob. Breast worship. Unprotected foreplay, oral sex (female receiving; brief male receiving), unprotected sex (be smarter, kids), rough sex. Mentions of cockring.

One last thing: 1. this was edited at 3am, please bear with me. 2. Sidenote: I try to be as neutral as possible with the way I describe the girls' appearance, however I wanted to specify that in this fic, I mention Candy having long, straight hair (and huge badonkers, but that's kinda canon by now LOL). It's just a brief mention, absolutely nothing major and holds no relevance to the fic, you might not even notice it; but still, I wanted to make sure I thought about my curly haired goddesses, and short haired queens, (or a combo of both heart eyes) and that I apologise for making this fic just a pinch less immersive for you. (Is this the right moment to apologise to small boobs princesses too? ily sisters, itty bitty titty committee 5evah)

Here's my masterlist, lemme just disappear very quickly. Enjoy 💜✨

You knew Jeongguk had a gig with Calvin Klein. You've known it for months. You've seen him cut calories and hit the gym and dehydrate for a couple days before the shoot because he explained to you how muscle definition works, and crucial to showing a great slab of abs is being basically as dry as a breadstick, to the point of being cranky because you have drunk three glasses of water in the last forty-eight hours. 

Which all means, you knew his stomach would be quite surely showing.

And yet your world still stops once you're merrily sitting on your train back home and his half undressed form appears on the screen on your phone. 

At first you slam your phone shut, mostly because you're used to hiding your boyfriend away and that's the reaction you usually have when you open one of his flirty pics from your chat. 

Next, you realise you weren't on your private chat, and you weren't even looking at pictures in your phone gallery. 

You were absentmindedly scrolling. On Instagram. 

You unlock your phone again, and right there you're confronted with the very naked truth. 

Jeongguk. Is basically naked. On your phone. And it's for the entire world to see. 

Your brain slows down, as if the earth axis is tipping over a little in the opposite way. 

Something inside you snaps around the third time the video plays in front of your unseeing eyes. To anyone looking at you, you could be just an obsessed fan taking a close look at the fine piece of art, but your eyes are unfocused, your mind too deep in thought to register any stimulus from the external world. 

The vibration from the phone awakens you from your state of trance. 

“Candy, baby,” says the adorable lover boy calling you. “Have you seen it already?”

Your lips are sealed, and you can't quite bring yourself to speak, you don't know why. 

“I'm on my way back home.” You say, and the words feel like cracking a glow stick in your chest. 

“But did you see it?” His voice isn't as bright now. 

“I'm coming home.” You repeat. 

He's silent for a few seconds, and you can hear him sigh. “Okay.” 

“He's so insanely hot,” you overhear a girl sitting across from you comment. 

“I want to run my palms down the sides of his waist,” says her friend. 

You stare at them and you know you must look like a woman possessed right now, but you still allow yourself to incinerate them with a glare, as if your eyes could turn into flamethrowers. 

“Candy?” 

“I'll be home in ten.” And you close the call. 

On the way back home, you hear more people talk. More girls fawn. More women zoom in. 

On the escalator, you notice a woman fanning herself while staring at the screen. Another one even crosses herself as the ad from your boyfriend reruns on her phone screen. 

Every step on your way home is utter agony, and once you step over the threshold, you're not sure what you're going to do.

Jeongguk is in the kitchen in a sleeveless top, tattoos out, piercings glowing in the gentle light of the living room. And his hair is fluffy, which means he's probably just done blow drying it after taking a shower. 

The fact that the scent of his body lotion is still sharp gives you further indication of how recent that shower must be. 

“Hey,” he says, turning towards you with a bunny grin, which immediately dims once he sees your expression. “Oh. Bad day?” 

You bite your lip and stare at him a fair bit. Then, a bit more. 

“Candy, love.” 

You don't know what to do with him. Is he yours? Is he really yours? 

How come you come home to him making dinner, and being freshly showered, and being so domestic? How come you're living in his apartment, knowing his pass code, having an ID card for his apartment complex and his studio at HYBE? How come he gives you a copy of his schedule and talks about you over the phone on his weekly call to his grandmother and brings you to his parents' house? How come you go on trips together and you're the emergency contact to his fur babies and you make love two to four times a week? How come he's brought you to the town he grew up in and loved you down in the place where he lost his virginity because, "I wish it had been you since the very first time"? 

Who is this man? 

Is he Jungkook from Bangtan Sonyeondan? Or is he Jeon Jeongguk, your very own quiet, shy, reserved lover boy? 

“You're scaring me,” he whispers, putting down his wooden spoon and taking a few steps to stand in front of you. 

“Why me?” you ask, staring at his collarbones, too scared to look into his eyes. 

“What do you mean?” he asks back, sheepish. 

This time your eyes meet his. “Why me? Of all the women out there, why me?” You look down, taking in just how average you feel, every imperfection magnified in your eyes, now that you have so many people you're comparing yourself with, and competing with. 

“Candy—” He starts. 

“Everyone, everyone out there is literally foaming at the mouth at that commercial, and I'm here? I come home to you? I make love to you almost every night?” You pause and laugh bitterly at him. “I'm a fucking fraud.” 

He shakes his head and moves closer, grabbing your wrists. “A fraud, you say?” He tuts in disappointment, places your hands on his waist. “You're not a fraud, ____, you're my soulmate.” He leaves your hands once he feels them clutch at his narrow waist. 

Possessiveness hits you all of a sudden, and it is only mildly ebbed by his hands landing at the top of your ass. 

“I love you, and I make love to you because it's a fucking dream. You're a fucking dream, and I'm so upset that you don't see it.”

You're jealous. You're simply jealous. It's human and it's healthy to be moderately jealous. After all the comments you heard and read, it's fair to be jealous. 

“I reckon you saw the commercial.” 

“I saw the commercial and everyone's reaction to it,” you comment, slightly acidic. 

Jeongguk bends to place a kiss below your earlobe. “Are you angry?” 

No. Not just anger.

Your hands mimic his and crawl to his lower back, toying with the hemline of his underwear. “I'm not mad.” I'm disgustingly jealous and I don't like them having more of what's mine. They already have too much, they've always wanted too much and you always give it to them and I'm furious that it's not mine alone. 

Jeongguk wears a mischievous smile as he makes you take several small steps back, the back of your legs hitting the kitchen counter. “Do you like it?” 

You click your tongue and shake your head. “No.” 

The reply startles him, and he feels his mood dim. Did he—

“I'm not a jealous person, but this… God, this hits a new level,” you finally admit. “They already drool over you quite enough, and now they even have a video of you shirtless. How would I not be jealous!? Half the girls would have snapped your neck. If Yoongi ever did this, Kitten would have his balls dangling from her Mercedes keychain. I don't even know how Lace and Princess are handling their boyfriends naked on everyone's phone. If I were Tae I would seek political asylum in Greenland. Or maybe Tibet.” You take a large mouthful of oxygen before you launch yourself in another tirade. 

“Everyone's talking about grabbing your waist, licking your abs, tugging at your hair and shit and hi! I'm here! I'm the girlfriend! Sorry I exist! WHAT THE FUCK!?” 

Jeongguk laughs and lowers himself to your chest, kissing where your heartbeat echoes like a crazed war drum. 

“It's not fun!” you complain, significantly agitated. 

“Mh.” He hums as he moves aside the hem of your shirt, meeting the soft, smooth skin of your chest. “It was supposed to come out on your birthday, that's why's a bit more racy,” he explains more patiently. “But they decided to release it early.” He kisses a tender spot and your left knee tingles a little. “It was supposed to be a slightly too public boudoir shoot. But secretly it was just yours.” Jeongguk finds the cup of your bra and stares up at you as his fingers reach the hem and slide the fabric aside. “I was thinking of you when I made it.” 

And once his mouth wraps around your nipple, your right knee starts tingling too. 

“Must admit I had to push the limits a lot to finally make you jealous,” he purrs once he is done with the licking, sucking motion of his mouth around your tender flesh. “But I'm sorry I crossed the line.” 

What line? You think, your brain already hazy. No sharp line exists in the world you’re currently in. Just the loving, plush hills of Jeongguk's lips, the slippery slopes of his waistline, the sinuous curves of his hip bones leading you to his pelvis, and the soft curls of his luscious dark locks. No crossed borders, only gentle waves licking the shore, water and land embracing one the other. 

“Remind me who's the boss here, Candy,” he says, and you know he's playing you right now. “Remind me where I belong.” His mouth is at your ear as he whispers, “Show me who owns me.” 

The tingles are spreading as his fingers grab at your ass, his lips connecting with your jaw. “Talk to me, Candy.”

You’re not sure you can articulate words at this moment. Talking isn’t as easy as everyone makes it seem. 

His eyes connect with yours and he can tell you’re staring at his lips by the poetic detail of your lashes lowered over your cheekbone. 

It makes him chuckle, very gently, that he has all these details of you he adores, and that you have the audacity of asking him why he picked you, and why he keeps choosing you over and over. 

He loves you, his family loves you, his dogs love you. This is the way it’s supposed to be. 

His finger reaches underneath your chin, forcing your eyes to actually meet his. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he purrs, and as your lashes dart up, he shakes his head a little, loving the way you arch up a fraction, as if pulled towards him. “There she is, beautiful.”

You feel completely neutralised. Disarmed. All the storms brewing over you a minute ago are forgotten as soon as his sweet smile shines like sunlight above you. 

His hand combs your hair back, cupping your cheek and landing a kiss on your temple. “Are you feeling better?”

You nod. 

“What mood are we in?” You’ve asked him this question thousands of times since the two of you became serious, ever since he opened up about feeling too closed off to make a relationship work; and now, the fact that it was such a solid, valid ritual in your dynamics made it natural for him to ask too. “You need to talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I’m better. I…”

“Tell me what you want.”

You stare at him, at his shoulders, at his biceps, you trace his tattoo with your fingertip, and he looks closely at your finger, at it drawing swirls and circles on his skin. 

“Pick me up,” you say softly. 

And he does, immediately. His biceps flex and he grunts a little, not at the weight, but just because he knows the sound can make your toes curl, and he likes that a lot. His hands are wrapped around the back of your thighs, then they adjust to your bottom. 

“Next? Counter? Bed? Shower?”

You kiss him. Impatient, and needy, you kiss him. 

He opens up for you without hesitation, moaning at the sweet invasion of your tongue in his mouth. God, he loves it. It makes him melt, to feel your tongue slip against his, moving wet and sloppy, your lips plush and hot pressed up against him. He loves kissing you. Actually, he loves making out with you. He’s pretty sure he could come of that alone, and he tries to remind himself you have to give that a try. Another day. 

He places you onto the counter because he fears his knees might give out on him. And once he has you there it means his hands can roam all over you and grab your chest and toy with—

“No touching,” you snap at him, gripping his wrists and pulling his hands behind his back. 

His eyes go wide at the shift in pace, but he obeys. He also feels like he's awakening from a dream only to find out reality can be so much better. 

You dig your hands in his hair and he hisses a little as you tug gently, but still roughly. You think of all the people who wish they could do just so as you stare into his eyes, seeing just how turned on he gets as you manhandle him. 

You lean towards him and you notice him trying to kiss you, but you tug at his hair harder, holding him in place as the heat of your exhale fans over his parted lips and his chin. 

“You want me to own you?” you ask him, watching his muscles twitch as he fights the urge to grab you and put you in place. 

He nods. “Do me all the things no one else can.” He has a roguish smile as he adds, “Do me everything they won't ever, ever do to me.” And he is god of deception when he finally tips you over the edge. “Do me everything I want just from you, and you alone.” 

You watch him intently, then tug at his hair so that his head is angled upwards, throat vulnerable and exposed. 

He's staring at you with a mischievous glint in his expression, a walking temptation, and you can almost hear him say it, 'come on, do it'. And you do it. 

You bend forward and sink your teeth in his flesh, the tender skin caving in as your bite marks him softly before your cheeks move into a suctioning motion that you know will turn into a bruise. It just pleases you so. 

“Take a step back,” you order as soon as you're happy with the hickey. “Take off your shirt.” 

And he winks before he does. You watch the plain of his chest, the valley in between his pectorals leading you down to his navel. 

“I hope you're wearing your Calvin's,” you tease with a cocked eyebrow. 

He smirks. “Always in my Calvin's.” 

You snicker and shake your head. “Take off your pants.”

His forehead scrunches up in surprise, but he eventually obeys. 

He's standing in a pair of socks and his white boxer briefs. At least he didn't lie, they are Calvin Klein. 

“Do you want—” 

“The Calvin's stay on,” you sentence, then you descend from the counter. “Head over to the bedroom. I'll come over in a minute.” 

He stares at you, flabbergasted. 

“Oh, and I almost forgot: don't touch yourself. Settle down, hands on the headboard and wait pretty.” 

He blinks, unsure of where this is going to end or where it came from, but so blazingly grateful for it. 

“Okay.” 

You give him a quick once-over as you stand in front of each other. His abs are toned and defined, but now less alarmingly than the days before the shoot. His thighs are strong and you love how the material from the boxers wraps around them comfortably and smoothly. 

You dare stare at his crotch, at the way the fabric traces the curve of his length, so perfectly long and so perfectly thick.

You allow your fingertips to trace the curve of his spine, so lightly that it causes him to close his eyes, his head inched to the side as he shivers in pleasure. 

“Can I be rough with you?” you ask him, your hand reaching the small of his back and cupping the curve of his ass. 

He moves his hands on you the exact same way you did. “Maybe I like pain,” he suggests, and from the collection of tattoos and piercings, but mostly from the supercut of memories of him getting bitten, spanked and scratched by you, you’re reminded that you’re not dealing with the edited version of him he has promoted publicly. 

This is your boyfriend. Jeongguk. Your Jeongguk. 

You sink your nails into the flesh of his ass, and he hisses but smiles, pulling you closer, swaying his hips to tease your crotch with his. “Go get ready, babyboy,” you croon.

He hums invitingly and kisses your neck, trying to get you to move with him, but you’ve made up your mind already. 

“Go,” you repeat.

He pouts and grabs your hips. “Come on, what are you trying to do?” he asks, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and wide and imploring for you to just follow him and spare him whatever cruel surprise you want to use against him.

You grab his wrists, making him unclasp his hands. “Go and you’ll find out.”

He hesitates and then he faces away, still reluctant, turning around a couple times on his way, checking if you’re following him — perhaps, maybe, hopefully…

Yet, you don’t move, not until he turns the corner to the bedroom. And then you make your way over, slow, unbothered. 

And you close the door on him. 

You head to the bathroom, wash up quickly, and equally quickly you cover yourself in his favourite lotion, taking special care of your neck and chest. Once properly buttered up and covered in nothing but pretty Calvin undies and his favourite Calvin jeans jacket, you’re ready to attack. But you stare at yourself in the mirror, and you feel like there’s still something you could do to give him a heart attack…

Oh, that, you think. And you get to work. 

Apparently he has behaved, as you find him lounging in bed, with his boxers still on, his hands laced behind the crown of his head, a fine slab of abs in full glow from the dark amber hue coming from his led lights. 

“Are we on a sunset gold kinda vibe— Holy shit.” He didn’t manage to sound as cool and aloof as he’d tried to be once his eyes landed on you. 

He wished he could take a picture of you and spread it across town, just so he could stare at it while waiting for a bus, or hanging out at Hongdae with his friends, and excitedly point at it while tipsy to holler “that’s my fucking girlfriend, that fine piece of ass fucking owns me”. 

He wished he could put you on an album cover and fill it with all the insane stuff you do to his heart and his mind and his body. How his heartbeat does a little hiccup thing when he sees you first thing in the morning, and how he’s spent every wish on fallen eyelashes over you, and making you happy, and building you a house and having fireworks for your wedding night, and having all his fans seeing just how incredibly fantastic you are to him, how you make him so happy and deliriously smitten and barely coherent when it comes to talking about you, and just… He just wants everyone to love you half as much as he does. 

And maybe for you to be only ever in love with him, so he doesn’t risk anyone thirsting for you enough to steal you from him. 

“What were you saying about golden lights?” you ask, climbing on the bed, your hand modestly holding the lapels of his jeans jacket together — it’s not time to destroy him yet. 

“I— I…” He tries to sit up, but you push him back where he belongs with a well-placed hand pressed to the middle of his chest. 

“Put on the red lights, love.” You grin devilishly, watching his doe eyes glimmer with wonder and disbelief. 

“Have I ever told you I am one lucky motherfucker?” he says, staring at your neck, at your face, at your hand, his palms already moving to your hips as you straddle him. 

“I just know it.” You sit on your throne — his lap —, stretch to the end table to grab the remote to switch the lights to red, and once the deal is settled, you let the jacket open. “I mean. I’m the luckiest because I have these, but considering you profit from them… You know…” You let your breasts show. 

“I know…” he says, entirely mesmerised. God, he is so easy, you think, watching his eyes scan your chest like a cat playing catch with a laser light. You mix your standard level of charm with a slow grind of your hips, so slow and gentle that it’s straight up teasing, torture at its blandest level.

“You make it so hard to think,” he speaks with a strangled voice, trying to make you move the way he wants, but you grab his hands with the excuse of lacing your fingers with his, only to drag them back by the sides of his head. 

“I didn’t know I could turn your brain into mush just like this,” you reply, feeling your folds moisten in an attempt to ease the sliding of your crotch against his length. Too bad both of you are still clad in your underwear and, according to your plans, would stay that way for quite a while, as long as possible. “You’re so whipped.”

“I am,” he purrs, and tries to get away with moving his hands back to your hips, but before he can dig his digits in the soft of your flesh, you tut. 

“You’d better not touch that ass, Jeon. Keep your hands to yourself if you want my hands on you,” you threaten. “Just to remind you who’s in charge, sweetheart.”

His eyes go wide and he moves his palms back behind his head as soon as you finish your remark. “Yes, miss.”

“Good boy,” you praise him, and you visibly notice him holding back from smiling at the praise. “Did you see my little mark?” you ask. “Call it a slog

an of sorts. A vision statement.” You shrug and push back the lapels, hoping for the lights not being too low for him to see. 

It has taken a while for your handy work to happen, mostly because it can be absurdly tricky writing in reverse, but thankfully you’re quite prone to graphic arts. 

Jeongguk rises a little, getting closer to where he can recognise dark scribbles on your chest. Unusual dark scribbles. 

“Is that… Tattooed?” he asks, and his eyes go wide as he meets your face. 

You cackle at him, leaning over and licking his lips, sucking his lower one, then travelling along his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe in a way that makes his hips jolt against you, buckling. “I can't have that tattooed, can I? Unless the world knows and it gets a little too permanent.” 

He frowns, not at the way he loses contact with your warm crotch, but because of the unwelcome realisation of what it means to not belong to you entirely. “I'm so sorry,” he sighs, trying to hold you, but stopping his hands before he can touch you. 

He goes back to his assigned position and begs you with his eyes. 

“Oh, no. Don't worry, it's okay.” To keep him distracted, you get back to a soft roll of your pelvis against his, and he seems to oppose, but it only lasts for maybe five seconds. 

His wound-up exhale convinces you to reward him further, lowering your chest so that it drags against his as you keep grinding on him. 

“Jeongguk, baby,” you murmur fondly. 

“So unfair… That I don’t get you like a girlfriend like anyone else…” He speaks, his focus spotty and frail. 

“What do you mean, love?” you egg him on.

“All the public stuff… All the PDA and the grand gestures. The stuff that makes it official, you know.” His eyes are glassy and fleeting as he speaks, and it really feels as if speaking were like making a necklace except he can’t quite line up the beads the right way and he can’t manage to get the string inside the hole and it takes a very long time for the words to finally turn into meaning and it’s all so frustrating. 

“I don’t care,” you reassure him, and this time you’re not unaffected either, the sentence stumbling out of you before you can even fully register the meaning you were trying to convey. “Can you read the tattoo, Guk?”

His eyelids lift through great effort, and in slow motion. You stop moving to help him focus on the writing, and he grunts at the interruption. He does not like that at all, and having you so close, so soft, so hot and wet for him is making his instinct vibrate with need to be inside you, move inside you, and then finally find his release in the welcoming darkness of your womb. 

“I—” He’s really trying so hard, god bless his heart, but he’s so unfocused and his vision is blurry and he needs to blink for a bunch of seconds before he manages to spell the message, and then compute it, and then smirk wildly before he bucks his hips up against you, letting you know that you’d better move on him. 

“What is it, Jeongguk? Mind sharing with the class?” you bait him with a cheshire grin. 

“Not sharing any of this,” he growls, and you can feel his arms jolt at the urgency to wrap around you, press you to his front and shove you underneath him, so that he can finally move as hard and as fast as he knows the both of you need. 

“Oh, don’t be a greedy little boy! Don’t you want to test how it feels to say it?” you tease him further, ready to push him to his breaking point. After all, that is what you’re always trying to do, get as far as it needs to make him go wild on you, barely coherent and entirely animalistic. 

“You want me to say it, don’t you?” he provokes you, feeling just how much the humiliation will further send you soaring over him. 

“I do,” you admit. 

He bites his lip and you look at him, you study the shape of his lips, the glint in his eyes, the dark shimmering of his lovely ebony locks, and the way his chest heaves with effort and arousal. “These tits own Jeon Jeongguk,” he speaks, his gaze piercing yours, holding you accountable for the undoing he knows will follow. 

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Your smile is sardonic, evilly pleased with his admission of submission, with him confirming, with conviction, that he is indeed entirely enslaved to his fascination for your chest, that he is so deeply enticed by it that just a silly part of you can guarantee you his unflinching devotion. 

“You know it’s right,” he grunts as your movements resume. And at this point, he knows this is going to take a while, and it will most surely turn out vicious. 

“Just checking in on you, making sure you haven’t found a better pair—”

“Don’t you dare talk to them like this. Not in front of me,” he hisses with a passion, and you chuckle at how chivalrously he defends your breasts from your own ill assumptions. 

“That’s so gallant of you,” you reply, your hands pulling his hair back, your tone fond and just vaguely lined with mocking. “Let them repay you for your kindness,” you suggest, as you start crawling down his body, your breasts landing heavily on his lap. 

“Really…?” he asks, first distracted and then extremely alert as he connects the dots. “With my boxers on?” He says with a frown. 

You shrug and smirk. “Maybe we’ll get rid of them later…” You sprinkle some kisses on his abdomen, your chest dragging against his sensitive parts. 

He frowns at the weight of them, so welcome, and yet deceiving as the fabric is hindering him from fully enjoying the act. “Please, off,” he huffs, tutting and fussing a little, but you decide to reward his patience with your nails tracing patterns against his chest, your fingertips drawing his areolae, your eyes hungry on his lost, bewildered state. 

“Not yet, love… Be patient with me,” you reassure him, tracing the rift in between the crests of his hips, one side, then the others, ricocheting between the bones on the two sides. “I’m going to make it so good to you,” you promise him, placing kisses all around the underrated perfection of his belly button — a huge ‘fuck you’ to the people salivating over him and never, ever knowing how such a minuscule inch of his body has you so irreversibly whipped. 

“Candy… Mh, love—” His voice has grown unbearably raspy and airy, so light it feels almost incorporeal, if it weren’t for the velvet smoothness of his skin underneath your lips, like marble that has finally received the breath of life, your boy an ineffable Galatea. 

“If you knew, Guk, if only—” kiss— “you knew—” kiss— “how sexy, and erotic, and exciting and poetic you look right now, baby. You look like art.” 

“Lemme touch you, I need you, I need—” he gasps and you’re almost expecting him to release a groan before he comes, way too early, much earlier than planned. But fortunately he doesn’t, he holds back stoically and cants his hips away. “For fuck’s sake,” he whispers, an arm covering his eyes. “I need a second if you need me to hold back.”

“Oh,” you reply in surprise, lifting yourself off him. “Are you alright?”

“Just give me some quiet for a second, Candy, don’t you dare even speak.” Jeongguk’s chest is rising and falling in wide movements, enticing and captivating.

Finally he removes his arm from his eyes, but he barely makes eye contact. 

“Guk?” You ask, worried. 

“Just— I’m trying to keep it cool here, love.” He wiggles his body a little, trying to get his boxers to fit a bit less tightly around him. “We should be smarter about this, you know?” His hands clench as he stops himself from reaching for you. “We should get a cockring for next time.”

You ogle him, then smile excitedly. “Really?” you chirp.

“Totally,” he concedes. He smiles even bigger at your smile. “Don’t tell me you bought one already.”

“Uhm… No,” you admit with a pout. 

“Dammit. It would have been weird, but I wouldn’t even have complained about it since it would pretty much save my ass right now.” He licks his lips, stares at you some more, and he groans and throws his head back at the renewed flare of arousal after he’d just managed to tone it down a notch. 

“I’m so sorry, bunny.”

“I’m alright,” he admits, his tone defeated. 

“Is this the right moment to suggest I ride your face?” you say, your grin now sardonic, almost drunk on him and the sight of his body shutting down for you, malfunctioning at the mere touch of you. 

He stares at you, wide eyed, nodding energetically, like a kid being asked if they want to visit Disneyland. “Guess it took a half naked commercial to get you to finally ask for it like you own it.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Careful or I can keep going with torturing you. I’m liking it anyway.”

“No no no, come over here,” he says with a stern and determined expression on his face, his hands reaching for the back of your thighs. “I’ve been waiting. Get comfy,” he encourages you, and after some manoeuvring you settle on top of him. 

He nods to himself, his nose nuzzling against the crotch of your panties, his mouth opening so he can feel your heat with his tongue, trying to get as close as possible.

Unsatisfied, his fingers reach to slip your panties to the side, but you slap at his hand. 

“Nope. You wanted the Calvin’s, and we’re keeping the Calvin’s,” you scold him. 

He frowns. “No, you were the one wanting them,” he argues. “Keep them on, you said.”

“Whatever.” You arch an eyebrow at him, but you also know he’s right and this decision has come to bite you in the ass. “Imagine how good it will feel once we take them off… And it feels a bit kinky to keep them on. Like… Like we’re having a quickie and everyone out there is waiting for model Jeongguk to come out anytime now, but once he does, well, he looks freshly fucked and everyone can’t stop talking about it— Oh, that!” you moan, your musings interrupted by Jeongguk trying to get bits of you in his mouth. 

You’re thankful for the brazilian cut panties giving him plenty of stuff to work with even with the underwear still on. 

“Stop me if it’s lewd but, dammit, I love the smell of you.” He drags his face side to side, basking in the damp, salty scent of your arousal. “I don’t even know what it is about it, but I like it so much.” 

“Keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you comment, your voice breathy. 

“Do you want me to keep talking?” he asks, and you just rub yourself against his chin, his mouth, and his words come out muffled. At some point you think you might have hurt his nose, so you ease the pressure a little, but he grabs handfuls of your butt and keeps you snug to his face, parts his lips wider as if he were really trying to eat you. 

He parts from his designed heaven only long enough to announce, “I’m pushing ‘em to the side, fuck it.” And you’re barely coherent, and he’s speaking with that intimate lisp of his, his accent heavy, like he can’t pay too much attention to words anyway. 

You don’t oppose. 

In seconds, his tongue is tipping inside you, slippery, and so hot, and you moan without even noticing it. Everything is soaked, his chest is covered in perspiration, and so are your thighs. 

You dare look down, and his eyes are closed as he is filling all his other senses with the sensation of you.

You bask in the sight of him, one forearm draped against the headboard of the bed, your other hand reaching down, to his fluffy hair currently tickling your inner thigh. You grab it, careful to be right between gentle and aggressive, in that way he finds so pleasant and sexy. 

He opens his eyes suddenly, and the moment he finds your eyes already connected with his face, he finds himself more eager to give you just what you need to plunge into oblivion. 

He gives you lush, slow licks, from your centre to your most sensitive spot, he takes his time, and moves into more sinuous motions, drawing curve after curve on his way up. He is unrushed, patient, and eloquent. He is luxuriant, explorative, curious. 

He loves what he’s doing, and he loves you and he’s showing it, top to bottom, and all the way up again. 

“Guk,” you breathe out, and it’s almost a hiccup.

“Yes, I know,” he murmurs against the bend of your inner thigh, right at the fold to your crotch. It’s so private, so sacred. It’s heartbreakingly yours and his and no one else’s. You’re in a shared space where nobody else can tell what you and him know. 

“Please,” you manage to say. 

He rearranges his arm so he can move two fingers along the seam between your legs, and then they’re inside, and he’s moving them right, rubbing them against the back wall of your entrance. 

As you tip your body forward, he moans with his mouth to your clitoris, happy with the new angle, and once you start grinding against him, climbing your way to your climax, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t go faster, he doesn’t add pressure. He does not change one single thing, and you’re so grateful for the way he has come to understand you, your body, your tells. 

“Just right,” you encourage him. “You’re so damn perfect, love— Oh, there.”

That’s the last thing you can remember saying before he sets you off like fireworks. You don’t take much into consideration after that. All is fair, unless he’s holding you back. 

You grind, hump, moan, thrash just a little as you get too sensitive and fold in two, your forehead pressed to your wrist on the headboard 

as you shake your head ‘no’ but can’t bring yourself to stop from feeling everything he wants you to take. 

When you manage to recover, you whisper, “Okay, gimme a second.” And you try to unstraddle his face, but he holds you there, and simply avoids touching your sensitive parts, removing his fingers from inside you. 

“Are you alright, Candy?”

You nod and take some large breaths. 

He moves your panties back in place, then kisses your mound softly, affectionate, innocent even. 

“Can I do anything for you now, love?” He asks with a reverent, caring note in his voice. 

You shake your head, still recovering. “Can I lay on top of you?” 

“Sure thing,” he says, unlatching from you and leaving some room for you to realign with him, face to face, torso to torso, hip to hip, calf to calf. 

He’s still hard as marble, and the gentle grind of your pelvis against his causes him to groan softly. 

You press your lips to his to distract him. 

The jeans jacket you’re still wearing gives him something to ground himself, his focus aimed entirely at the feeling of the fabric underneath his fingers instead of the humid warmth of your crotch pressed against his. 

Just then, you bring your heels underneath your ass, rising to your knees as you swiftly remove your upper garment. 

The way his focus moves immediately to your breasts makes you cackle a little, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. 

“Candy, you’ll have to get that tattooed.”

“Nah, too dangerous. They might tell on you.”

He frowns. “You’re right,” he still agrees. Too dangerous. You’re dangerous to him too, and there are not many chances of him keeping some form of dignity if he could at any time see a tattoo calling him out for his undying liaison with your chest. 

He catches your wrists, making you lose your balance so that your torso collapses onto his. And he keeps you there, wraps you up in his arms. 

“Still jealous, love?” he asks you. 

“More than ever,” you admit, and you look into his eyes, recognising the feeling pooling in them. 

“I'm only yours,” he swears, kissing the side of your head, whatever he can reach, and it's so tender, so innocent, so magical. “What can I do for you?” he whispers, flirting with you. 

You wrap your hands around his forearms and bring them up above his head. “No. I want to do things for you.”

You press your lips to his gingerly, then start to kiss down, tracking his throat and moving further downwards, to his chest, stopping where his heart thumps against the petals of your lips.

“Beats so hard for me,” you comment lightly. “Do I make your heart race, love?” 

“You do, Candy,” his reply is strained, as if it hurt to speak at that moment. 

“But I—” You let your nails tickle the flat of his waist, the elastic band around his hips— “I also make your dick hard, don't I?” 

He moans eloquently, then chuckles at your teasing. “You so do,” he admits, embarrassed but also excited, and so so thankful for having found you. 

You grab the waistband of his underwear with your teeth, letting it slap against his skin with a dry snap. “Grab a pen from your bedside, will you?”

You look up just in time to catch his eyes flickering open, his expression coming to life slowly. “What?” he asks, confused. 

“A pen, from your drawer,” you repeat. 

“Oh.” He had been too unfocused and he hadn’t realised you were talking to him, as if the words were just sound with no meaning; however, now he’s paid attention, so he stretches to the side, exposing the slender twist of his waist to your reverent mouth. You kiss him there, his body contracting as your lips attack his ticklish spot. 

“You’re a menace,” he complains, giving you the side eye, but also offering you a boyish, loving smirk. 

“And yet, you love me.”

“You’re lucky,” he says, right before you nip at his skin in reprimand. “Okay, I am the lucky one,” he concedes, returning to you with a pen in his hand. “You want this one?” he asks.

You nod and stretch for it, then peck the mole beside his navel and make your way down. 

His underwear by now is bitterly persona non grata, still you make yourself okay with it and simply move the elastic down, exposing his hipbone more fully. 

“What you gonna do?” he muses, propping himself up and staring at you bent over his pelvis. You look at him and prepare the pen, staring in his eyes as you suck at your bottom lip, torturing it a little as you think. 

“Are you gonna mark me? Sign me up?” he asks, a mocking grin on his face. 

You move the pen away and loll your tongue out, drawing a thick stripe following the shape of him in his boxers. 

He immediately drops his cocky act and arches up, sensitive, holding on barely. 

“You think you’re so smart, huh?” you scold him provokingly. “Remember where this is all coming from,” you remind him threateningly. 

He gasps as your mouth sucks his tip through the fabric, your nails tracing the indentations of his quads. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You’ve got me.”

You nod to yourself. “I do,” you say, patronising just in the slightest. And because you can you rise, remove yourself from the way, and pull at his hipbone, trying to flip him around. 

He’s alarmed, but he follows your lead. You straddle the back of his thighs, bend down, and move his underwear down, the elastic stuck under the fold of his ass, further emphasising it. It looks plump and delicious, and for a moment you’re caught admiring him. 

He’s twisting his neck to try and see what you’re doing, filled with wonder at the way your hair tumbles over, and he’s mesmerised by the shine of it, the softness of the tips, like a brush, whispering at his skin.

You pick the right spot, then settle down, folded over his glute. His skin is hot against your touch and when you finally bring the pen to his flesh, you hope it won’t fail, despite the perspiration and the soft surface. 

Shamelessly, you draw the words like an inscription on a stone. 

Poetic, and dirty. Just the way you like it. However, you don’t give him the benefit of knowledge. 

You lean back, watch your little handywork with a surging of pride and love and confidence. You smack it, just because you can, not hard, not soft either, just sweet enough that it doesn’t feel like a violation doing it without asking his permission first. 

His muscles squeeze, and his breath catches. 

Because I can, your brain keeps telling you, over and over, like a mantra. You’re allowed to. He’s yours and you’re the only one allowed to. 

“You’re getting confident with this,” he comments, and suddenly your eyes are meeting. 

He looks like something you would paint. Something you would dream of, and then wake up and sketch down in the middle of the night, caught by some sort of frenzy, some urgency mixed with an impending fear of forgetting, of losing it. Losing him. 

“I’m gonna draw you.”

He doesn’t connect the words for a bunch of seconds. Not until you’re standing up and running out of the room and he asks himself, why, why the fuck is she leaving?

“Candy?” he calls, unsure. 

He tries to see what in the world you’ve written on his ass, but you’re making your way back in the room, tablet in hand, and your steps are bouncy and your tits follow the movement so his attention is divided. 

“What— Where—?” He’s confused. 

And then you’re perched on the armchair at the corner of the room, and the light from your tablet reflects on your face, and you look spirited, caught by some urgency he can’t quite find a name for. 

“Candy, for the love of—”

“Just a bunch of minutes. A quick sketch, no more.”

He’s been patient. He’s been understanding. He’s let you tease him, and he’s let you touch him, lick him, suck him. He still has your taste all over his face and chin and he still feels the phantom touch of your breasts against his crotch and all he wants is to feel you on him, around him, against him. 

“Please,” he whines. 

“Just a minute.”

He swells. Frowns. Thrusts his hips against the mattress. 

“Almost—” you say, drawing a couple more lines. 

You’re in his arms next. “Put that down, Candy.” His face is right above yours and he’s carrying you bridal style. “Put it down,” he repeats. 

You're very still. He's looking at your quick sketch, at the way it was all a rough frame and some basic lines. “You're gonna post that? Share it as some fanart instead of a live portrait?” He throws you on the bed and you clutch your tablet harder, trying to save it from any damage. He's on top of you next, grabbing the device and moving it to his drawer before he returns upon you, blocking your wrists above your head. 

“Are you maybe going to draw it faceless, so you can sell it as a picture, to decorate somebody's house?” He bends to your ear and nips at the side of your neck. “Let my ass hang naked on someone else's wall?” 

You feel overwhelmed and surprised by his counterattack, not really knowing how to react. 

He drags his body against yours, stealing a whimper from your lips. “I think you enjoyed topping a little too much tonight.” He flips you onto your front next, and you find yourself only mildly embarrassed that he's made only one tenth of the effort it had taken you to flip him. 

He slaps your ass, and it is nowhere as playful or light as the spank you'd given him. It is his turn to grab the pen. 

“Let's see if you can walk the talk, Candy. If you like the taste of your own medicine,” he muses, and he bites your ass cheek, bending over to start writing, but accidentally finding himself unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in your plush flesh. 

“Since I'm not a selfish asshole, I'm gonna tell you what I'm writing. Here we go, 'This ass likes spankings from Jeon Jeongguk'. What do you say? Is it true?” 

You're panting, wiggling in his hold, trying anything to see the possessed look on his face. “It's true,” you admit, breathless. 

He smirks and lands one more hit on your ass. “Damn right it is,” he says confidently. 

He tugs your underwear off harshly, almost angry. 

Soon he's naked, and so are you, and he's slipping inside you while you're still on your front, your hips arched all the way up, cupped by his hands. “Let's make this fuck more fun than your drawing, huh?” 

And when he starts, goodness, you want him to never, ever stop. 

He's ruthless, and he only asks if you're alright once, after three strokes. After that, all's fair, and he's ramming inside you in a way that makes you gasp and arch further, trying to get him even deeper, to an even better angle. 

You can't really look at him, since you'd risk a kink in your neck, but he doesn't care. He only cares about his handwriting on your ass, and his name on it. He only cares about the way you're gasping his name, and sometimes, when he slams in at the right moment, the impact causes too much of your breath to come out, so the whispered begging gets punctuated by moaned-out, hiccuped syllables. 

He smacks your ass a few more times, his hand tingling, but the spanks seem to make you happy, so he doesn't stop, and he doesn't complain either. 

“You're jealous of me, Candy,” he manages to speak, slowing down just enough so he has more of your attention. “Do you have any idea how jealous I am of you? How hard it is to feel like you want to own me half as much as I want to be yours?” He's on his knees behind you, and his thrusts grow more patient, more luscious. Richer and fuller. “Sometimes I'm scared you'll leave me, and someone else will get to have all the wonderful sex I get to have with you. Someone else will get to see your face first thing in the morning, and become a character in your cartoons, and talk about you with their granny, and bring you home for New Year's.” His face collapses close to your shoulder. “What will I do with myself, then?” 

You turn your face and you finally get to see him. “Flip me around,” you order him, but your voice is fond. “I want to look you in the eyes while you fuck me like no one else has ever.” 

His hair is fuzzy with his perspiration, and his face glistens with a light sheen of sweat. “Sure?” he asks, in confirmation. 

“I'm sure,” you comfort him. 

He's only happy once you're below him, and he's on top of you, inside you. 

You clench around him, and he frowns deeply, trying to control himself. Still, he gives a sharp jab with his hips, and it steals your breath. 

“Like that,” you praise him. “I want you to fuck me like that. Like no one else can.” 

His eyes stay wide open, stubbornly nailed to yours as he starts moving. It's hard and slow, and it makes you see stars. 

“Do you still feel like drawing?” he provokes you, “Or am I fucking you good enough?” 

You hiss and bite his arm, both to keep him humble, but also, again, because you can — and nobody else does. 

“Maybe I could get on top of you so you can watch my tits bounce, and maybe that will make you want to draw,” you bite back, and next thing you know you're both sat up, you're on his lap and he's bouncing you on his dick. 

“Definitely feeling inspired right now,” he concedes. “Maybe I should stop and paint them.” 

You push him down and he's finally with his back to the mattress, you on top. “Or maybe you could shut your mouth and get busy so I can cum.” 

The slap lands almost immediately on your ass. “Dirty mouth. And a fucking divine cunt,” he speaks through gritted teeth. 

He lets you lead for about thirty seconds, during which he stays occupied with your boobs, grabbing them, slapping them, pinching your nipples, and then he grabs your hips and stills them. 

“Touch yourself,” he orders your roughly before he starts fucking up from below you. 

It escalates quickly from there, and in less than a minute you're gone, collapsing forward, against him, and he's so thankful because he's coming too and your kegels are squeezing him just right, and he only manages to say “fucking yours” before he abandons all his inhibitions and loses himself inside you. 

You come back to reality only, and you find yourself tucked in his embrace, his body above yours. You don’t know when he flipped the two of you over, but you like his weight on top of you. 

“Hey,” you murmur, combing his hair away from his face. 

His expression is lazy and satisfied. 

Well done, you tell yourself, almost giving a pat to your own shoulder. He looks fantastically fucked, deliciously edible and perfectly yours. 

“Hey you,” he replies, with the most heavenly, blissful grin on his face. No, too tired to be a grin, more like a glowy smile. It’s not fully on, it looks like those battery-operated lights when they’re almost out of energy, a bit faded, or maybe pale. Faint, feeble, dim. Soft. Muted. If his bunny smiles were jewel tones, this was the most delicate pastel pink. A powder baby blue, almost robin egg blue. 

You want to wrap yourself in the hazy glow radiating from him, gentle as a sunny dawn in late May. 

“So glad you got those Calvin’s,” you joke, and there it is, bunny grin, ten million watts. Apparently that makes his battery die because his head collapses to your neck and he doesn’t seem willing or ready to lift himself back up. 

“So glad I made you jealous. But also sorry,” he says, truly apologetic. “I’m happy we did this. I’m happy I saw you like this.” 

His lips tickle the side of your neck, and you squirm a little, but you try not to move too much. You want to be comfortable for him to rest on. You want him to stay like that on top of you forever. “I’m still maddish. But I think I can deal with it.”

“There’s more pictures coming,” he says tentatively, and he makes the effort to pick up his head to give you a helpless look, trying to protect himself already by giving you the sweetest pair of puppy eyes he’s ever used on anyone. 

“Oh, I’m totally getting your ass branded,” you reply, saccharine. “I was thinking I could make those ribbons, like the ones the police use, except I put my name on it and I wrap it all around your chest, so they can’t drool all over your abs.”

He laughs, and the sound is boyish and playful, and lovely. You fall in love a tiny bit more. 

“Can I see the pictures in advance?”

He hums as he thinks about it for three seconds, except he already knows how he wants to play it. “Mh…” he says some more, keeping you on your toes. “No.” He looks up, testing you. “But let’s say I hope you get that cockring ready.”

You pull your head back, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not naked in your Calvin’s, right?”

He grins, gives you a devilish wink. “Maybe.”

You grab his cheeks and squeeze his face and he laughs so hard you can’t be possibly mad at him for even a nanosecond. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“And your tits will be it for me,” he flirts back. 

You shake your head. “Brat.”

And he kisses you. Just that. 

Before he hits the shower the following morning, Jeongguk inspects the damage you’ve done on him. 

He’s quite happy with it. A very faint bruise on his neck. A red splotch on his abs, and another on his hip, but nothing that won’t fade within one or two days. He knows you know the drill by now. 

He turns around to inspect his back, and he’s okay with it, nothing that will get him in trouble in case he needs to be shirtless or generically undressed around staff members. He drops his underwear and it’s only once he’s making his way to the shower that he notices something strange on his asscheek. 

Oh, fuck. Suddenly reminded of your little handiwork with the pen the night before, he bends to the side, trying to get a better view at his ass. 

He finds himself wobbling side to side, like a silly puppy chasing his tail, and that is exactly the way you find him when you enter the bathroom. 

A laugh bubbles out of you and you smack his butt playfully. “Do you need help with that?” you ask, cheery. 

“No,” he bites back, but he has the most innocent, pouty look on his face, and he is having fun a little. “Maybe,” he concedes, his voice young. 

You wrap your arms around him and rise to your toes, propping your chin on his shoulder as you hug him from behind. “I wrote, ‘Candy’s babyboy’.”

His ears go red, just the tiniest bit. “Really?” His expression is so sweet. 

“Really,” you confirm, confident, serious, and loving. 

“You’re not making fun of me,” he asks, vulnerably. 

“I promise I’m really, really not, Guk.” You kiss his shoulder. “You’re my babyboy. And my sexy man. And just mine, generally speaking.”

He nods, a happy, fulfilled look on his face. “Right.” He’s once more confident. Entirely adult. 

“Love you,” you reassure him again, and then you kiss his shoulder, again. 

He grins. There he is, your boy. “Love you too.”

Hi it's Dita, the writer, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment to keep this poor gremlin fanfic writer motivated. Bye and I LOVE YOU!!!

[whimsyfinny]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Charlie discovers the Winchester boys to be struggling with keeping the bunker tidy, looking after themselves and being able to do their job simultaneously. Luckily she has a friend who’s from a Hunter family that is in need of work and can help them with research. Or so she thought that’s what her job would be. When Dean sees your more domesticated side, his head won’t stop swimming with all the wrong ideas.

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut

Warnings: None (Yet) in chapters to come there will be smut (and lots of it) and possible violence/blood/gore

Chapter Word Count: 668

—-MDNI—-

A/N: My first Supernatural fic so I hope it doesn’t suck ass. Only proof read by myself, so pls let me know of any errors so I can correct! Also I know at this point in the series Dean is more serious, however I love pre-Hell Dean so imma bring some of those vibes in here. This is also posted on my AO3.

——————————————————————

I’m Not Your F*ckng Maid

-Prologue-

Dean was awoken with a slam inches from his face and he sprung to life, almost losing his balance before he realised where he was. He’d fallen asleep at the table with his face in a book and surrounded by heaps of paper - many of which he hadn’t even started to read through yet. Blinking awake and gaining his bearings, he heard a familiar voice ring through the room.

”You boys are disgusting, how do you live like this?” The older Winchester finally looked up to see Charlie lifting a plate of half eaten, day-old pizza whilst kicking several beer bottles aside so she could pull out a chair and take a seat next to Dean, who was pinching the bridge of his nose.

”Yeah well, we’ve been a little busy recently if you haven’t noticed,” his voice was gravelly from the sleep. Charlie put down the plate of old food and sat down, worry crossing her face as she looked at the man next to her. She knew they’d been under a lot of pressure lately with their work, so much so that the brothers were starting to neglect themselves. It had been months since they’d eaten proper food that wasn’t instant or take-out, they rarely went outside, always locking themselves away in the bunker to do research and the bunker itself was getting cluttered with bin bags and pizza boxes. Not to mention the piles of laundry that she’s noticed slowly starting to form its own ecosystem in the washroom.

“Yeah I get that, but you really have to look after yourselves. When was the last time you ate a vegetable?”

Dean scoffed.

“Yesterday, obviously,” he gave her a look like she was from another planet, and she rolled her eyes.

“The pizza sauce doesn’t count, Dean.”

He looked puzzled, raising an eyebrow, “Why not?”

Before she could even humour him with an answer, Sam emerged, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh hey Charlie, when did you get here?” His voice was equally as gravelly as Deans, so she assumed he’d also just woken up.

“Five minutes ago.”

“She called us disgusting Sam. And she said the sauce on pizza isn’t made from vegetables,” Dean gestured to Charlie like she was the fool as he looked up at his younger brother who now stood across from him on the other side of the table. Sam went to open his mouth to respond, but closed it again quickly and furrowed his brows, clearly unsure how to reply to his older brother without opening a can of worms. Charlie huffed.

“You guys need to sort yourself out. I only dropped by because I hadn’t heard from you for a while and thought you might’ve worked yourself to death. I can’t stay long because I’m meeting a friend for a drink. She’s already at the diner waiting for me”

“A friend?” Dean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and the redhead smirked.

“I wish, sadly she’s into dudes,” she paused, a thought crossing her mind, “Come to think of it, she’s actually looking for work, you guys might be able to help.”

Dean and Sam shared a glance.

“She’s a hunter?” Sam asked.

“Not exactly. Her uncle was, so she knows about stuff, but from what I know she was just a research girlie,” Charlie peered at the mess of papers on the table, “and it looks like you could use the help.” She looked between the brothers as they stared at each other, like they were having some sort of unspoken conversation. A few moments passed before Dean slapped his hand on the table and stood up.

“Sure ok, but we’re coming with you today to meet her,” he went to grab his jacket from the back of his chair, an eagerness in his movements before Charlie put her hand out to stop him.

“Great!” She grinned, before raising her eyebrows and pointing to them both, “but first you guys have got to shower, because I can taste your BO from here.”

——————————————————————

Up Next

Chapter 1

[retrievablememories]

one of these nights | dpr ian

word count: 1.1k warnings: kissing. and some suggestiveness/sexual tension. a/n: finally conjured something up. hooray for me breaking a nearly 10 year dry streak of never completing a single fic of this guy?

i'm finding that i'm in no mood to write anything explicit lately (cherry bomb wore me out ok), so this will probably not be what a lot of folks are looking for, but… this was written more for my own self-indulgence than anything else. 🤓 please don’t jump me about a part 2, i don't know whether there will be one or not

divider from here

"i'm tired," you say, crossing your arms and leaning your weight against the brick wall behind you. you blink slowly, trying to placate some of your exhaustion and rest your eyes. it's not the most comfortable resting spot, but it's all you have for now until you're back in your heated apartment and in your own bed.

"it should only take him a minute to find his wallet," christian reassures you as he settles himself on the wall opposite to you, knowing how eager you are to get back home. he can't blame you, as the long night is beginning to catch up to him, too.

"i can't believe he lost it in the first place; who the hell does that?" your friend had dashed back in the direction of the restaurant once you all had gotten halfway down the block and he realized he didn't have his wallet. now you are just waiting for him to find it and come back, having ducked into this alleyway to try to get some shelter away from the winter breeze. you wouldn't have gone anywhere near this dim, narrow alley if you were with anyone else, but you trust christian to keep you safe if anything happens. it feels unusual but comforting to be able to trust someone in that way.

christian chuckles lightly and shakes his head. "y'know, i think he was a little too preoccupied flirting with the waitress to keep track of it."

despite your tiredness, you break into giggles at the remembrance of your friend's corny attempts at flirting with lines that seemed to come straight from a poorly-rated romcom.

even after your laughter dies down, your insides pleasantly warmed by the amusement, christian's eyes stay on you—intently watching. when you realize this, you meet his gaze again with a question beginning to form on your lips.

your eyes only have seconds to remain interlocked with each other's before christian is stepping forward in one long stride, his body heat filling your space and his lips capturing yours.

it's completely unexpected. what's more unexpected is the flash of scalding heat that it sends through your body, and the quiet, surprised moan it pulls from you. his lips are warm and unaffected by the cold of the outdoors. strands of his hair tickle your face, and his nose presses against your cheek, the solid metal of his nose ring disrupting the soft touch of his skin on yours.

there are the ghosts of his hands—one at your hip and the other somewhere between the nape of your neck and the side of your jaw—but neither one fully makes contact with your body, just brushing by like he's decided he can't touch you or it might overwhelm him. his mouth parts, and there is the tip of his tongue gliding across the seam of your lips. you are just about to invite him inside, but then there is nothing more.

the kiss ends before you can fully get your bearings within it. christian separates from you and a trail of spit is the only thing left connecting you both, which breaks when he backs away.

"maybe i shouldn't have done that," he says, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. "i'm sorry." you don't know what to say to that.

the unruly breeze is back, changing directions and flooding into the narrow alley, and it makes your lips even colder than they'd otherwise be from the new moisture on them. your entire nervous system feels like it's vibrating within your body—trembling with the desire for more. you want to cross those few feet of space and go to him, meld your bodies together, crush your lips against his, scratch your nails across his back over the smooth leather of his jacket.

you might even like it if he picked you up and pressed your back against that rough brick wall—if you wrapped your legs around him and squeezed his slender waist between your thighs—if you felt his fingertips sink into the flesh of your thighs while his tongue sunk into your mouth.

but your feet stay planted right where they are.

"sorry? you don't have to be sorry. but why did you do it?"

"i just wanted to—for a while now. that's pretty selfish of me, but...fuck." he flips a hand through his hair like he always does; he does it so frequently that sometimes it distracts you from the conversation at hand. in those moments, all you can really think about is the softness of his hair as it slides through your fingers, the few times you’ve touched it before.

now, all you can think about is grasping it more firmly and controlling his movements, bringing his mouth back to yours so you can taste him again.

lost in his thoughts, he bites his lip. the vibrating of your nerves intensifies.

"well, do it again. you could be selfish with me, christian."

there's an expectant pause as you both size each other up, a mutual understanding and desire developing in the silence. christian approaches you again, but slower this time, like he's trying to gauge if you're serious. in seconds, he's right in front of you and breathing your air and staring at you like he is hungry for something only you could give him.

quietly, you reiterate: “take whatever it is that you want. i want you to do that.”

“darling...” his voice sounds deceptively gentle, teasing even though he doesn’t mean for it to be. he whispers to you as if you’re a glass figurine that could disintegrate if he speaks too loudly, even as his tattooed hand presses against the brick beside your head, already enveloping you. leaning in, his eyes flicking down to your mouth and staying there, he says: “do you really want me to—”

"hey! i found it."

you abruptly turn away from christian, looking at your friend who's standing at the entrance of the alleyway and holding his wallet up with triumph. "what are you two doing?" your friend looks at you cluelessly, though realization immediately dawns on him with an embarrassed smile he tries to tamp down.

the moment is shattered; christian's expression breaks into an awkward smile that matches your friend's, and once again the space between you is wider than you'd like for it to be, his arm back at his side. "dude..."

you give a heavy sigh and roll your eyes, suddenly remembering how tired you are. "...nothing. let's go home."

[deantfwinchester]

Hands

Pairing: No-Outbreak!AU, Joel x Teacher!Reader as usual (let's just assume these No-Outbreak Joels are all the same couple tbh), established relationship

Summary: Friday nights are reserved for sweatpants and relaxation, of course. But when Joel's work week leaves his hands a bit worse for wear, the night may need to include a break for a little extra attention.

Warnings: extreme fluff once again. expect it at this point. i'm a one-trick pony, i fear.

A/N: finally got around to putting one of my many bulleted notes-app idea fics into paragraph form again! Will we get another one before the year's out? It's anyone's guess! -_-

——————

Friday nights are your favorites. No dinner to cook or rattling rolodex of tasks to come in the next twelve hours give you both a little room to breathe — to gently unwind from yourselves and into one another. It’s typically quiet, and when it isn’t, the volume is born of laughter from games or stories the three of you share.

Joel comes home from an exceptionally long week. You know he’s been on site every day—the whole team has—working longer and longer hours to wrap up the latest project before the client’s deadline. You’re pleased to hear his keys rattle in the door not long after five o’clock, and relieved because the air’s rapidly cooling earlier each night. Daylight Savings time is coming to an end, and today he barely beat the sunset getting home. 

You know the hour means little, however, and are less than astonished at the weary grin he bears on catching sight of you and Sarah on the couch when he walks in the room. She’s already got her purse on her shoulder, eager to head out when her friends arrive, and she’s excitedly recounting the events of the trailer for the movie they’ll be catching tonight. He stands idly in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the two of you chat. You make brief eye contact and smile back, assuring you know he’s there. Neither of you wants to interrupt her avid storytelling.  

“Well don’t you sound excited?” he says when she pauses to catch her breath. You both turn to greet him, and he moves more quickly toward you as you attempt to rise, gesturing to you to remain seated. He’ll come to you both.

He plants a kiss on top of Sarah’s head before leaning down to kiss you as he does each night. You place a hand on his chest and pause when he pulls back to get a good look at his face. You see the fatigue in his droopy-eyed smile, but can’t say anything to him. You already know it’s mirrored in your own expression.

The doorbell rings before either of you can speak again, and Sarah jumps up to head out the door. You wish her a good night, and he follows her to the door, checking for a familiar parent in the driver’s seat and seeing her off. You see him hand her some cash to go with his reminder to make good decisions, and he hugs her. You can’t help but giggle when she takes it with a wide smile.

He turns to you laughing when he sees she’s in the car, and shuts the door.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowed in confusion, but amused at the sound of your laughter.

“Smart girl. I gave her a 20 before you got home,” you grin back at him. He stills in understanding and rolls his eyes. 

“You couldn’t tell me that two minutes ago?” he asks you in mock exasperation.

“But it’s so much funnier this way!” you add, giggling again. You both know he’s wrapped completely around her finger, though she so innocently does not. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him. One of the first reasons you fell in love. 

He shakes his head fondly, and places a hand on his stomach, which begins to grumble softly at him. You raise your eyebrows and meet his gaze. “Any thoughts on dinner?” he asks, and you grin back at him in amusement.

“Handled. Pizza’s already on the way,” you respond and he feigns relief. 

“You’re brilliant.” he says, walking up and grabbing your hand on the back of the couch. You run your thumb in little circles on the back of his hand and give it a light squeeze.

“Duh. Now go get changed! It’s do-nothing time starting now,” you respond, patting the top of his hand in encouragement.

“You read my mind,” he says, leaning down for another quick peck before heading off into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. Naturally, you’ve been in sweats for over an hour now, shedding your own outfit immediately, peeling the school day from your skin. The unspoken uniform for these Friday nights is extremely specific.

The pizza arrives before Joel can even return from the bedroom in a feat of incredible timing. You’re gathering plates and filling glasses with ice when he emerges ready for the night. He moves forward to help you grab the dinner, but you shoo him away to the couch. 

“Nope, I got this. You sit,” you say, lightly shoving his chest away. You leave no room for argument. He grumbles a bit and raises his hands, backing away to the living room. You follow behind him with the pizza and plates, and return once more for the drinks before settling next to him on the couch. He sits on one end, and you sit in the middle, leaving little room between you.

You lean forward, putting pizza on one plate you pass to Joel before grabbing your own, then settle back against the cushion, both sinking in so comfortably a nearly audible sigh fills the room. The comfort in this relief is palpable, and the decompressing can begin. You grab the remote and put on the series you’ve been binging together recently, more for background noise than anything else. 

A few slices and sitcom episodes deep, you’ve set your plates down on the coffee table. With your bellies comfortably full, you’ve somehow slumped deeper, though Joel into the couch and you into his side. His arm is draped over the back of the couch behind you, and you’re nearly laying on him, head propped against his shoulder. 

You hold his free hand in both of yours and absently play with his fingers for a second when you notice the aggressive wear this week has lent his hands. They’re a raw, angry red at the knuckles; his nails are cracked in some places and peeling in others. Moving your fingers gently down toward his wrist, you focus more directly on the state of his, catching sight of a few hangnails and stretched cuticles that can’t be comfortable. He looks down as you begin to worry them beneath the soft pads of your own fingers, and you meet his gaze, brows furrowed as you look between his face and hands. 

“Keep doing that, please,” he says with a sigh before closing his eyes, “I wait all day to feel your hands on mine. They’re so soft.” He lifts your hand to his lips before pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. He loves the delicate, reverent way you play with his hands, like they’re small, fragile things in need of tender attention. You take his hand once again into both of yours and gently rub it between them, looking back up at him, concerned. 

“How do yours feel? They look like they’re hurting you,” you gnaw a bit at your bottom lip in thought, and he tries to assuage your worry.

“I’m alright, darlin’. Nothing worse than I’m used to,” he says. He knows from your deepening frown that you’re less than satisfied with this response.

You couldn’t care less if he’s used to it, he shouldn’t be. You know the protective callouses forged there don’t mean those hands are unfeeling in the slightest.

“Wait there. I’ll be right back,” you say, rising from his side and hastening to the bedroom. It’s his turn to frown now, both in confusion and at the sudden draft that’s appeared at his side.

You return not a minute later with a small tote around your wrist, and hands filled with half the manicure items you own. You sit down next to him and unpack, laying clippers, files, cuticle oil, and two different hand creams — a lotion he’s seen you use regularly, and a jar that must be a new addition — on the coffee table in front of you, along with the selected polishes and remover you had in the tote bag. You’ve been meaning to do your nails, anyway. 

Joel looks incredulously at you, unsure where this is going. Not that he’s a stranger to nail polish — he raised a little girl on his own long enough to have worn the rainbow on his fingers, but tonight? 

“Sorry, no color for you today, honey. Certainly not before these are healed,” you say. He’d chip half your handiwork away by Monday afternoon anyway the way he’s been working lately. Facing him, you cross your legs on the couch and smile, holding your hand out expectantly for his. He raises his eyebrows at you, but places his palm gently in your own. 

You grab the clippers and get to work on the hangnails first. Any peeling skin or cuticle right there at the nail you clip as gently as possible, making note of the reddened and slightly swollen areas at the base of his nail from which they protrude. Those will need careful attention at the end. He doesn’t squirm or react in any way, but you know they’re more sensitive than he’s letting on. 

Next, you clip back any breakages and unevenness in the nails themselves. You’d never find Joel Miller with dirty hands — he gets them clean as soon as he gets home, but all the scrubbing it takes to keep them that way takes its toll. A little trim at their length might help reduce the need for so much each day upon his return. 

After clipping, you grab his first hand again and rest it gently in the palm of your left while your right files steadily to even any rough edges left behind and prevent further injury. It won’t take much, but you’re sure to get them smooth so they won’t catch on anything or bother him later on. 

The cuticle oil is next. He looks at it questioningly, clearly a bit skeptical, only having seen it a few times when you or Sarah used it. He’s never ventured so far himself. While you brush it gently onto each of his nails, you explain its purpose. 

“This’ll just help your nails get a little stronger. It’ll get them hydrated a bit, keep ‘em  from peeling so much when your hands get dry. It’s kinda crazy how much better this stuff is for your nails than even water is. Water’ll make the peeling worse, actually. Weird, huh?”

He just nods along, listening to you, content to learn something new as always. Finger by finger, you massage the oil into his nail and nail bed. After the first round you go back through to massage again, both to make sure no oily feeling is left behind, and to prolong the rapidly concluding process. He could use the attention, anyway.

Finally, you pick up the jar he identified as a new addition: a canister of a hand repair cream labeled for “Healing of dry or cracked skin.”

“Never seen that one before,” he says, reading the label, “What d’ya need this for? Your hands are never dry! I think they’ve been soft every time I’ve held 'em since the day I met ya,” he smiles at you, and you bashfully brush off the compliment. 

“I don’t need it. I use the other one,” you say with finality, opening the jar and pulling the first of his hands into yours. You don’t grab a large dollop of the stuff. You don’t want him to feel a disconcerting weight, grease, or stickiness from this unfamiliar formula, so you get a little and begin. You add a bit more each time you reach a new spot on his knuckles, palms, wrists. 

You take your time, gently massaging into those roughened, tender hands far more than a simple healing salve. He understands why you have the jar now, looking at you knowingly, and you smile back. No words need be exchanged.

Once you’ve finished the last finger and the last stroke on his hands, you squeeze the one in your own, then pat it gently with your other, “There. Gotta feel better now, yeah?”

Joel stares at you like he just watched you reach up and place the moon in the sky, if for no reason other than to light his path. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Thank you sweetheart,” he says, squeezing your hand back and smiling reverently at you. You blush beneath his gaze and look away, unsure what to do with the admiration rolling off of him in waves. You lean back against the couch, file in hand as you start going at your own nails. 

“Good. Don’t let 'em go that long again, either. Where they start hurtin’ ya? Maybe we oughta make this a weekly thing. Manicure night? Been needing someone to do my right hand,” you grin, wiggling the corresponding fingers at him. He smiles back at you, then reaches over and pulls you toward his side, back to your original position laying against him, head resting once again on his shoulder.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says fondly into your hair, planting a kiss to your head in the process. You get comfortable once more, foregoing any plans to do your own nails tonight. You both know those “manicure nights” will be for him — and you’ve got Sarah to do your right hand already, when you do hers.

You grab the same free hand once again and admire your work, then lace your fingers between his own, and rest your twined hands on his leg. You’re satisfied knowing the hand behind you on the couch is comfortable now, healing from the week’s toils and melting into the comforting haze of the early autumn evening.

[stillnotyourmusebitch]

Feel free to ignore! Sinner!Adam x GN!Reader where Adam sucks up his pride, goes to the hotel, and although practically nobody wants him there, Charlie gives him a chance for redemption and puts Reader in charge of watching over him and helping him adjust because they were mostly neutral with him. So maybe just some moments of them bonding and actually becoming close?

OH MY GODS!!! I am so sorry this took me so damn long. I really wanted to make this fic the best it could be. I really hope you like it. Again I feel like I might have slighlty strayed for the prompt but I really do hope it is what you wanted Nonnie

The small things - Sinner!Adam x GN!reader

Warnings Angst-Hurt/comfort-fluff

When Adam woke up in a shit stained back alley of Hell, oh how he screamed an extremely blasphemous bloody murder for hours upon hours upon . . . well you get the idea. The other demons that happened to be walking past carried on by unphased. Yes, some did take a sneak peek of the newly fallen angel throwing a massive child-like tantrum, but most didn’t give a rat’s ass about what he was going through. This is Hell after all, everybody’s got problems.  

Adam finally calmed down enough to crawl out of the rancid gutter. It took a moment for him to gain his bearings, seeming to have found himself in the pride ring. Which meant he was in the same rung of hell as that fucking hotel. Whoever's idea of this sick fucking joke was going to get ripped a new one. He shouldn’t be here. Why was he here?

He doesn’t remember walking but soon he found himself in front of the shadow of a much larger and grander looking Hazbin Hotel.  

He seemed to snap back to himself. Why the fuck did he subconsciously walk to the threshold of the one place that would most likely give him his second death on the spot? But that doesn’t stop him from raising a fist and knocking obnoxiously loud. He’d been in Hell for all of about 5 hours now and it was hard to tell what time of day it was down here without a watch. He didn’t have jack shit on him when he woke up, just a grubby, ripped up pair of sweats.

The door finally opened up to Lucifer’s yawning brat. Her eyes went wide seeing him there.

“Adam?” She was more confused than he had been as to why he was down here, let alone in demon form. “What. What are you doing here? I mean you’re, you, but you’re not. I mean why are you . . .” Charlie stumbled over her words.

Vaggie arrived behind her while she was stammering. It took a split second for her to knock him on his ass, her angelic spear aimed at his throat.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t end your worthless life again right here and now.” She growled out.

“Hey, Woah now. I mean no harm this time honest. I’m just as confused as you are as to why the fuck I ended up here but I have nowhere else to go and . . .” Adam shuffled further away for the spear’s tip.

“Vaggie stop. Let’s just talk about this.” Charlie tried to shimmy in front of her girlfriend. “I know he is the main reason for so many very bad things but we need to take a breather. Look, it’s 3am and we won’t be thinking straight at a time like this. So let’s put a pin in this extremely weird conversation for now. We can put him up in a room on the second floor and then take this all from the top in the morning.”

“I don’t know about this.” Vaggie side eyes Adam but he can see her very slowly caving to Charlie. “UGH! Fine. He can stay for one night. Just one but as soon as we figure out what is going on he is out on his ass.”

 Charlie squeezes her partner in a tight hug before turning and holding out a hand towards Adam. He glares at it for a moment before grabbing it. She hauls him back to his feet and shows him inside. His eyes flick all around the lobby area, clocking a bar on the far left, the elevators to the right and of course a grand staircase up to the first floor. He was shown to his room on the second floor. Charlie chose to take the elevator, Vaggie standing firmly in between them, her hands clenching around the shaft of her spear. Adam shuffled as far to the side as possible he knows about the short temper of his exorcists, even the ex-ones.

“Here we are 224.” She opened the door, flicking on the light switch and letting Adam walk in. “You’ll find towels in the bathroom and fresh sheets already on the bed. Just please wait until someone comes to collect you in the morning. Now get some sleep, lord knows we are gonna need it.” She said the last part more to herself as she left with Vaggie.

Adam let out a deflated sigh, he wasn’t sure that he would get any sleep, no matter how exhausted he felt. So, he went to look at the ensuite, maybe taking a shower would help put him in a sleepier state, true to her word clean red towels were waiting on the counter by the sink. Adam stripped and threw the grubby garments he’d had on into the corner of the room.

He turned the shower up high and climbed into the scolding spray. As the water rained down his body, only then did he see how his heavenly body had really changed into this disgusting new demonic form. Hatred bubbled beneath the surface of the dull grey-coloured skin, he scrubbed as hard as possible in a vain attempt to try and find the person he was under all this ‘fakery’. He still held onto the belief that this was an incredibly vivid nightmare and he was going to wake up safe and sound in his plush king-sized bed in heaven.

He can’t be a demon.

He wasn’t a sinner; he was a winner. This had to be all a lie. It just had to. He wanted to scream, cry or something. Everything was getting to be too much. Turning off the water he stepped out into the steam-filled room and stared at the large fogged over mirror above the sink. Adam knew when he wiped away the condensation he would see himself.

He knew he had to talk himself into looking at what he’d become.

‘Come on. You can do this. Stop being such a fuckin pussy.’

Slowly he raised his left hand and wiped at the mirror.

‘Fuck’

There staring back at him was his worst nightmare. Dark brown horns curled out of his skull through damp blackened hair clinging to his scalp. His skin now he looked closer It was really more of a short fur coating than human skin. His teeth were razor sharp and his tongue was yellow. He was slightly rounder than he was before, his feet were now coven hoofs. How he didn’t clock this fact before scared him slightly but the one thing that stuck out to him the most were his eyes. He blinked a few times but nothing changed.

He still had those golden irises that heaven gifted him.

Adam stood and stared.

He was an abomination. There was no removing this mask at the end of a long day.

Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Shame gushing to the surface. He angrily swiped at the tears trying to stop them at the source. He was a man. They don’t cry or show emotion. They bottle it up inside or channel it into something else. Yet here was crying like a hormonal broad.

He blindly grabs for a towel, bunching it up in his dark clawed fingers and screaming into the fabric.

He let everything out. Screaming out all his hatred, pain and anguish until his throat hurt from the exertion. The towel got thrown into the corner. Switching the bathroom light off, he walked slowly over to the soft looking bed and crawled under the covers. He didn’t care that he hadn’t dried himself off properly, full body exhaustion had taken hold and he welcomed the dreamless sleep that often always followed.

----

When the knock came what felt like mere minutes after he had passed out. He slowly sat up in the bed, the covers pooling around his hips. He wiped the partially dried drool off his chin, blinking a few times before acknowledging the person knocking

“Whatduyawant?” he grumbled.

“You decent?” the voice behind the door was not one he recognised.

“Yeah sure, whatever.” He yawned and stretched out his back. The door opened and in walked a sinner that Adam definitely didn’t remember from the final battle at the old hotel. They held a clean pair of clothes and a small set of toiletries that was clearly for him.

“Afternoon. Charlie said to let you sleep in a bit.” You seemed completely unphased by the half-naked demon before you. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” You stood at the end of the bed.

“Urm, good I guess.” Adam reaches out for the clothes you have.

“Well, good news is you ain’t getting thrown out just yet.” You drop the clothes into his hands and went to put the toiletries in the ensuite.

“And the bad news is?” He tugs on the clean pants. You turn and lean against the door frame. Your eyes flick up and down before smirking.

“Bad news is I’ve been stuck with babysitting your ass.” You push yourself off the frame with your hip. “So, I’m setting ground rules right here and now. You are only allowed to stay here if you play ball. Nobody wants to deal with your egotistical bullshit. So if you piss me off, I’ll go straight to Charlie. If you threaten anybody, I go straight to Vaggie and if you harass any of the other patrons. I will go and find Niffty because I’m sure she will be able to get her point across. Do you understand?” You stand tall with your arms crossed over your chest.

Adam is stunned by your strictness but finds himself nodding. Not trusting his words right now.

“Good. Now get yourself ready there is an activity planned for 3:15pm.” You walk away. “Oh and Adam. I want you to at least try okay?” You throw a soft smile back at him before leaving him to finish getting ready.

Adam sat on the edge of the bed staring at the closed door. Something inside him sparked briefly. He pulled on his shirt. ‘What the hell was that?’ He thought to himself.

-----

It had been 4 weeks since Adam had shown up at the hotel despite this stupid buddy system that Charlie had in place. Adam was kinda glad he was stuck with you. Something about your snarky attitude, the fact you always called him out when he brags about being who he was before but most of all the very rare soft acts of kindness towards him.

He didn’t realise it yet but you actually made him want to do better. He wants to be better and if that gave him a chance of gaining his wings back then he was sure as hell gonna try.

-

Adam hadn’t realised that he was doing good deeds at first. But seeing Charlie beam brightly when he would raise a hand before talking in the group sessions or the way he held the door for other patrons before heading off to do what he pleased.

Adam was really trying. But you knew that if you brought it up he would immediately call bullshit. Then would act out just to reclaim his cool guy image.

-

“Hey wait up,” Adam called out as the elevator doors started sliding shut. You held out a hand reopening the doors so he could hop in and ride up to the second floor with you. “Thanks.” He leans against the back wall. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He handed you a bag with something wrapped up in a lot of toilet paper.

“Gee, thanks.” The look on your face made Adam laugh.

“It’s not whatcha think it is. Just a little something to thank you for putting up with my miserable ass.” The Elevator chimed on the second floor. “After you.” He let you walk out first before following. “Are you gonna open it?”

The look on his face was a mix of excitement and worry. You decided to humour him. Reaching in you grabbed the poorly wrapped gift. He took the bag off you so you could peel off the wads of toilet paper.

It was a coffee mug.

“Since I accidently broke your favourite mug a few days ago. I thought I should get you a replacement.” His fingers crumpled the handles of the bag as he waited for any sort of reaction to the gift.

You turned the mug over to see the words on the side better.

‘I work with absolute legends’ was written on the side surrounded by little black stars. Your thumb traced a star or two. Still staring at the present in hand you felt a smile tug at the corners of your lips.

Not knowing how else to thank him. You rushed forward and embraced him tightly. Making sure not to drop your present.

“I take it you like it?” He drops the bag and folds his arms around you.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You rested your forehead against his shoulder. Neither one of you is willing to break the hug first.

“I had to do something. You looked so sad when I broke it. That didn’t sit right with me. Charlie explained that I was feeling guilt and  . . .”

You pull away slightly to look at him.

“Adam. The first man Adam, went to consult ‘Miss Feels-too-much’ about an issue completely unprompted!?”

Adam dropped his arms and started getting all defensive again.

“Why’d ya gotta say it that way?” He whined. You pull him back in for another hug which he willingly allows.

“Sorry big guy. I’m just really impressed is all. You have come a long way in such a short time. I’m so proud of you.” You squeezed tightly before letting him go. “I could actually go for a coffee right now. Good thing I got a brand new mug to drink from.”

He groans at your cheesy words before picking up the bag off the floor he hooks an arm around your neck and pulls you along back into the elevator to go and get that drink.

-----

This fic became longer than I thought it would.

My Ask box is still open if anyone else has a Sinner!Adam prompts they want to send in.

[himbocoups]

˗ˋˏ Red Horn ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: devils are contract workers - simply offer them a payment that they can never refuse, and your problems would be taken care of. the only thing is, what could a mere human possibly offer to a devil?

pairing: devil!jeonghan x innocent!reader (gn afab)

genre: fantasy, supernatural | smut, pwp

tags: flirting, food mention, office | bondage, light choking, creampie, dirty talk, fingering, oral, pet names, pnv, praise, if there's a term for jeonghan fucking you with one of his devil horns please tell me, reader wears lingerie, reader's first time, multiple orgasms...

wc: 5.4k

message from nu: this took me super long to write, but this has to be one of my favorites. special thank you to xan @aceofvernons and june @junkissed for keeping me company while I worked on the fic. I hope you all enjoy reading - nu <3

In the distance, the elevator dings sharp and clear, its ring piercing through the reception lounge as its large plum-colored crystal doors open with a rumble. Even when you sit facing away from the reception desk, you can imagine the receptionist greeting the incomer with their monotonous voice, drawling out the same script they gave to you – jet black orbs staring at you judgmentally while you try to scribble your personal information on the forms as fast as you can.

A large Prometheus-type creature in the seat across from you whimpers when its name is called, head hunched and practically trembling with every stride toward the smiling attendant. Open space in front of you, you can see through the large glass windows the hundreds of skyscrapers and verdant greenery where feet touch the ground under the red sky. This place is but a stretch, an affected area of Hell – at least for those who are not native. Even this lounge, untouched coffee bar with expensive Keurig models, circa 1920s sleek leather Barcelonas, and low mid-century style coffee tables with old filled-in Highlights magazines as table decorations, is deceiving in its own way. Because, if it wasn’t clear enough, all of you are in Hell.

Sharp teeth chattering, long tails thumping in anxiety, and sheepish whimpers, the atmosphere in what could be a beautiful place is filled with layers of dread and fear. You sit in your chair, right hand brought to your lips, while slowly peeling the layers of chipped skin off your lips, the light sweater you wore in the morning feeling as heavy as a weighted blanket. Flicking away the loose pieces to the floor a few inches away from your fuzzy teddy bear slippers, you slink further into your seat with thoughts of what could possibly come next weighing you down.

You wanted it. Correction. You still want it, even when the soft jazz playing from the speakers barely masks the distant screams and screeches that echo throughout the many halls and floors in the building. So desperate to have your need fulfilled you would even beg a devil, the devil, for even an ounce of that fulfillment.

So, when a siren with beautiful wings adorned with brown speckled feathers calls your name, you answer with a squeak and scramble to meet them in the corridor of one of the halls where they wait patiently for you with a kind smile on their face. The creature’s feathers ruffle as it elegantly struts down the bright corridor, passing various framed artworks and accolades, a file folder nestled under the crook of its left wing. Too deep in your mind, nitpicking at your outfit choice and squeaky voice whenever you answer the siren’s small talk, you fail to even notice that it isn’t the usual demon who is walking you to their office.

And the office, matte black large double doors that seem to aggrandize the more you stare at it, seems to you the most daunting thing you’ve ever experienced, dreading what’s on the other side of the doors. The doors automatically swing open when the siren approaches, and a rich puff of aroma fills your senses – strongly smoked tea leaves, spices, and aged tannin from the great oak trees you spent your vacations under during summer camps. Immersive, sultry, powerful…frightening.

The creature beckons you to follow them inside, the doors slamming shut when you enter the threshold. If you were dreading the office's interior - perhaps a grotesque chamber too scary to imagine, then the reality only confuses you. Plush gray Persian rug you’re too scared to step on, mahogany desk sitting at the end of the room, a large fish tank built into one of the walls big enough to hold a shark. It would look like a standard luxury CEO office if it weren’t for the shelves of trinkets from collectible matchbooks to eyeless Sylvanian Family figures to mysterious chained and muffled floating orbs that stand behind the desk.

Taking a seat in front of the desk, you watch the siren slowly stalk behind the desk, perching itself in the leather executive chair to rifle through the files with its back turned towards you. Your hands find each other in your lap, folded together, the right thumb twiddling with the left. It is awfully quiet, and the atmosphere is just as bad as it was in the lounge. No part of you wants to spark a conversation, afraid that the slightest conversation error could send you on a one-way ticket into the depths of hell. Does their boss know they are sitting in their boss’ seat?

However, when the leather chair turns around, you see a man frowning at what you assume to be your file – your attendant long gone. He flicks away his remaining brown feathers, letting his disguise dissipate into thin air while craning his head to the left and right to stretch his neck. A tri-toned nameplate appears at the front of his messy desk, deep burgundy red with a black center dark enough that you could mistake it for a void. Written in gold is the name “Yoon Jeonghan,” and in a smaller font underneath is his official title.

The devil, as the plate reads, cocks an eyebrow at you through his long curtain bangs, causing you to take a craven stance – wincing and lowering your head so you don’t meet his eyes. Taking a page out of the file, he presses it against the desk and slides the page towards you, twisting it with his long nimble fingers in one smooth motion so the words face you upright.

“You summoned me via a crocheted sweater, a three-year-old three-wick seasonal autumnal candle that smells like pumpkin pie, and a tiny crushed packet of Prince Noodles you found at the back of your snack cabinet?” His voice is light and airy, but the terrifying smoothness and the seemingly innocuous nature of his tone only deceive the listener – he is a creature filled with malice and iniquity.

Slamming his palm against the table, he drags the page towards himself, creasing it with the strength and anger he exerts. The slapping sound causes you to flinch, and your eyes continue to stay trained on your lap, the shrill sound of the slap still ringing in your ears.

“Look at me,” he commands you in a low tone, a voice dipped in a thick vat of bubbling tar. “Summoning me with trash? Do I look like a joke to you?”

Scared you might combust into flames the moment you look at him, yet too scared to defy his command, you slowly lift your head to look at the man sitting across from you for the first time.

If his verbal command isn’t enough to evoke fear in the most draconian demons, perhaps his physical properties - his presence and his chiseled facial structure - command creatures differently. Dark brown eyes and thin-lipped, bottom lip slick and catching the light after he runs his tongue over it while scoffing at you, you have to admit the devil is strikingly handsome in his features. Pure sybarite from the decoration of his office to the decorations he wears, he outfits himself in leather garb. Fashionable thick leather blazer with a belt cinched around the waist, a silver chain dangles around his neck, sparkling in hues of red. And the horns that sit at the top of his head, dark crimson red with the shine of the waxy Red Delicious apples that stack in a pyramid under bright supermarket lights. Elephant tusk-like: thick, curved, and blunt. You wonder what it would feel like if he…

He appears before you in an instant, sitting at the edge of his desk, leaning over, and sandwiching you between his towering frame and the back of your chair. With an apparent smirk on his face, he enjoys watching you practically whimper underneath him, trembling in your seat. Irises expanding in size at exponential speeds is a clear tell, a giveaway of your need for him.

“You’re scared of me.” He points out with much effrontery while cocking his head, his face a mere few inches away from yours. He leans back with his arms crossed, planting himself firmly against his desk. “But you’re the one who summoned me, wanting to make a deal with me, right? So, no matter how scared you are of me, you’re still the boss and I’m your contract worker.”

“Contract worker?”

You can’t believe his words. He is agreeing to your stupid little request that you thought could never be fulfilled. Summoning a demon? Summoning the devil? It sounds like a quirky group activity to do at middle school sleepovers.

“You mean why did I agree to your request?”

You quickly nod your head in response.

“I’m a man with needs. And you’re a little angel who was brave enough to offer me a deal. It’s an obscene request that nobody of your kind has offered me for centuries - although, the last one perished with my touch…but you wouldn’t lie to me, right? Sweetheart?” He almost bats his long eyelashes with the pet name, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The scene shifts almost theatrically – morphing from Jeonghan’s office to the tiny bedroom you were in about an hour ago. It seems real. All of it. The same putrid orange floorboards with dark knots that look like stains, hanging on the wall is a single bronze circular mirror your navy curtains slap against when the wind blows. You’re sitting in the middle of your bed, the old lumpy mattress you’ve been using since elementary school covered with the white checkered duvet set you found for free on some second-hand site. On the floor by the foot of the bed is a tiny space you made by pushing your jackets and plastic bags away, saved for summoning Jeonghan. Now, all that is left is soot, the Prince Noodles wrapper, and a now-stretched hand-made sweater.

Fucker. He is keeping the candle.

“It’s your first time so I can make you feel more comfortable – play on your turf. But the question is, can you take it? Can you take all of me? We can break it down into several sessions.” His suggestive tone is almost warmhearted. It almost makes you forget this is the first time you’ve met him. 

This situation would be laughable if it weren’t for the fact that you’re talking to the devil. You don’t know if he’s the type to laugh at bad jokes, but you weren’t going to test your hypothesis. 

“No,” you tell him. There’s only one thing on your mind. “One time.”

“You don’t realize what ‘all at once’ means, do you?”

Granted, if this were any other day with any other person, you would’ve faltered when this type of question kisses your ears. Doe-eyed, you watch him while sitting at the edge of your bed, a tiny nod in motion that makes him smile at you. The outer corners of his eyes crinkle, and he almost seems like a college boyfriend-esque type visiting your room for the first time - kind and patient, yet filled with corrupt thoughts.

He takes a seat next to you and proceeds to unbuckle the belt that cinches his waist. You’re too shy to stare at him while he undresses, but you can hear very clearly his garments hitting the floor one after another. The end of soft thuds and crinkles and a cool touch that turns your face to his, he holds your face in the palm of his right hand. So tender, yet his intentions are clearly laid out in the open.

“Why don’t you show me what pretty outfit you’re hiding underneath your sweater so I can show you what I mean?” his voice low, sending vibrations down to your core.

What you reveal underneath is a dainty two-piece. Thin lavender silk trim and clear organza with embroidered pastel flower details accentuate the cups that cover your breasts. The bottom matches the top, pulled high to your waistline. He hisses, forked tongue appearing for a split second before disappearing again.

“Contrary to what humans believe,” he mutters while holding one of your hands in his. “Angels don’t exist in this world. But at this moment…” He pushes a strand of hair away from your face, a subtle yet intimate gesture. He’s doing his best to prepare you for the worst without scaring you off, and you can’t help but to cling to him and seek refuge in his assuagement. “You’re the only Angel in front of me.”

Now you can see them more clearly. Dark brown eyes with bright specks of gold only a mere few inches away from yours. It makes you wonder how someone as beautiful as he can become the Devil. But he leaves no time for you to spare as he dips and plants his lips against yours. And you reciprocate with ardor, leaning back onto the bed as he changes his position so he is hovering, towering above you. His kisses are slow, focusing on making you feel good. Supple lips against your hot skin, he nips and licks at your flesh, leaving discolored hues of claret and magenta, him ravaging your untouched purity. And he takes the lead, grabbing your hands so they hug his neck so you can press him closer to you when you feel like it.

And you do. It excites you when learning how your body automatically reacts to him in need and lust: pulling him into your chest while feeling his soft skin rub against your lingerie, speeding up your kisses, and whining when you want more. He only smirks when he pulls away, looking at you from above and seeing your plump swollen lips and sexual frustration scintillating in your eyes. Your first hickeys on your neck and chest look like the beginnings of the first fallen leaves in the suburbs during Autumn. And you feel him grow against your core, a firm ball that waits to be unleashed with its owner’s command.

“Will my Angel be good for me?” He looks up at you while he traces the dainty straps that wrap around your skin, his pointer finger swirling around the yellow intricate embroidered flower that barely covers your nipple. The tip of the finger flicks against your rosy bud, and the feeling sends vibrations and shivers straight to your core. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” you barely manage to whisper. “I’ll be good.”

“Then I’ll make you feel good.”

He bends down to kiss you again, this time with more fervor as if to mitigate any of your worries or concerns. But, strangely enough, you don’t. What is left behind in the trek to his office is replaced with new feelings of greed that you desperately want to have fulfilled during your nights alone. And the man who kisses down your body, pleasing you and praising you for reacting so well to his touch, seems multifarious enough to fulfill everything you dreamed about in secret.

When he reaches your core, it’s already uncomfortably wet. He seems to pay no mind as he pries away the lily embroidery that covers your cunt, cool finger briefly brushing against your skin to reveal your tender flesh that throbs underneath his gaze. Jeonghan starts slowly, prying your thighs apart with both of his hands. Firm grip on your skin, you whimper when he frowns at you for trying to shy away. Then you feel his lips planting pecks along your left inner thigh, making his way to your slick. 

If the way he kisses you is nothing but a lust-filled way of overcoming his workload, stress, and greed, then the way he eats you out is the complete opposite. Yoon Jeonghan doesn’t dive in head first after pushing you into the deep end; he holds your hand while guiding you into the pool, letting you adjust to the temperature of the water before swimming after him. Laps you up with the flat side of his tongue, long licks around your inner folds and swirls your core like a whirlwind, Jeonghan tsks when you start to close your thighs around his head without thinking. While telling you to behave, the low growl making you almost come on the spot, he pries your thighs apart. 

Firm grip and fingers digging into your skin, the Devil presses his tongue against the area you often frequented yourself at night, never thinking the day would come when someone else is able to visit. Forked tongue draws a heart down your slick, zigzags, paddles, and swims in your juices. It feels like two tongues are working you at once, and it makes you come twice as fast, your fingers gripping the bed sheets and your body jolting upwards. Supple lips close around where you feel the most sensitive, and he eats you out in a way that tells you that you would never be able to experience something like this in the future - not with him and definitely not with anybody else.

“Aah-ah fuck Jeonghan.” You squirm while he keeps his pace, wet sounds from beneath you filling your little room while he cleans up your aftermath. “Want more.”

“Aww my little Angel wants more?” He temporarily detaches his face from your cunt, red swollen lips glistening and glossed with your cum, to smirk at you. “Why don’t you look at me and beg for it?”

But he’s meticulous with continuously making you feel good. In the absence of his tongue, he replaces the emptiness with his fingers. Rubbing your nub in between his thumb and pointer finger, the Devil uses his other hand to rub himself - his hands prepping his long and pink organ. It takes a choked sob emitting from your mouth and your eyes rolling to the back of your head before you can even begin to think about looking him in the eye. And when you finally look him dead in the eye and trail to his raging member while letting out what he thinks are the prettiest and most deceivingly innocent whines, he finally understands your cupidity. 

So he thrusts his digits in your core, your panties now magically disappearing when he could’ve shrugged them off ages ago. Two long fingers fill your virgin hole, he scissors them while feeling your warm flesh contrast in reaction to his cold skin. Pointer fingers hook around your spongy G-spot, and he uses it as a sort of pulley, pulling him into you while your stomach tightens and squeezes with every quiver of his finger. You feel yourself soak his fingers, running down into his palms. He catches every drop with his tongue, licking his hands clean and then moving on to your cunt as he continues to finger you thoroughly.

He pulls his fingers apart, creating an opening to stick his tongue in you. Tonguing you, he savors your sweetness, sucking and thrusting his tongue deeper into you while he slides his fingers in and out of you. He fills you up until he runs out of room. You feel so corrupted, never expecting any person to make you feel so dirty, disgusting, yet so well-handled at the same time. You lust for more, to feel more as he smirks against your sex and reaches his open hand upwards to grab your breast. It feels plush and soft when he kneads it in between his fingers. Simply flicking his thumb over your sensitive nub sends shockwaves down to your core, and he surfaces with your cum dripping down his chin.

“How are you feeling?” he asks you, briefly leaning upwards to catch your lips in his mouth. “Can you take more? That was just to warm you up. Are you ready for me?” he mumbles against your lips.

The taste of yourself sits prominently in his mouth. You can taste yourself as you exchange another kiss with him, slowly winding down from your high.

“I- I want to try more.” You hear yourself openly admitting while he leaves tiny pecks along your collarbone. “It felt good.”

“Just good?” He looks up at you in feigned confusion. “Come on honey, I didn’t fuck you dumb just yet. I’m pretty sure you’re smart enough to come up with better adjectives. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know how to describe it.” You gasp when he moves away from your cover to latch his lips around your nipple. “I cam- I think I came several times, but I’m still horny.” The last part comes out in a sort of whisper as if you’re afraid you would be caught by somebody if you ever admitted to being horny out loud.

“Mmm.” He groans with your tit in his mouth. “Mmf. Nothing wrong with being horny. And you did come. Several times…but are you ready to come more?”

“Yes.” You’re feeling more confident. “I’m ready for more.”

“Even if I have to tie you down?” He pushes himself up so he kneels in front of you. “I’m afraid your human body can’t take what I’m about to give you.”

“I want to try,” you reply. “‘All at once,’ remember?”

“Okay Angel.” He smiles, leaning over to put his hand behind your head to bring you upright. “All at once.”

Your face is so close to his body that you can smell the muskiness of his sex. Right in front of you is his member. It’s your first time seeing one this closely, red and stiff, and a tiny bead of precum that rolls off the tip. You wonder how it would feel in the palm of your hands, how you would be able to fit all of it in your mouth.

“Take a good look at it, Angel. Touch it or suck it if you want,” his voice is gentle yet mischievous. “Don’t be scared. I can guide you. Take your chances before I spend the rest of our time disappearing in your cunt.”

Hesitantly, you bring your lips closer to his tip, opening your mouth wide enough so your lips close around the head. It’s smooth like a cool cherry-flavored popsicle on a hot summer day, yet there’s a certain softness to the organ. You stare up at him with his head in your mouth, and he simply nods, thrusting forward a little to tell you that you can continue. 

A tiny lick causes him to flinch and then gasp, his eyes fluttering as you lick him again more confidently. He breathes out a groan when you place a hand on his waist while the other grabs his length. Closing your eyes, you hollow your cheeks and guide him in and out of your mouth, sucking and licking as you go. 

And the raging and tantalizing ache in him can’t help but to grow and extend along his erection, growing hot in his stomach as he looks down at you trying your best to suck his dick. It makes him feral knowing that he’s your first - the first to corrupt you, to coat your thick and swollen lips with your saliva and his precum, and to watch you as you clench your thighs while sucking him off. Just thinking about your request and actually seeing you try to fit him in your mouth without gagging intoxicates him and makes his mind fuzzy. But before he can begin to process his dick hitting the cold air, he feels your mouth latch around one of his testicles, gently sucking while your hand kneads the other, and your other hand continues to pump him in your mouth’s absence. 

This time, he sees you wide-eyed and staring right at him. And when your eyes roll to the back of your head, he immediately snaps and spasms - shooting white liquid all over the bed sheets. 

“Lay back down,” he demands. 

Repositioning himself over your naked body, he wipes away a few splatter marks on your face and reapplies it to your open lips. It’s hard to concentrate on the new salty taste when the Devil is staring intently into your eyes while his hands roam your body, touching and flicking. 

He asks you about punishments for making him come without warning - something about how he should prolong your virginity, a concept that you wanted him to take away. 

…it’s just a social construct used to belittle others, the contract states. But if anybody is going to take it away, then it has to be the Devil himself. 

“This might hurt a little,” he tells you. 

Invisible ropes drag your hands above your head and tie your thighs to your bed. Making sure you’re secure Jeonghan quips, “In case you try to run away.”

You can barely see what he’s doing from your angle. His dick is slowly becoming hard again, so you think he’s going to eat you out in the meantime. But nothing can prepare you for what comes next. 

It feels cold and warm, a long tubular shape slowly digging and nudging itself into your cunt. Yet, you don’t feel the same wetness you felt when he stuck his tongue in your cunt. The figure pulls in and out, sliding and squelching with every thrust. Your mouth drops open, letting tiny soundless exhales fall out of your mouth. A burning sensation builds up at the bottom of your stomach, causing you to lurch and struggle against your binds. Jeonghan only chuckles from underneath you, his face shrouded by his hair. It’s only when he pushes deep, causing you to yell his name when you realize the object he pushes into you. 

What fucks your cunt in a steady rhythm is the same crimson red, elephant-tusk-like horn that sits on top of Jeonghan’s head. He slightly turns his head so the thick and curved object hits you in the right spot, causing you to struggle, moan, and breathe heavily. 

“What a twisted angel,” Jeonghan grunts. “You didn’t think I would be able to read your thoughts? You didn’t think the Devil would be able to listen in on every single dirty thought that came across that pretty little head of yours?”

“Fuck. P-please Jeonghan,” you whine through gritted teeth. “Want your dick.” 

“No.” His tone is flat. “I’m not horny yet. Hearing you whine and mewl about how good I make you feel ”

“N-No,” you manage to say. “Can’t wh-whine if you’re choking me.”

Your invitation causes him to immediately pull out of you, therefore causing you to lurch forward with a gasp and fall back down when you’re stopped by your binds. It’s a lot clearer now, his wet red horn and the hair matted down by your juices. Still, there is nothing that could make the man in front of you become an eyesore. 

He’s objectifyingly beautiful - now not as downright terrifying as you thought him to be. Your little push of confidence, although a bit passive, goes a long way as he bends down once again to catch you between his lips, kissing you feverishly as his left hand slowly works its way to loop around your neck. 

It’s a new feeling, feeling the pressure of his palm against your neck. The pressure is light - not how Jeonghan would’ve liked to choke you, but enough so the concept doesn’t scare you away. Gently squeezing the sides of your esophagus, Jeonghan removes his lips from yours so he can see you clearly. Chin lifted up and your eyes glossed over, you seem to him to be needier than ever. He watches you as your struggle against his invisible binds, hips thrusting in the air. 

“Please Jeonghan.” You struggle against his hand. “Please. I’m ready. I’ve been ready. Please-”

“Beg.”

“Fuck,” you breathe out. “I’m begging. Please.”

He adds a little more pressure around your esophagus, making you struggle and almost come on the spot. “More.”

“W-want t-to see your pre- ah fuck pretty face lose its beauty when you bend over me while fucking me hard. I want you to be mean to me and pull my hair so my back arches while you pound into me from behind. Make my thighs quiver and tremble as my knees go red. Use me until I’m left with nothing but tears.”

“I can make you cry.” He lets go of your throat, tsk-ing at the fading soft pink imprint left behind on your skin. “But not in the way you described…You’ll be leaking from somewhere else, Angel.”

You breathe his words in like an airy aphrodisiac, filling your lungs and clouding your brain with blissful jubilation. But the tears. The tears fall when he slowly pushes into you, cooing and soothing you while you cling onto him, fingernails digging red welts into his bare back while you struggle to adjust to his size. The stinging pain feels like no other, but fuck does it feel good to have him inside you. 

Wrapping your legs around his waist, he bends over you and whispers in your ear, “Keep tightly clenching around me before I can properly fuck you and you’ll never be able to leave Hell. Understand?”

“Yes,” you reply, hissing when he pulls back.

Then he starts pushing slowly back into you, savoring how your walls etch and hug his ridges, savoring how your eyes immediately roll to the back of your head in response to your pleasure. Another thrust, faster this time. He plagues you with need, making you practically fuck him yourself by angling your legs on the bed so you can push yourself into him over and over again. He pinches your nipple in anger, but it only sends a lewd string of pain straight to your core. You find it pleasurable, your nerves heightened to a new level. 

So he puts his hands around your waist and tells you his name again - because that’s the only thing you’ll remember after he’s done with you. 

He ruts into you over and over again, harshly and quickly. The only sounds filling your tiny bedroom are your hiccups that complement the sound of his skin slapping against yours. Your whole body jerks and rocks with every thrust, your bed no longer standing in the same place, now slightly askew. He doesn’t even give you time to recover when you cum on his cock, your belly tightening, releasing, and then tightening again in a matter of a few seconds. 

“Whore,” he sneers. “Look at you, all fucked out underneath me. You can’t help but come multiple times, can you?”

He rubs your clit while pounding into you, watching you writhe in pleasure underneath him, very well unable to respond to his rhetorical question. 

“And you want me to pound into you from behind?” He mockingly laughs out loud. “All that talk but you can’t even form a word. Form a word then. Try forming a word before I cum.” 

But another wave swells in your abdomen, causing you to jerk forward in reaction. Your body feels sweaty and sore, but the pleasure rolls in waves - building in you and ejecting out of you like a consistent ebb and flow. Every single bite, flick, and word that comes out of him only breaks you even more. And you topple like a house of cards, reduced to nothing but his personal fucktoy. 

He chases his own orgasm when he feels like it, pushing into you deeply and thrusting one last time by hitting your walls so he can slowly milk his seed as he rolls his hips. And when he pulls out, he watches his liquid slowly collect at your entrance, threatening to spill out. Your body still twitches in his absence, your aftershocks squeezing and making his seed drip and run out of you. 

Your eyes are blurry, body is sore with tiny cartoonish stars floating and rotating above your head. You can’t expect the Devil to stay. He had done enough for you, more than you could ever imagine. It takes everything in you to bring yourself to whisper his name one last time before you feel him leave your side. 

On the floor where you summoned him is an invitation to summon him again:

Whenever you’re ready. He writes. I’ll make you crawl. -YJH, The Devil

[angelbaby-fics]

Daddy stucky x little reader x little Peter where the reader is in a very young headspace and took a nap but when she woke up she was all alone in the bed and want to be with her daddies and Peter so she try to crawl off the bed but fell and hurt herself and daddy rushed in the room seeing little one crying and after he ask why she crawl off the bed she's like "I wan be wif daddies n pweti"

MUCH COMFORT PLEASE 🥺💞

Comfort

Word Count: 800

A/N: Ahh what a precious idea!! I really really love the big brother Peter dynamic hehe 💕 also this fic is so me bc every time I wake up my first thoughts before I get my bearings are usually "wheres dadaaaa" 💕 enjoy!

It was typical for you to regress even smaller during the course of your afternoon nap, usually leading to a wonderfully cozy evening. After a day of playing, Bucky would put you down in your crib with the lights dimmed to replenish your energy while Steve cooked the family meal. Peter was always a bit older than you, so his afternoon nap was optional. Today he opted to help out Daddy in the kitchen while you slept.

Bucky returned from your nursery to see his two best boys working hard in the kitchen. Peter was dutifully stirring a big bowl of ingredients while Steve carefully cut vegetables and dropped them into the mix. Bucky made absolutely sure they didn’t need any extra help before he retreated to the living room to put on a record. Soft jazz music filled the house, and Bucky picked a book to pass the time before supper was ready. Settling into a soft armchair, one where the kitchen was still within view, he started to lose himself in the peaceful moment, the ambiance only interrupted with the turning of each page.

Until he heard the thud.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep. You weren’t sure what was dream and what was real. You were stuck in a prison cell, your family on the other side. You reached out for them, desperate arms restrained by the bars. When you opened your eyes, the bars were real. 

You caught your breath slowly as you took in your surroundings. It was just a dream. You told yourself that over and over again like a meditation, but it didn’t make it any more believable to your babified brain. You had to see for yourself that your family was still there. You needed to feel your Baba’s strong arms hold you against his chest, to hear Daddy’s soft voice humming a lullaby as he played with your hair, to stretch out your hand and immediately have it met with Peter’s, reassuring you that your big sibby was always there. 

But you were so, so tiny. You could hardly balance on two legs, gripping tight to the railing of your crib as you tried to hold yourself up. Falling back onto your hands and knees, you gathered up all your stuffies and piled them all into one corner, forming a makeshift ramp. Scurrying up like a squirrel on a tree trunk, you pulled yourself over the top rail, but you hadn’t planned this far ahead. You fell to the carpeted floor, right on your padded bottom. 

Bucky was pushing through the doorway before you even had time to cry. He picked you up and held you tight against him, softly bouncing you up and down as he patted your back.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you.” He whispered with his rumbly voice. “Shhh…”

You grabbed him tightly, his clutch pulling you back from the verge of tears. You took fistfuls of his soft t-shirt in your hands, the fabric more comforting to you than any blankie. 

“What got you all worked up huh? Bad dream?” Without moving much, you nodded into his chest. You didn’t have the energy to tell him about it, but as usual you didn’t need to. Bucky had a way of reading your little mind. 

“How about we go cuddle out in the living room, okay babydoll?” “‘N daddy ‘n Petie?” You mumbled in your little baby way that your Baba could always understand. 

You could hear their voices as Bucky carried you out of your nursery and into the main foyer. 

“Is that my baby?” Peter asked. 

The excitement evident in his voice at the thought of getting to see his best playmate again. It had only been a little more than an hour that you’d been asleep, but he loved you that much. Your head perked up at that, and your bleary eyes blinked to see Steve carrying Peter out of the kitchen, mirroring you and Bucky as you met at the living room couch. 

“There’s still a few minutes on the timer for dinner.” Steve said. “Does anybody know what we could possibly do to pass the time?” 

“Cuddles please please please!!” Peter cheered, and you clapped in agreement.

“What a great idea! What smart babies we have, don’t we Buck?”

“I think we might have the smartest, cutest babies in the whole wide world!”

Each man sat on the couch with their respective babies in their arms, but as soon as they were seated, you and Peter started crawling all over each of them, lapping up as much love as you could before the oven timer went off. Even when it did, you weren’t too disappointed; you knew once supper was over you’d be right back to cuddling your family again.

[satorustyles]

you can't fall asleep (a gojo one shot)

a/n: hi! yay to my first post! i'm still exploring the jjk fandom and spoiling myself with fics and drabbles while waiting for the next episode, and this definitely won't be the last one i'm writing! i'll be making more parts of this with the other jjk men but for now, pls enjoy this gojo one shot! -bear

nanami kento version here!

sukuna version here!

warnings: none, just pure fluff and sleepy!reader <3

word count: 851

Whenever you felt restless and needed to get enough sleep for a mission the next day, Gojo was always one step ahead of making sure you slept early. He's the one who assigned you on that mission, anyway. So, of course, as your teacher (and lover), he always ensured that his student got enough rest, not knowing the outcome of every mission. It would range from a few hours to a few days. The longest one you've been on was three days, and Gojo felt terrible for keeping you up the evening prior.

You tossed and turned in your shared bed, crying that the chamomile tea your boyfriend prepared for you did not make you sleepy at all. You stared at the small digital clock on your bedside table, the green numbers glowing 11:21 PM. You were going to meet the rest of the team at five in the morning.

You wanted to cry.

Gojo was still outside in the living room, talking to Utahime on the phone, finalizing the plans for the mission the next day. From the open door of your bedroom, you could hear the seriousness in his tone and you didn't want to interrupt him. Knowing Gojo, he would just drop whatever he was doing and tend to you, whatever you needed. Not that you complained about that.

But you were just getting desperate. Every second you spent awake was a second wasted that was supposed to be for sleeping. You had no choice but to whine about it to your boyfriend.

With your blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you made your way to the dark living room. The only light visible was the one coming from the muted television, illuminating the small space and your boyfriend's lean and slender figure on the couch, phone propped up against his ear.

He immediately noticed your form standing by the doorway, his bright blue eyes staring down at you despite the darkness of the room. Utahime was still talking on the phone, but his attention was already on you, smiling as he gestured for you to come near him.

"Hi," He whispered once you were in front of him. "Sorry, did I make you wait long? C'mere." He held your wrist and gently tugged you down towards him, and you situated yourself on his lap and rested your head on the crook of his neck. His strong arm was quick to wrap you closer to him, keeping his hold on you tight while his other hand held onto his phone.

"Utahime, I gotta go. I'll call you back in the morning." Without waiting for the teacher's response, he hung up and dropped his phone next to him with a soft thud.

"Angel," He whispered, dipping his head and kissing your forehead softly. "I thought you were already asleep."

"I can't sleep, Gojo." You grumbled frustratedly. The white-haired man could only chuckle amusedly as he fixed your position on his lap, granting him access to your neck. He began trailing soft kisses down your jaw, trailing down to your neck and shoulders. His hands gripped the edges of your blanket and wrapped them tighter around your body, trapping your arms inside.

"My poor baby," He cooed softly, nuzzling his head against your neck. "Were you waiting for me to help you sleep?"

You could only muster a grumbled sound, enough to confirm Gojo's inkling. He smiled fondly at your grumpy attitude, keeping himself from laughing lest he wanted his baby to get even angrier. No, sir, he definitely knew better.

He then stood up, carrying you with him bridal style as he made his way to your bedroom. He then gently put you down and you watched as he positioned himself behind you, leaning his back against the headboard and pulling you towards him.

"Will this do?" He whispered to you, and you turned around to meet his face before plopping yourself on top of him, your stomach against his and your head resting on his chest. You wrapped your arms around his waist as Gojo's hand reached up to push the strands of hair back from your forehead before he planted another soft kiss, the feel of his lips on your skin making you warm and fuzzy inside. It's like he has some kind of magic against you that always made you weak when he was this close to you.

Which was why you always needed him whenever you couldn't sleep.

"Sleep, doll." He whispered against your skin, rubbing slow circles on your back, eventually making you sleepy. Yes, finally. "I'll be right here with you."

“I love you,” You sighed contentedly, planting a soft kiss on his chest and you could feel the way his breath hitched at the action.

“I love you, sweet one.” He whispered back, his one arm pulling you closer to him whilst his other hand continued to rub your back soothingly, the feel of his long fingers tracing the curve of your back pulling you to sleep with every breath. “Tomorrow, I’ll be watching closely when you leave for your mission. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

[rippersz]

𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝑰𝑰

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

A Larissa Weems x F!Reader three-part mini-fic. Read the first part here: Heat ; (NSFW: Vulgar, Breeding Kink, All That Jazz) (TW: Intrusive thoughts/actions) (The next part will include explicit consent amongst other things. Thank you and enjoy.)

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

“That’s a good girl… doing so well for me sweetheart…”

You replied to her purr with a groan, already helpless from the way she teased and nipped at your body. So quick, she was. And so nimble; fleeting with touches that had your eyes rolling back into your head because the amount of pleasure that buzzed through you was like a shock of lightning. And it simply- honestly- really never stopped. Skating soft caresses over your hips, dipping between your thighs, never touching you in the way you wanted her to. Licking at your neck, biting softly along your waist, curling her fingers into your hair… all sweet evil little tactics keeping you keening and submissive.

You felt like you were somewhere else. You felt like nothing but her mattered.

You could barely speak. You could barely breathe.

“Oh I know… I know, darling. Just so cruel, hm?”

Terribly cruel. Absolutely cruel. She knew you needed it the same way you needed air and water - but nothing so sweet came without a price. That was your price. That was your punishment. Shivering beneath her body, shaking under her touch, dripping against her soft fingertips - giving yourself up to her like a ritual for the gods. She was no god, but she was still the object of your everything. And her lipstick prints, her velvet tongue, her eyes so dark with lust they turned into midnight, all of her… it was there to drive you mad. Insane. Out of your mind. So beautiful and so wicked you could do nothing but nod your little head and allow your bottom lip to quiver. You had no other reply. She had stolen your sense.

“Poor thing,” came the sinful whisper in your ear. “Poor little thing…”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Will you forgive my teasing, darling girl?”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Will you be good for me?”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Will you give in?”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“-s Larissa!”

You woke with a jolt.

Your room was dark, you noticed first. The curtains were drawn but there was no familiar glow of the bright world outside slipping through the cracks. And none of the lights were on. And you were pretty sure there was someone outside of your door.

Just what on Earth….

“I can come back later or tomorrow if you’re not feeling well, Y/n.”

…Larissa?

You frowned, sat up, and immediately let out a sharp hiss.

Your libido, awakened like a ravenous predator, constantly ready to tear and eat and bite, reared its ugly head. For a few blessed moments there you hadn’t felt a thing, but you should’ve known that such bliss never lasted long. Oh no, the confused fog of sleepiness was broken- cracked- shattered- as soon as your body stirred and your functions came back online. And once it did that, once it remembered its purpose, you were a goner. And its purpose - oh its purpose… to mate, of course. The answer was obvious in your lustful haze. You were meant to mate. And mate. And mate and mate and mate and bear children and to be bred over and over and over again until every corner of your womb was flooded with warm sticky life that came right from the tip of Larissa’s co-

“Stop,” your own voice surprised you, nearly making you jump in your spot.

Goodness you were going mad. You had to stop. You just- had- to stop.

And if it were any other day and you were actually sick, you would’ve just pushed those thoughts out of your head, pulled yourself out of bed, and gone to greet Larissa. Or perhaps even welcome her in. But it wasn’t any other day - and you weren’t sick in any way other than mentally. And the second you opened that door, she’d know. She’d know instantly. And then you’d be terribly embarrassed and you’d take the forms and slam the door in her face and never ever be able to talk to her again. And through it all, the only thing you’d want- the only thing you’d be able to think of or look at or obsess over- would be her. Just her. Just Larissa.

Just Larissa…

Just Larissa, Larissa, Larissa…

Larissa’s upper body pressed to the headboard of your bed. Larissa’s legs beneath your thighs. Larissa’s hands around your neck, Larissa’s hands digging into your waist, Larissa’s hands holding your ankles, Larissa’s hands cupping your cheeks. Larissa’s fingers dipping into your mouth. Larissa’s fingers christening your tongue. Larissa’s eyes staring down at you. Larissa’s sweet gaze making you shy. Larissa’s voice dipping into an evil purr. Larissa whispering dark sins into your ear. Larissa calling you good. Larissa calling you hers. Larissa’s lips against your neck. Larissa’s hands between your legs. Larissa pushing your thighs apart, sliding between them, smiling at your desperation. Larissa leaning down - Larissa making eye contact - Larissa pressing a slow- slow slow slow loving kiss to your cl-

“I suppose I’ll just email to reschedule, Y/n. I hope you’re alright in there,” her strong voice spoke through the door, instantly tugging you out of your daydreaming. It was faint, barely there, but there was something lacing her tone - something like worry or concern or even… disappointment…

Panic welled up inside of you. You couldn’t be a disappointment. You could never disappoint her. You could only please her. Only make her happy. Yes, only please her and make her happy. Only please her and make her happy with your mouth… and your tongue… and your fingers framing her waist and her hips on top of your head and… F-focus! God! Jesus! Get a grip!

“No!” You blurted out, scrambling and reaching toward the door with one hand, instantly cringing at the hoarseness of your voice. “N-no, stay - sorry! One sec!”

The sooner you got it over with, you figured, the quicker Larissa could leave. And then you could return to your (currently wet) bed and indulge in more pleasure and pain and try hard to wait out the struggle of the following few days.

“Oh… alright,” you heard her low murmur before the world fell silent.

Alright. Okay. Good. That was good. Time to face the music. Time to tug yourself out of bed, nearly tripping over your own feet when your legs began to wobble; time to whimper beneath your breath at the pathetic stain on your sheets; time to shuffle your way over and glance into your full-length mirror and take in the way your body responded to its helplessness.

Such terrible terrible helplessness…

With hard nipples, yearning for friction, and thighs that rubbed together, slicked with desire - almost unconscious in their need; and with hands that shook slightly at your sides and a sheen of sweat that caused the thin nightie you threw on to stick to your skin. It was the only thing within reach, being that it was thrown to the floor some days prior. Pink and pretty and rather feminine, showing off your curves on any other occasion, but honestly just seeming ‘whore-ishly’ indecent within the moment. You couldn’t possibly answer the door like that… but you had no choice. The burn from earlier, that you tried getting rid of in the shower before you fell asleep and promptly forgot about Larissa’s visit, was already swelling up again. Like a red flare. Like a warning. Telling you to be quick before the band snapped! and the clock struck midnight and the metaphorical village realized you were actually some lustful greedy succubus that yearned to fuck their wives and drink their blood and-

A tremor in your left leg had you nearly gasping for air. You shook your head. Getting carried away was bad. Leaving Larissa waiting was bad. You glanced at the door. It would be fine. It would all be fine.

You ignored the lightheaded feeling that came over you once you reached for the doorknob and took one last deep breath. It was just Larissa. It would be fine.

Gods help you.

“Hey, sorry about that!,” you smiled as soon as you saw her.

“Don’t apologize, I’m just concerned. Are you quite alright?”

Uh… Nope.

Nope, absolutely not.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

In fact, you were the very opposite of fine. The very antithesis of fine. You were actually so un-fine that you couldn’t really think of a word to describe how un-fine you really were. Yeah. Very not alright. Very much… how could you put it to her? Very, oh you weren’t sure, very ‘Oh my god you look so fucking hot right now I need you to spit in my mouth and fuck me raw and silly before I pass out from desperation.’ And that was the truth. She looked as glorious as always.

So tall, you reminded yourself for the billionth time, and so smooth… with long arms and sculpted hands and red painted nails that would look so nice dragging along your skin… and that outfit - something different, for once… like she was trying to kill you. Purposefully accentuating her waist, keeping that white blouse tucked into the band of a light pink pencil skirt, complete with white kitten heels and a silver watch and silver earrings and oh gods you were so close to falling to your knees for her. In fact, your body was urging you - pushing you. It wanted to submit to Larissa just as much as your soul did, and it nearly vibrated with sick pleasure as your eyes followed the rounded curve of her jaw and the strong bridge of her nose and the carefully crafted curls of her white locks. Getting your fingers tangled in those would be heaven, you were sure of it. And each nasty little whisper in your ear, courtesy of the heat you were suffering though, wanted you to reach up. To run a palm gently over the smooth surface of the bobby-pinned coif… and to take the pins out and scrunch the hair up in your fist… and pull her head back and- no. No. No. You couldn’t. The sliver of common sense that lingered within the back of your fucked up little psyche was holding on by a thread, tugging on the reigns with a huge grunt, and somehow managing to pull you back to reality.

It seemed to do a damned good job because you found yourself responding as though nothing was amiss.

“Yeah yeah, just um- I dunno what it is actually. Just going through it,” you smiled sheepishly, clutching the door as hard as you could.

You probably looked mad peering out from behind the wood in the way that you were, shielding most of your bedroom from those deep penetrating blue eyes, but you didn’t care. It was simply too big of a risk. Thank goodness she didn’t really seem to notice anyway as she nodded and shot you a sympathetic smile. There was so much warmth in her gaze as she looked at you, casting a brief glance over your sweaty hairline and flushed cheeks and nervous smile, that a pang of guilt suddenly ran alongside the lust in your veins.

Larissa was there doing her job, willing to wait for you to come to the door after she stood outside like an idiot for however many minutes. Larissa was there doing her job, offering to give you the necessary paperwork because she was kind and figured you wouldn’t have the energy to get them yourself. Larissa was there doing her job, checking on her employee and making sure she was okay… And said employee was being a fool and daydreaming about licking up the column of her boss’s neck and kissing the warm skin there and whimpering into her shoulder. Lust had never been something you frowned upon, but in that moment you felt like the worst person on Earth.

‘It can’t be helped,’ your mind murmured, providing you with the truth. Of course your subconscious wasn’t wrong - it couldn’t be helped - but hopefully it could be prevented. Hell, it wasn’t even supposed to happen in the first place!

And as you looked over Larissa, watching her present the paperwork and shift through what she needed to show you, your thoughts wandered. …Would she be able to help? Not in a sexual way but in a professional way…? Would she be able to tell you what the fuck was going on? Why a human being, one born without a peculiarity, was experiencing a ‘heat’ for the first time? Perhaps she knew something you didn’t - she was always very good at research, after all. And graduated nearly top of her class, right beside Morticia Addams neé Frump. So she could know…

You blinked at the sight of a piece of paper being handed over to you.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ll be out, Y/n?” Larissa asked gently as you swallowed and slowly reached out to take the form.

Instantly, you shook your head.

The warmth was starting to spread through your legs, making them tingle and shake. You had to hurry things up.

“N-no, no I don’t think so. It’s pretty bad, I’m sorry.” And you were sorry. You felt very very sorry - but you also felt very very good.

It was like a painful, uncomfortable, lust-filled vacation. No work, just desire. An unbelievable amount of it. So much desire, in fact, that you could barely focus as Larissa responded.

“What did I say about apologizing?” she shook her head before giving you two more papers, “Don’t worry about it. All I ask is that you do me a favor and fill these out for me, please? Just so we can have your absence on record and still pay you accordingly.”

You nodded and glanced them over, only noting that the words were blurred and all ran into each other and didn’t make much sense - at least not in the moment. To be fair, you didn’t really expect them to. You figured you’d just fill them out when the burn wasn’t growing steadily, spreading along the lining of your abdomen, bursting into sudden flames within your empty womb.

“Of course, yeah I’ll just- I’ll- oh- oh gods!” You breathed, doubling over as your eyes went wide. Crazed, your hands scrambled to find purchase on your lower belly.

It was like a flip had been switched. From off to on. The burn, that damned simmering ache that heated you up from the inside out, that plagued you for days, morphed into the unfortunately familiar stabbing that you felt earlier. Warm pulses of intense heat and longing, one right after the other, filled you relentlessly. Over and over. Again and again and again - in the span of a few moments. Helpless, you watched the papers escape your shaking grasp and float to the floor. You couldn’t reach for them. You couldn’t reach for anything. It was like something in you, something innate and primal and hungry, sensed Larissa’s presence and needed more of it. Needed her closer. Needed her pressed to you, on top of you, inside of you. In and out- deeper and deeper and d-

“Agh!” You hissed, nearly crumbling once your knees began to buckle as the throbbing got worse.

The door to your room slid open when your hand banged against the knob, eager to cradle the ball of desire that formed in your abdomen, eager to release the terrible sensation of longing. If you weren’t going mad, you would’ve grasped the door and pulled it shut and kept Larissa out - but you were going mad and your mind was fuzzy and oh gods you needed her so fucking bad-!

“L- Laris-sa,” you whimpered, trying to calm the internal battle between your common-sense and your desperation.

‘Oh come on,’ your libido murmured, ‘take what you want. Just this once. She’s right there. So pretty- look at her.’

Your eyes, glazed and half-shut and welling with tears, peered up through your lashes to see Larissa’s shocked expression. Her lips were moving, but she sounded far away. Underwater. You missed the sound of her voice. Gods, was she always that beautiful?

‘Yes, look. Glorious, no? And all yours. She can be all yours. Just grasp her hand- go on- and show her what you can do. Show her what she needs.’

And your hand, pulled by a force you couldn’t control, slid away from your belly and reached out into the space between you. Your fingers were twitching, your palm was clammy, you were shuddering - but Larissa took it anyway. She put her arm out and grasped near your elbow and stepped closer, unsure of what to do.

“Do you need my assistance? Should I- do you want me to call the authorities? The nurse?” Oh she looked so nervous. She looked so scared.

‘Now is your chance. Go on. TAKE her. Now. Now now NOW NOW-’

“N-no,” you gasped.

‘NO!? WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?!’

And of course, lit like a fuse, like a fragile exploding bomb, every cell in your body began to rebel. The ache of emptiness increased into a roaring inferno, aiming to seer the needy walls of your cunt and make them clench around nothing. The feeling was unnatural - much too strong - and forced salty tears to spill down onto your cheeks. Oh gods, gods, gods. You were vaguely aware of the fact that you were shaking your head and trying hard to detach yourself from Larissa. She couldn’t be there for that. She couldn’t witness that. You didn’t want to hurt her; so with your fingers struggling to slip from her strong hold, you whined loudly.

“Let- go!” And with a final tug- one in which you didn’t let go fast enough- the two of you went stumbling backward into your bedroom.

It was a cruel twist of fate, really. Your heels kept pressing against the floor, pinwheeling you back so far that you landed on the bed with a tiny shriek. And Larissa, who tripped over the threshold and ended up kicking the door closed with the very tip of her heel, could do nothing but close her eyes and brace for impact. It would have been heavenly - it would have been terrible - if she fell directly onto you, but she didn’t. Instead, those strong hands you loved to admire so much went sprawling out into the air… and caught the entirety of her weight upon the shuddering slopes of your knees. The pressure pushed you deeper into the mattress, sending your pathetic little mind careening over the edge of sense and into a pit of hysterics. Thoughts flooded you, nearly knocking you blind as your eyes shot down to the sculpted hands that clutched at your skin.

So warm…

So divine…

It would be a dream come true if Larissa’s hands started pushing your thighs apart… Or if Larissa’s lips were next to your ear as her fingers, tapered and thin and long went pitter-pattering along the soft flesh. Or if Larissa dipped her fingertips into the folds of your heaven and moaned softly at what she found… So much desire… So wet from the slightest touch. But that would be no surprise. You were always wet for her. Always wet and always burning. Always needing her so terribly. And she could do it too… she could just slide her thumbs a bit to the left and right respectively… put some strength behind her hold… dip down onto her knees… look up at you with those gloriously dark eyes… like she was doing then. Except… except…

You blinked.

Except she wouldn’t look so worried. She wouldn’t look so concerned. No, between your legs you hoped she’d at least be happy to be there but- ahhh. Right. Still your boss. Once your mind finally caught up to that little fact, you tensed.

“I’m sorry-”

“I apologize-”

You stared.

Larissa stared.

The heat, for some reason, seemed to calm in the face of her undivided attention. It gave you a moment of reprieve. A moment to think. And a moment to look down, still surprised that your boss hadn’t straightened up yet - which of course caused her to look down and realize that she hadn’t straightened up yet. So you watched with wide eyes as Larissa Weems pushed off of your knees like she had been burned and rose to her full height, straightening the hem of her skirt as she went. She cleared her throat. Her hands were empty. The papers were probably scattered along the hallway floor.

“I apologize for- not letting go. It seems very painful, whatever it is you’re going through. I was worried you’d- well- fall.” And the small nervous but graceful smile that fell upon those red lips made you melt.

It made you melt and it made you smile back. She wasn’t wrong. It was painful. Yeah. It was so… fucking… wonderfully… painful.

“N-no it’s um- it’s fine- fine, yeah,” you nodded, still breathless from all of the commotion.

Even though the throbbing faded, you knew it would come back - and most likely with a vengeance. The ebb and flow seemed never-ending. So in preparation, you had to kick Larissa out as quickly as possible. Though as you looked up, watching the awkwardness pass over your boss’s face, you figured that wouldn’t be too difficult. She was probably eager to leave anyway considering you were acting so bloody crazy… But nonetheless, manners were still important.

“Um you should- prob-probably go,” your voice was shaky as you moved to stand up, not even bothering to pay any attention to the buzzing between your legs. You only hoped and prayed to every god listening that Larissa hadn’t noticed you weren’t wearing anything beneath the nightgown; you were in a hurry - and if anything was covering your desire, you probably would have burst into a huge ball of horny flames by the door.

Honestly, it didn’t really matter though. Your room gave you away. The wet sheets in the unmade bed behind you, blatant and on display due to your carelessness; the three sets of panties discarded on the floor, all of them sporting a since-dried damp spot from the days in which you tried to ignore your situation; Hell, the fucking smell of the room. Musty and damp and just - very very strange. Like you lived in some sort of sex jungle. The bin beside your bed was also overflowing with tissues, all from the late night sessions you frequented when trying to see if your hand could get rid of the persistent ache once and for all (it couldn’t). And the bathroom door was left open, exposing the glass shower which was still waiting to dry. Your only saving grace was that no sex toys were left out… probably because they were nonexistent. Really, a huge fucking oversight on your part. When you needed them most, you didn’t have them. And you hadn’t experienced true desperation until you felt your body- your womb- start to cry out for something long and thick and hard and honestly just big enough to nearly break you and of course, that just steered your mind on a rampage. For days, before locking yourself in your bedroom, you considered going up to a fellow teacher and asking them to borrow anything they may have. It would have been the most embarrassing conversation of your life, but it would have helped. Unfortunately, you ended up talking yourself out of it when you imagined the kind soul asking you if you were alright. You’d have to explain the sudden biologically impossible ‘heat’ moment and then you were almost certain word would spread, and if word spread, that meant Larissa would hear it. And if Larissa heard it? You were fucked. And not in the good way.

“Yes. But…,” speak of the sweet Devil. Her voice was hesitant, shaking with questions and concern. It made you tense.

Oh no…

“…what, if I may ask-,”

Oh no no no…

“-what is wrong?”

No Larissa no-

“Your reaction was so…”

You watched in concealed horror as her eyes observed every little detail of your room. Her gaze was slow; her eyebrows furrowed.

“…abrupt.”

You knew she had only chosen that word out of kindness. Just like you also knew she was highly perturbed and most definitely confused. And because your soul was absolutely hopeless for her, you realized then that you couldn’t just leave her like that. Worrying about her colleague… talking about it with others to try and get other opinions… Larissa was no gossiper (unless it was in private you figured), but that didn’t matter. If she wanted to know something, she’d find a way of knowing.

So, with that in mind, and because she was your boss, well… how could you withhold it? How could you look at her, see her mild distress, and just stay quiet? How could you keep the- honestly the importance of this ‘heat’ from her? How could you keep it a secret? It was, technically, a biological breakthrough. You knew your family tree; no part of you was intertwined with werewolf blood. And you’d never been bitten. And you were certainly not one of those shapeshifters that could shift into animals. So really, really, there was a chance Larissa may be able to help. You’d thought of it earlier. She could help. She could. And was it even really that big of a deal? You were both adults - you were both sane (well, sort of) - and you weren’t the types to spread rumors or share secrets with those who weren’t trusted. Larissa was very smart. Larissa knew so much. Larissa loved science! You could tell her.

‘You should tell her.’

You gulped, finally making eye contact with your boss as her blue pools moved to look down at you. They were swirling with questions; swirling with knowledge. You could tell her. You should tell her.

“I’m in heat.”

You told her.

…Just very very softly.

It was actually barely audible; so soft that even you had trouble making it out. And all it did was make Larissa respond with a hasty “Pardon?” and a strange look.

You sighed.

The heat began nipping at you. You felt your legs tremble.

If you waited any longer, an episode like the one some minutes earlier would repeat - and then you’d be absolutely screwed. And then you’d have no choice but to fall to your knees or collapse onto the bed or push yourself up against the wall and fuck yourself silly while gesturing with your eyes for Larissa to go; because surely, you wouldn’t have the sense to beg her to leave with your lips alone. In fact, you probably wouldn’t have enough sense to beg her to leave at all. Your libido, if its desperate angry little voice said anything, would most likely want her to stay. Would want her to watch.

A twinge in your abdomen made you clear your throat.

Now or never. Now or never. Before she called the ambulance or something. Before she thought you were crazy. You weren’t crazy. You were just in-

“Heat.”

You repeated yourself, louder, unable to look at her as you quickly skirted around the bed and toward the windows.

“I’m in heat.”

Once the worst of the worst came back, you weren’t sure what you’d do after standing so close to Larissa. Probably cry, most likely. And if not that, then probably turn to grasp her shoulders, bring her close, and kiss her until she pushed you away. Lust was a powerful motivator after all; it drove people into ways of existing that they never thought they’d experience before. The most innocent person could become the most brutal lover. And those in higher positions, with lots of work on their plate and a respectful amount of authority to their name, were more likely to obey their master behind closed doors. You knew that. You were familiar with that. And as Larissa stayed silent, no doubt processing your words and waiting for an explanation, you wondered about her preference. Your fantasies begged for dominance, but reality… well it could tell a different story.

‘Doesn’t matter. She can help us either way.’

You shook your head. Absolutely not. Larissa could not help. Larissa could not help because she didn’t want you like that - and you weren’t going to put her in a compromising position. And she also had no fucking clue what was going on. So before she asked any questions, you needed to explain. Quickly.

“I don’t know why I’m in heat, Larissa. Why or how,” you sighed while parting the curtains and taking a look at the rainy world outside. “But all I know is that I am. And I will be for the next oh I dunno- 3 to 4 days?” With a roll of your eyes, sparked by irritation and exasperation and exhaustion, you turned to face your boss.

Your boss… who was staring into space, into your eyes, with a blank expression. The sight of no physical response had you cringing. Dear lord, what was she thinking? That you were crazy? Making it up? You frowned and pressed yourself back against the window, delighting momentarily in the cool glass against your overheated skin. Well. At least that was one thing, you noticed. The throbbing had subsided quite substantially. It was nearly lost, really. Lost to- well to your anxiety. To your fear.

Larissa was still staring. Her lips were unmoving. Her body didn’t even twitch. It was uneasy not to see anything hiding behind her eyes, but as soon as you crossed your arms out of a random surge of insecurity and nearly opened your mouth to tell her to go, she was speaking.

“I don’t… understand.” And her eyebrows furrowed - the first sign of recognition. You nodded, sighing again.

“I know. Me either. But it’s- um- happening. And I… I don’t know what to do.”

“…It’s happening right now?” There was a redness to her complexion that wasn’t there before. Was she… oh goodness, was she blushing? Hell, how embarrassing! Yes the topic was taboo for normal conversation but this was your boss. The sight of the pinkness on her cheeks had you quickly clearing your throat and pushing yourself off of the wall.

You spoke as you walked, nearly running up to her and gently grabbing her wrist, steering her back toward the door, thinking she was uncomfortable.

“Yes- yes it’s happening right now. And I need you to leave before I go crazy. I’m really sorry about that- this- all of it!” Your words came out so quickly they all ran into each other. Your skin felt hot with shame.

It wasn’t something you could control. It wasn’t something you could even handle! It was a mystery if Larissa knew that or not, but as you took her to the door, you found it didn’t matter. If she wasn’t around, it would be fine. If she wasn’t around, you could suffer in solitude.

“Wait.”

Nevermind.

As if commanded by her stern tone alone, you paused in the doorway and stood as still as stone. The doorknob was held in your left hand and your right was hovering above the small of Larissa’s back, careful not to touch her for fear of sparking another wave of mind-dizzying desire. You felt yourself begin to sweat as you stood behind her, trying not to breathe too heavily. She was so close… standing so tall… back straight and strong… hands fidgeting at her waist. You took a step back, feeling as though she were a monument and you were a tourist hungry for the best picture you could manage; looking with shining eyes and a sense of utter tiny-ness. Small within her broad shadow. Her lovely broad shadow. God you wanted to climb her like a tree.

“Are you sure it’s a heat?” Her tone was low but strong.

It led you to frown and nod, even though she couldn’t see you.

“Of- of course it is. I mean I- well-”

“Could you describe the symptoms to me?”

Oh. No. No, you couldn’t do that actually. In fact, you couldn’t share any of it with her. It would probably send your body into a spiral if you said- well- anything. ‘Oh yes Larissa, sure, I’d be happy to tell you about how often I think about you in compromising positions. The desire that fuels me in those moments sometimes becomes so overwhelming that I have to press my face into my pillow to muffle my moans as I ride my own fucking fingers! And seeing you at my door, with those strong hands of yours and those legs, which I know are oh so capable, nearly had me fainting! I’m sweating like mad, eager to be fucked, nearly crying with the need to orgasm over and over and over again and there is no one here to help and it’s really making me angry.’ Thank goodness Larissa suddenly realized the implication behind her words as she balled her hands up into fists, inhaled sharply, and shook her head.

“I apologize. Of course you don’t have to share, you’re my colleague. It was silly of me to ask, I just wanted to help-”

But before her hurried words, tinged with nervous embarrassment, could continue into a tirade, you reached up and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was meant to be comforting - and you sincerely hoped it was as you swallowed down the strong urge to pull her around into a kiss.

“I know. It’s okay.” And it really was. You knew Larissa only wanted to be of whatever assistance she could be. That was just her personality. She wanted to help. But perhaps going about it in that way was- well- you weren’t sure. You didn’t know; neither of you did.

Though if there were anyone you trusted with something like that… it was Larissa. She was the first person that came to mind. And usually, when you were in a predicament, you dealt with it yourself. There was no family, no close friends, no acquaintances around that could possibly help you with personal things… but there was Larissa. The guardian of everyone. The light within your dreams. You could never stand being less than congenial and perfect for her - that’s why the situation was so stressful. It drowned out your heat for just a short time, leaving you with enough sense to worry. Had you ruined the possibility of getting closer with her? Had you acted too rude? You weren’t in your right mind… and she knew that. She understood that. But even so, not hearing it from her meant you were assuming. Perhaps it made her uncomfortable.

Perhaps it made her nervous for you. Worried for you. Concerned. Terrified?

No no, that was silly. She knew you were a strong young woman, capable of many things and definitely strong enough to handle yourself. And you were. Most of the time. But a heat? For a normie? You let out a groan as you stepped back toward the bed and threw your shaking hands over your face. They trembled with the need to touch. To touch touch touch. Touch anything. Touch heated skin and soft hands and long legs and anything- everything- they tingled with need like they had minds of their own. It was irritating.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Larissa,” your words were muffled from behind your palms.

There was silence before a bit of shuffling came from behind you - and then the door was closed. And locked. The clicking sound rang out for a suspended moment as you scrubbed at your face with anger. That seemed to be another side effect of the heat; aside from a pathetic amount of lust so strong you could barely form sentences, the body also seemed to take its slipping control into account and get mad about it. The mental image of that was a little amusing, but the real deal was bloody horrid. You got flashes of anger sometimes when the throbbing became painful or the warmth became suffocating. It went away after a few moments, but for the time it stayed, it was vicious. Angry horniness was not something you were too interested in indulging in - mainly because you didn’t have a partner. Could one even angrily fuck themselves? That thought took root in your head as you cleared the haze from your eyes and tried returning to your senses.

“Perhaps if you explain, I may be able to help.”

The sound of Larissa’s smooth voice from behind you immediately cleared your head. You turned to her, momentarily surprised at the lack of shoes. Her heels were no longer adorned and were instead placed neatly beside the door, right next to your own. You rather liked the look of them there, blending in with your various choices of footwear. From sneakers to flip-flops to flats to the white kitten heels that sat beside it all. It looked sort of… perfect. But that was unimportant. And definitely not the thing to focus on. You gave Larissa a nervous look, speaking warnings through your eyes.

Her own reflected nothing but compassion and friendly concern. The blush on her cheeks was still there, but you ignored it and considered it a result of the conversation topic. You were probably blushing as well, though you weren’t really certain - every inch of your body was hot anyway. That was probably a good start actually, you realized. If Larissa could help and she was offering, consenting, then you were allowed to share. If Larissa had information, well then even better. There was a chance she could make it go away completely - and maybe help you know if it would happen again in however many moons.

So with that in mind, you nodded and held up a hand to say ‘one minute’. Then you set about quickly making the bed - which meant throwing the duvet back into place and straightening the pillows. Once that was done, you took a seat on the edge and let out a gentle breath. The warmth was starting to nip again, inciting the tiniest tugging sensation in your abdomen. You swallowed and looked up at Larissa - who was still standing in her place from before, except with her hands clasped politely in front of her and her eyes openly welcoming.

“You don’t have to, Y/n… I’m just- telling you. There’s a chance I can help.” Larissa said slowly, backing up her words with a helpful smile.

Right. Okay.

She could help. She was offering to help.

Okay… okay. Okay. You nodded.

“Well…”

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Well... This is the most supported 'fic' I've ever had EVER. Thank you for the love - I was nervous to post this second part because I wanted it to be just as good as the first, but even if it isn't, that's okay. I hope you enjoyed anyway. Part 3 will come out... sometime. LOL. - Ripley x

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(P.S. - This part is dedicated to @weemssapphic for their kind message some minutes ago. Thank you dear! I sincerely hope you're doing well too :))

[dwritesit]

page 1: a short raindrop engagement comic / fic

based on conversations with kirst ♡ thinking nonstop about raindrop husbands and then... well how did they get engaged??

my first time making a comic so bear with me folks (working on requests in between this project!)

Written portion:

...

Tick, tick, tick, tick…

The hands of the clock on the library wall flick around their orbit, though no one pays mind to their positions. Scribbling on paper, book pages turning with a quiet whush, a waggling tail occasionally meeting the bookcase as the reader absorbs the writings. 

It had been hours since Rain and Dewdrop first entered the ministry library. The fire ghoul wanted to read, the water ghoul wanted to draw. A chill had seeped into their bones when they first arrived early morning that dissipated as the afternoon sun streamed in through the large windows. It was cozy now, comfortable enough to sink and yawn into. 

Rain stretched for the hundredth time with a low groan, a knot forming in his lower back from being hunched over his drawing pad. Images had poured out in the beginning, mostly of his lover, but they dribbled into doodles as his mind began to drift. He sat back in his chair, blinking fast to try and rouse his brain again, peeking at the clock that read a time he didn’t truly care about. Then, he turned to the ghoul who had entered with him.

Dewdrop had started out in one of the plush, red chairs on the far wall of the library. A dark bound book capturing his attention. Then he’d moved to the table next to Rain until he became fidgety, then to the floor where he currently laid out, ankles raised and crossed over each other, his tail wiggling every time the book excited him. Rain stared at him, taking in his lithe form. The curve of his back as he rested up on his elbows. Legs stretched out in a way that Rain could only describe as cute. That long, dark tail, heart shaped at the tip that Rain wanted to reach out and grab - both because Dewdrop would certainly pout cutely, and tail pulling usually lead to other more sinful activities. 

The fire ghoul had one hand raised to his mouth, looking thoughtful, while the other was holding the book open, pointing a guide for Dewdrop’s eyes. Long, hay-colored hair was tucked behind his ears, and one bunch that never seemed to listen was hanging in front of his pointed nose. Rain wanted to slick it back, if only to see more of Dewdrop’s pretty face. He truly was a gorgeous ghoul. Warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight. 

I love him, was the only thought on his mind.