#azure babbles

[breezy-cheezy]

Color wheel challenge: DARK BLUE BRACKET

[z0mbicide]

✈️🌴🤍😓 for the emoji one again any or all! any menace DONTMAKEMECHOOSE

✈️ AIRPLANE — does your oc like traveling, or do they consider themselves a more homey person?

ambrose is, fun fact, afraid of traveling by plane, despite not having acrophobia. nonetheless, he does enjoy traveling a great bit, though typically by car or train. his job doesn't really allow for him to travel much, so he only really gets to do it when he has the vacation time

🌴 PALM TREE — does your oc have a green thumb? do they enjoy gardening?

alata does! that's mostly because of his powers, though. his magic is specifically attuned to earth, so he naturally (hehe) has a connection to plants and greenery. he maintains a lot of different plants at his house and runs a flower shop, too! he loves it because it's something he's really good at

🤍 WHITE HEART — what are three of your oc's neutral/questionable traits?

owain is the following: reserved, observant, and pragmatic. though not necessarily questionable traits, they make people outside of his circle find him unapproachable or even scary when paired with his rbf

😓 DOWNCAST FACE WITH SWEAT — is your oc open-minded or stubborn? are they inquisitive or do they prefer to keep to their bubble of knowledge?

azur is the ceo of never shutting the fuck up because he wants to learn as much as humanly possible. he's stubborn about being open-minded. there's hardly a moment where he isn't questioning something or someone so he can know more. "you don't have to know everything" is his least favorite phrase in the fucking world

[hoshigray]

just gojo smut

. and hesss a bullyyy

another part of this scenario...

၇͜ᩘ𑁍 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Gojo x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! you and Gojo are college juniors - fingering (f! receiving) - clitoral play - squirting - multiple orgasms - pet names (angel, crybaby, pretty girl) - mention of tears and drool.

Sitting here, thinking about bully! Gojo and…how playfully mean he can be to your body…

“Ahhh!! Sa–toru…p-please go slow…!”

“Ehhh, but I thought ya liked it when my fingers go fast, angel.”

Just picturing you pressed up against him with your legs spread and your wrists restricted to your chest by a hand, your back to his chest to maintain inessential closeness. The other is in between the personal zone of your lower regions, his digits playing with you to the point of your thighs quaking with every touch and proximity of him.

Because there’s no such thing as “personal” when having you like this.

You throw your head to his shoulder as his slender fingers venture deeper into you, your legs threatening to close but are held open by his feet, spreading your ankles. “Gaaaahh, ohhGo—Mmmm!”

The white-haired man behind you comes to your ear to whisper. “Hnnnm, fuck, that feels nice,” he curls the digits to brush your walls, your figure jolting to the contact. “All wet and tight like I like it.”

“—Mmfff, Satoru, please, I can’t—“ you bite down on your lip with another rub to your texture, his slender fingers going more extensive than you could ever on your own. “S-Stop..! I’m t’ sore…”

“Oh? You’re sore?” He mocks childishly. “But you promised you can handle this much.”

Bullshit! More like pulling you aside and choosing to finger you to heal his boredom. Aren’t you two supposed to be working on a project together? “I caannn’t; I came—shit—like t-twice already…!”

“Aww, don’t be such a spoilsport,” he snickers as he increases the pace of his fingers. Your back arches at the frequent touches on your vaginal borders, yet Gojo is right there to keep you still. “C’mon, pretty girl, you know I want to see you do that first before I stop.”

You shake your head hurriedly, your eyes finding his. “I really can’t do iit! I m-might…break!”

His side profile harbors one of his azure eyes that glimpses at you, and a smirk pulls up. “Fine, then I’ll make you.”

Words that have your stomach drop to the bed, your mouth open to protest, yet it is stopped by the cadence of his hand going irregularly fast. You swore your vision had gone blank for a split second as Gojo’s middle and ring fingers pushed and pulled your innards with spasmodic bursts. Your conscience forces the body to retaliate—to retreat from this tall man’s grasp. But it’s futile, of course; his titter close to your eardrums melts your face into a deeper pool of embarrassment. 

Oh my God! Your mind is all you have to curse, your lips betraying your words as the only thing they can release is humiliating babbles. Gojo pushes his hand deep to the point that the blunt of his fingertips makes your toes curl and your vagina clamp onto them. No, no—I can feel it!

“C’mon, ya big crybaby,” he whispers again, a shiver crawling up your nape. “Let it out already.”

The words of his voice mixed with the frequent digs of your chasm swirl and pound your head. Your eyes find the top of your skull as your trembling legs succumb and your glads expel a clear liquid that exerts with every quake of your thighs. 

A mischievous grin twinges on Gojo’s face, removing his fingers out of your spasming cunt and swiping your vulva to have you squirting everywhere, plastering on the skin of your legs and tummy and his jean-clad thighs. You cry out during it all, nearly choking on drool as his fingers frequently and roughly glide on your clit, tears watering your eyes and beacon to fall. 

“Yeah, that’s it!” He cheers, smearing your substance around your bare lower regions as if the mess you made doesn’t extend to the sheets of his bed. “There you go, angel, keep making a mess for me.”

His thumb teases your clitoris some more on your clitoris as he pushes his middle finger back inside your swollen slit. “—Dahaah!! Yo–You said you’d stop if I…Mmmph!”

The light from the ceiling shines on his rounded shades. “I lied~.” 

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 ☆ dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[cheralith]

from slytherin!kaiser au, he finds out one year when you and him are students that you've been asked out to the yule ball during the quinquennial triwizard tournament and he tweaks the Absolute Hell Out. i'm taking like ferocious plays in quidditch where he's just absolutely ravaging everyone on the field and hexing anyone who even slightly crosses him. he's frustrated and the most irritating thing is that he doesn't know why. he just knows that he felt surges of anger and vexation after he had overheard in the dining hall that you were asked out by a stupid beauxbatons boy and that you had to absolute nerve to accept his invitation. every time he sees you in his classes, the familiar surge of aggravation boils back up again just at the mere sight of you, even if you both haven’t began your bickering yet.

he’s already pissed off that your best friend, yoichi isagi, was chosen as hogwarts’s contender in the tournament and not him, so for you to be running around collecting attention from people outside hogwarts had upset him even further. he sees you one weekend in hogsmeade with a strange boy that he’s never seen before, so it’s safe to say he’s the beauxbatons boy that your friends were rumoring about earlier. ness’s words are absolutely drowned out as he focuses on the unintelligible conversation you and him have, his fist tightening around his wand. figuring he should take his anger out on something else rather than poor ness for the fifth time this week, he conjures a jelly-leg jinx just before he turns on his heel, snickering when you exclaim out when your companion suddenly crumples to the ground unexpected. 

ness obviously has noticed kaiser’s short-temperament that he’s harbored for the past few weeks, he’s sure everyone has. he does not do a very good job of disguising it, considering his azure eyes absolutely burn into the back of your head during dinner. 

“are you jealous?” ness suggests, squeaking out when kaiser whips his head at him as soon as his friend finishes his sentence.

“huh?” he scowls, “fuck off. i don’t get jealous. why would i get jealous? that’s dumb. if anything, (l/n) should be the jealous one since i bagged myself that hot gryffindor girl—what was her name? fuck, i forgot already.”

ness blinks at his friend’s babbling as he stuffs a piece of meat in his mouth and chews it with obvious aggravation, his icy stare still lingering onto you and how you laugh at yoichi’s joke. he sighs, moving kaiser's wand a little further away from him just in case the slytherin chaser decides to cast another jinx on the poor boy again.

[toovaeloe]

curse biologist!reader x assistant!gojo hc’s

content: gojo pining off his ass . little flirty lab partners . tw for sliiighhtest mention of an autopsy and related tools . warning for gojo poppin’ a stiff one in the lab cause he’s a freak like that (ur a freak like that), so mildly suggestive

mdni

curse biologist!reader— the higher ups want you dead and gone, that’s for sure. You, who has a cursed technique that turns cursed energy into something tangible. After applying your technique to a cursed spirit, it becomes visible to a naked human eye, and instead of disintegrating, leaves a corpse behind. You’re dangerous. Crazy. And well…too weird. But they just hate progress, don’t they?

Not Gojo. He really doesn’t think you’re doing any harm to be honest (and he’ll do just about anything if it creases another wrinkle into Gakuganji’s ugly mug)

I mean, who else has been able to make waves in the integration of curses into science like you have? You’ve uncovered an exponential amount about the inner workings of curses in a few years when the rest of Jujutsu society’s had centuries, only to scratch the surface. It’s really admirable how you deep dive into the nitty gritty, as he calls it.

assistant!gojo— who loves being your little go-getter. Your own personal cursed spirit Fetch-Fido— maybe if you squint hard enough you’ll be able to see floppy ears perked to attention in his snowy hair or an eager tail whipping up a hurricane behind him as he brings you back his latest catch: a detained grade 2 curse manifested by the fear of monsters under the bed. Yeah, he knew you’d like something like that.

assistant!gojo— loves witnessing the way your eyes light up and it’s as if he can see the cogs immediately gearing to life in your smart little brain. He’s saluting exaggeratedly with a puffed out chest when you give him the go ahead to kill the thing after you’ve had your hand at it. It’s all he can do not to ask for a pat on the head and praise of how well he did. Getting a “Good boy,” out of you is on his mental vision board.

assistant!gojo— sticks around for the autopsies. Likes watching you poke around inside the creatures and is waiting on your hand and foot through the entire process. Scalpel? Bone saw? Enterotomy scissors? The bread knife??? He’s even starting to become attuned to your whims, tool already in hand before you extend your palm.

If you murmured an awed, “look at thaaat,” he’s quick to huddle in close under the pretense of observing whatever oddity that’s intrigued you. Only to squish his cheek against yours with a feigned, “hmm…mhmm…” nodding stiltedly, and not so discreetly nuzzling his face closer to yours with an impish glint in those azure eyes as he casts a sidelong glance to your skeptical neutrality.

assistant!gojo— staring at you with the widest puppy dog eyes as you discard your gloves and begin sketching diagrams of the latest brain you’ve picked apart, comparing it to the contradicting one of another curse, and contrasting from the drastically different human model you have. He can listen to you babble for hours, if only absorbing every other word of your theories on why a curse’s blood runs violet or how you’re so excited to get these samples to the lab. He’ll still chip in with his own question or hypothesis from time to time, because he’s curious too, but more than that he loves the way you answer.

assistant!gojo— purposely uses candy and sweets as a metaphor whenever you plead with him to explain how he views the electromagnetic spectrum through those eyes of his, just because he thinks it’s funny how desperate you are to know. To this day you can’t decode however the fuck that analogy about laffy taffy and rock candy was supposed to relate to infrared waves.

assistant!gojo— Satoru can’t decide what’s worse; the fact that he can’t get you out of his head or the fact that you want inside of his head

This whole situation is basically him giving you googoo eyes and kissy faces as you scribble down something on your clipboard and try to stick him with a needle

assistant!gojo— who’s willing to be a bit of a lab rat for you. He’s all giggles as he prances up to your vertical operation table, huffing lightly when you strap him against the cool steel. “Don’t be shy now, y’could go tighter than that. You know I like it when you tie me up,,” he encourages oh so unhelpfully.

assistant!gojo— chiding you to be careful when you begin application of the biosensors across his chest, cause he’ll get “a little too excited.” You don’t pay mind to his little quip until you see his already irregularly R-R intervals spike impossibly short on the electrocardiogram readings. And then again as you finish hooking him up to the machine.

assistant!gojo— thinks you might be overthinking what environmental stimuli might have caused that anomaly, or maybe judging by that poorly veiled smile and half-hearted “My mistake,” you’ve purposefully placed that one sensor node a little too low on his pelvis this time. Now that he’s thinkin’ about— yeah—there definitely wasn’t any need for you crouch so low until your nose was practically level with the apex of his thigh. Or for you to look up at him in a way that had him failing to suppress a shiver and his breath hitching when you smoothly rubbed the padding of the damn thing into his hip with your thumb. Aaaand fuck, he’s bricked in the lab. (again.)

He’d kill to know what’s going on in your noggin. And frankly he’s dying to get the pants off his fave smartypants.

a/n: as soon as I got this idea i was like ooo biting my lip and bigbig smile,, onto something? am I onto something??? would anybody maybemaybe read a one shot with this concept 👀? okay I love you byyyee

[quitealotofsodapop]

Oh imagine Iron Fan meeting the triplets-

She didn't really believe her husband or her son when they told her that Wukong had three babies because she really can't believe Wukong wouldn't figure out that donating dao= actual babies.

Then the family is released from the scroll of memory by a very concerned Xiaotian and Xiaojiao, Wukong, and three small babies. Thunder, the shyest one, reaches out first to meet his aunt.

Iron Fan hadn't been around during New Years to meet the triplets like her boys had. When her husband rushed home (son in tow) and told her that Sun Wukong had three very young cubs, PIF was intrigued.

Her first question was obvious: Whom was responsible?

DBK, trying not to laugh: "You would not believe me if I told you." PIF, smirking as she sips tea: "I am rarely surprised." DBK: "The Macaque." PIF, teacup rattles slightly: "...I will admit, that is surprising. But I thought Macaque had long since past?" DBK: "It appears that our late brother left behind three pieces of his soul on Flower Fruit Mountain to guard his effects. After his passing, Brother Wukong could not bear parting with the shadows of his mate - and began pouring his own life energy into them." PIF, understanding: "Ah. Supplying the Yang to the Yin. No wonder. I would have done the same if you had left shadows of your own." DBK, chuckling: "He certainly hadn't known that when they formed!" PIF, suppressing a laugh: "Pardon?!"

Red Son supplies photographic proof (shared by Mei) of the shadowy monkey cubs playing with Noodle Boy on the airship, and reuniting with their "Mother" Sun Wukong once freed. Little dark fluffy things with red markings on their faces, and gleaming red-orange eyes.

PIF: "That one in his arms... they are smaller than their siblings." DBK: "Wukong explained that he had not known of the third shadow until the elder two had fully formed. It was still too underdeveloped to separate from him when he had been captured." PIF, sympathetic: "Oh, poor dear... I hope you scolded him for putting himself and his baby in danger!" DBK: "You know I did. Although I had been distracted at the time - the littlest one had chosen that moment to finally break away from his parent and exist in this plane!" PIF, adoring: "Aww."

Having birthed a child with special needs herself, Iron Fan feels a kinship with the smallest of Wukong' children.

She doesn't manage to meet them until her release from the Scroll in S4. The Macaque had apparently been revived, and even under threat of his new master, had ensured his cubs and mate were kept safely together.

(*the Demon Bull Family are released from their Scrolls*) DBK, shuddering: "I did not care for those 500 years under that mountain. But at least I relived falling in love with you all over again." PIF, light blush: "My hopeless romantic." MK, sighs with relief: "Whew! Glad we didn't have to drag you guys out of a memory or anything." Mei, hugging Red Son: "Well except for ol' Red Boy here. He was so cute as a baby!" Red Son, embarrassed: "I was running around naked, setting the countryside ablaze!" DBK & PIF: (*"Aww" as they remember*) Mei: "Case in point; totes adorbs." Red Son: (*grumbling*) Wukong, holding a cub: "I'm just glad all of you are okay. Azure did not make it easy for us." Macaque, carrying the other two cubs: "Especially since the cubs tried to join in the fight." (*baby-talking to the cubs*) "Yes you did! You tried biting Peng's tail feathers off. Yes you did! You wanted to be like your Baba and fight the mean birdie!" Rumble & Savage: (*happily babbling chirps!*) PIF & DBK: (*looks at the scene with a mixture of adoring and sadness*) Thunder: (*silently hops out of Wukong's arms and toddles towards the Princess*) Thunder, holding up arms: "AH!" PIF, stunned: "...pardon?" Wukong, knowing smile: "He means Up. Thunder has been exercising getting farther away from me. He wants you to pick him up so he can properly say Hi." PIF: (*looking down at the cub, she silently lifts him into her arms. The tiny hands reaching up to inspect her horned hairstyle ala Maleficent 2014*) Thunder, amazed: "Ah!" PIF, smile slowly forming: "Hello little one. I've heard much about you." Thunder: (*sniffing her face and nuzzling against her cheek, making happy chirping sounds*) PIF: (*silent tears forming. She would fight Heaven for this baby*)

She about to ask Bull to try for another baby, cus gotdamn Wukong and Macaque's brood make her want at least three more.

[girl-lostconnection]

Continuation to this, Happy Easter, everybody

Patron Saint of One-way trips

You come to pray, Easter is right around the corner — violets blooming all over the yard of your apartment building, silver cross darkened from time feels April-cold on your neck at night.

You come to pray and light up a candle or two and for some reason he is there — so obviously out of place and out of his depth, unsure of who to turn to.

Good catholic boy with his pretty rosary, stranded in a church. 

Like he got out on the wrong floor, but the elevator disappeared behind him as soon as he stepped out. 

He eyes warily the glass-covered remains of saint Barbara, fingers tightening on a rosary of his, eyes flickering back and forth like he isn’t sure if he can stare. 

Actual remains right there, right under the glass with people praying nearby like it is nothing special. 

Or nothing unusual. 

It would be a bit rude to say that your saint is nothing special when she is anything but. 

But then his eyes land on you and you have the carelessness to look right back at him, making up his mind right then and there (when everyone else probably did the smart thing and ignored him). 

Because the stranger starts walking towards you, charting the course through the innards of your church, blue jeans of his ripped and so painfully out of place. Even more so than he is. 

You notice his eyes before you notice everything else. Before the mohawk, before the star-shaped scar on his temple, before the hand tremor.

His eyes — azure of old gravures, his eyes — the biblical shine people would usually leave to God's messengers. 

Seers of divine, heaven’s favourites, prettiest angels of the Allmighty.

He awkwardly smiles at you, rolls his shoulders, silent overly friendly “can you believe it?” of the gesture makes you cringe a little. 

But then he opens his mouth and god, no. 

He is babbling so quickly that it takes you a minute to understand which language he is speaking.

Stranger stands haunching, tries to be smaller in the close vicinity to the golden walls of your church, his shoulders curling like he tries to fold vertically right in half. As if he wants to curl in on himself under the heavy, too realistic (too human) painted eyes of your painted saints. 

“You need help?”, you finally ask, interrupting the flow of his consciousness and he gives you three quick blinks as if unsure how to respond to that. 

The blue of his eyes makes you mentally come back to the phrase you said, translating it back and forth. 

Your English is rusty but it is not too bad. At least, not enough for him to not be able to understand you. 

But, maybe it’s the accent that catches him off guard — rolling and clear, too hard for someone who looks like you. 

Phonetic cracking down of consonants as if they were walnuts in your mouth reminding him of the similar melodicity that his own harbours. 

Well, here is something for you two to bond over later.

He blinks at you one more time and you chew down the urge to roll your eyes at the man. 

Not a good thing to be too prideful in the temple of God and it’s another 30 meters to the exit and down the stone stairs until you are free. 

Whether to walk away without looking at him another time or snap something in a sharp enough tone and unfamiliar enough language for a stranger to get the hint and leave you alone.

You aren’t in the mood for pleasantries. 

Easter is right around the corner, thin wax candles in your grip smell the same sweet way that most old things in your grandmother’s home did. The way your grandma herself did. 

Wax and honey and dust. 

Could be a holy trinity of your every nostalgia, but nothing seems to stick well enough in the constantly foggy mind of yours. 

Wax of entirely different candles still drips molten heat on the nape of your memory. 

Rough hands and heavy gazes and off-handed “same time next month” rub the burn of it in and you almost space out before the stranger starts speaking again. 

You always remembered sensations better than you did faces.

(Doesn’t help that your usual “same time next month” never shows his.)

“Ahm lost”, the stranger finally manages to choke out, his hands shaking in a way that reminds you of your mother’s bottomless wine glasses and immaculate covers of nail polish that she never could put on herself.

But the stranger in front of you doesn’t seem to be drunk and doesn’t have the same muted look in his eyes, the same glossiness, the same reaction coming just seconds too late. 

Stranger in front of you doesn’t smell like the usual cocktail of urine, stale sweat seeped through the clothes and covered with deodorant of choice. 

No smell of ethanol — days old and persistent. His tongue doesn’t dart out to lick too dry lips.

He doesn’t ask for spare change either. 

Just for directions. 

This much you can surely provide, eyes of the Holy Mary burr in the side of your head — heavy and disapproving of your tone. 

“Where…”, you start before pausing, the sentence formation melting into goo inside of your head, proper words escaping you like you are going to eat them if they don’t. 

Like your accent cracks them down - linguistic melodicity of a working Nutcracker that scares them shitless. 

“What do you…find?”, you ask awkwardly, brain tossing up all your folders of phrasal verbs and you are tongue-tied and annoyed in front of a stranger. 

The man looks at you quizzically and you choke out the urge to roll your eyes (again. and harder). What exactly does he not understand when…

Shit.

You rewind the phrase you just said and click your tongue, your head shaking from side to side. 

Trying to shake out the red ink of false-false-false shining on your old English tests. 

Fuck, it’s not “find”, it’s “look for”. 

You take a deep breath and settle for the lesser of two phrasal evils and toss the politeness out of the window. Stained glass of your propriety cracks and yeah, no word cathedrals for the gentleman with blue eyes and annoying downturned smile.

You are not in the mood for a nice chat, you come to your church specifically so no one would try to have a conversation with you. But here you are, your vocabulary in disarray and your frustration climbing. 

“What do you need?”, you reiterate and the stranger's whole face lights up with relief.

There we fucking go. Finally, thank you, God. May your blue-eyed wayward sheep not be abandoned under your watchful eye, amen. 

“Catholic church.”, he quickly blurts out as if nervous that you will forget your English (again) and you have to fistfight the urge to smirk.

Of course, he does need a catholic church. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

The man clearly needs some good prayer and maybe a sacrament before he can be sent on his way.

Something to calm the tremor of his and the nerves oozing off the tips of his outgrown greasy hair. 

You tilt your head to the side, sudden urge to put your fingers in his mouth and press down on his tongue pulsing through you at a concerning intensity. 

Stranger has a beautiful mouth. 

You spend a second too long looking at it and catch the glimpse of his teeth when he starts talking again, his lips curling in that “could you believe that” smile and you push down the urge to pry his jaws open and rummage around, pressing your fingers to the sharp ends of his teeth. 

How inappropriate would it be if you asked the man to bite you? Outside of your church, obviously. Wouldn’t want to scandalize anyone in the Lord's house. 

“It was somewhere ‘round here. Could’ave sworn.”, he says apologetically and you rummage through your memory for an adequate translation of the “sworn”, but all that comes up is knight’s armour and swords. 

So you just nod and force down the mental image of a stranger as a knight. 

On his knees. Panting-

“Go.”, You huff out command and nod, turning away and fishing a hand in your bag.

Thin wool of your scarf is getting thrown over your shoulders like a shal and stranger gets thrown off balance by your immaculate ability in oratory. 

He pauses, looming awkwardly just behind your shoulder — a big dog too used to someone taking his leash and getting confused when you don’t. 

He starts moving only when you do, making a beeline to the heavy wooden doors of your church, slight limp in gait that would make you slow down normally. 

But when you tried just a moment prior, he sent you a glare so heated you had to actually smirk. 

Prideful. 

Not a good thing to be in the Lord's temple. 

In your defence, he started first.

Thankfully, you are already outside the church, giving yourself a pat on the back for good control of facial muscles. 

Lord cannot judge what Lord cannot see. 

And whatever transpires beyond your routine hours of church visit is between you and you. 

And, hopefully, also between you and a blue-eyed stranger with a beautiful mouth you’d probably enjoy licking into. 

“Ye ken where tah go?”, he asks after a few moments and it’s so tentative that you feel like smirking again.

That’s a good catholic boy right there — follow first, ask questions later. 

“No”, you say, drinking in a way his eyes widen and he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at you like you just kicked him. “You are pretty. I take you home with me”, you add, stone-faced and it feels like a little more and stranger will either tackle you to the ground or condemn you right next to your church for a very unchristian-like behaviour. 

But he sends you a glare instead and stumbles back, cheeks of his burning and oh, he is angry with embarrassment, won’t you look at that? 

Angry and so obviously lost that he has to tuck himself to the gates of your church. 

Heavy set of his jaw and his head purposefully turned the other way from you do absolutely nothing to put out the fire of insistent “ask him to bite, ask him to bite, ask him to bite’ in your head.

The stranger stays silent and angry, not looking your way so diligently that you can’t help but smirk again. 

Wounded pride, was it? 

Asked for directions from a lonely bird in the foreign church and got some nonsense thrown in your face.

So mean of you. 

Almost enough to make you wonder what God would say if he saw it. Probably nothing good, but that would also be nothing new. 

Religious guilt is not something you practice, religious atonement on the other side…

Lines from yesterday’s shibari pull on your skin with satisfying tingling. Every movement is a live reminder of how you sought absolution. Amen to that. 

You shiver like a well-petted dog and roll your shoulders, wrapping tighter in your shal. Your fingers (sticky with wax and sweet with devotion) softly tug on a stranger's sleeve.

When he refuses to turn around, stubbornly staring away, you just sidestep, putting yourself in his direct line of sight.

The man is too ragged to snap his head from side to side every time you move, you are pretty sure he’d pinch a nerve and refuse to admit forever staying turned to the left. That would be fun. You’d love to squeeze the nape of his and get a whine. Or a hiss.

You aren’t too picky in that regard. Just a sneer would also be lovely, maybe he’d snap and sink his teeth into something. You, for example.

“You look so sad”, you start with a tone so sympathetic that he glares at you with suspicion of someone who got a taste of your Christian hospitality and not only haven’t gotten fed but was also robbed of his dignity in the process. “So very sad.”, you continue in the meantime, your fingers wrapping around his wrist and maybe he should have shaken you off, should have snapped at you for getting touchy.

But he doesn’t, his pulse pumping under your fingertips, his head tilting to the side.

Big lost dog, unsure whether to snap his jaws at you or nuzzle in.

“A little more time and people will throw you coins.”, you finish with the most innocent look on your face and the stranger looks at you like he cannot believe your audacity. 

“Ahm not sad”, he spits out and you have to kick down a bubbling giggle. Of-fucking-course not. Just look at him sulking at the steps of your Orthodox Church like he’s an orphan abandoned at the wrong doorstep. 

“Very sad.”, you nod solemnly, cheeks flushed and hair bouncing, your lips trembling from how hard you try not to laugh. “Come. I show you the church.”, you peel him off the gates and tug the man to follow, masking your cackle with a cough when a granny actually offers him some change. 

Stranger sends you a glare so scalding that you have to pretend to cough again, pulling your scarf over your nose. 

Very sad, indeed. Like a big dog someone tied to the lamppost and left to wait for a thing that would never come. 

Stranger trails just half a step behind you, a little too practised, a little too intentional. Exactly far enough for you to keep holding onto his wrist and close enough for you to not drop it when you feel a pull of his arm. 

“Ahm John.”, not anymore a stranger introduces himself and you smile, glancing at him sideways. Good name. Strong. Rolls off the tongue. 

Old enough to rival yours. 

“Nice to see you, John”, you nod, dropping your own in his palm and force down a shiver when he holds it between his teeth, drawing out. His lips twitch in something very similar to a grin, almost wolffish in his satisfaction, not a trace of earlier puppy-like awkwardness. 

“I’s ‘nice to meet ye’, bonnie.”, he corrects you and you pause, part of you shrinking away, again small and again in fifth grade with your test returned. Older part just smirks and presses the nail on the tender inside of his wrist, poking him hard. 

“Maybe for you it’s nice to meet me. For me right it’s only nice to see you.”, you look him up and down, covering your own snappy defensiveness behind bluntness most would take for the lack of shame. “What do ‘bonnie’ mean?”, the sudden change of topic makes John grin wider, his eyes crinkling. 

Oh, fuck, he’s pretty. 

“Good-lookin’. Beautiful. Nice to see.”, he copies your accent, his eyes half lidded and shameless and you feel your lips twitching. 

Yeah, you can ask the man to bite you alright. 

You get him to the beautiful Catholic Church and wait outside, mentally giving the man half an hour before your toes would start freezing off inside of your beautiful thin-leathered boots.

Maybe if you knew God would send a beautiful man your way, you’d dress better for the weather but alas. Easter is close, you were out only to pray a little and light up a candle for saint Sophia.

Stranger is out in exactly 8 minutes, his head turning from side to side like he’s looking for someone. His eyes lighting up when he spots you loitering on the doorstep of his church.

Pretty bird with heavy glares and lips he’d like to bite until she yelps and tries to push him away.

Johnny grins, rasping out “ye come here often, bonnie?”, something inside of him swelling with warmth when her lips twitch and she wheezes out surprised laughter, her cheeks flushing.

Pretty-pretty-pretty, pounds in his head when she rolls her eyes at him, her lips curled in a smile, her hair in disarray from the cold April winds.

Johnny flirts with pretty bird on the steps of his church and forgets that his painkillers are shit, that he haven’t had a shower in god knows how long, that he got lost and laughed at for stumbling around like a fool.

She laughs and nothing else matters much, her eyes crinkling in a way that make Johnny want to ask if he can come home with her and sleep in her bed and maybe live in her skin.

As long as she laughs like that, as long as she’s this warm, as long as she sparks like a live wire.

And for the first time since getting discharged he feels like doing something with his hands.

What’s there inside of ya, if he cracks you open and takes a look inside? Would you blow up in his face, would you be patient with his wooden, trembly hands that once were as dexterous as they get?

Would you even let him get this close or have you been tracking the way he moves since he came up?

Johnny offers his elbow and to his absolute delight you take it, pulling him someplace nice and warm. Someplace with decent food and a drink stiff enough to dull his perpetual migraine.

Pretty bird, would you tell him why you are so mean to a stranger in a house of the Lord and so flirty with a man that looks like he’s falling apart?

What is it, questionable tastes or a kink for saving God’s most hopeless 2025?

Johnny grins when you scoff at him, not responding outright, telling him he’d see if he’s good.

Johnny licks his lips, nodding and leans to your ear, creature in his head eagerly wagging its tail when you hiss at him to fucking move. He can be good, bonnie.

Wanna see?

You roll your eyes at him, snappy and curt, accent too hard and consonants clicking off your teeth like you have a habit of chewing down suckers.

Johnny’s a sucker alright, you can chew on him.

The memory of you wheezing when he offers it haunts him as he sits in the quiet dark wooden box that is confessional.

Heart pounding, silence stretching, his tongue tying because he doesn’t…he didn’t want this. Not like that, never like that. But here he is.

“Forgive me father”, Soap starts, his hands clammy, migraine thumping in his temples, agitation setting on the inside of his jaws, tightening them together until it hurts his molars. 

You appear out of nowhere , you don’t even find him yourself – he finds you and it’s a little less cold out on the street of the city he is supposed to know, but doesn’t anymore. 

You, with your scarves and your horrible horrible jokes and your accent – sharp like the pieces of walnut that you crushed with the heel of your palm, popping it in your mouth right after. 

Crunch of it echoes in the way you pronounce “darling” and “ridiculous” when Johnny steps on his shoelaces because tying them up felt like too much work and bending down made him dizzy. And being dizzy annoyed the bleeding fuck out of him. 

You crush your walnuts on his kitchen table, always splitting in two piles so you can share with him the excess he kisses off your fingers. 

His whole kitchen still smells like spices and nuts, remnants of your baking all over the table. 

Johnny sits in the confessional and doesn’t know how to choke out that he wanted you to stay for more than a few more days or weeks, so you would sit in his kitchen and colour your bloody eggs for “your” Easter and shush him while the dough rises in a towel wrapped bowl.

Soap doesn’t know how to say that for the first time in forever, he cared whether someone leaves or stays, that he had so much fun with you that his cheeks ached, his lips now twitching on pure instinct when he thinks of you. 

He often heard that he must be the sun in the relationships, that he is the chatty shiny half to your moodiness and sharp tongue, but by god, you are the sun in his sky – merciless and radiant, your eyes burning-burning-burning him.

Yet he still stayed and later peeled off the charred layers of himself, your kisses between his shoulder blades left him shivering.

Left him wanting, because Johnny is from a place where sun shines only 60 days per year, so your heat left him greedy and raw. 

Sun comes into his life and he decided that he never want it to leave.

 “Forgive me, father, for ah was prideful”, Soap says instead, his grip tightening on rosary, your eyes looking back at him whenever he blinks, your “bye, John” aching in him with the shards of mirror he hit so hard, that he had to call himself a bloody cab and go to the urgent care.

16 stitches on his useless shaky scarred hands. 

“And seven years of misfortune.”, your voice grumbles in his head and maybe that was it, maybe his 7 years has begun. 

God finally delivered some proper divine retribution for the daftest of his wayward sheep. 

Soap got so used to you always being there, snapping right back at him, smacking him to keep going and keep moving and “don’t whine, John, you aren’t a baby, you are a darling” that when it went away with you and he felt like a shockwave finally hit him, deafening. 

Ripping him open and cauterising immediately.

Soap thinks of the way your lips twitched and brows furrowed as you silently got up and left because he is dumb-dumb-dumb, because you breathe out “you aren’t the only, you are just one” and he recoils.

Red haze of anger curling in his head, stuffing his throat with things he shouldn’t have said, not to you, never to you. 

“Ah’ve been selfish”, Soap says, his heart pounding because his hunger was always the size of him whole. Gnarly needy beast with gruesome ways and questionable tastes.

At least, Ghost always managed to make his own unhinged doors to the dark cavern of his head look like a gothic bloody lair that birds with big eyes and tastes as questionable as Johnny’s liked to explore.

Too many people had crushes on serial killers and it shows, but that’s just Johnny’s thoughts, not like someone asks him what he thinks on the matter. 

Not when Ghost got a bird of his own and Johnny – not used to this much free time on his head and head this loud and flat this empty bumped into his sun. 

And lost his mind.

Whatever was left of his rationality after taking a bullet to the head, flew right out the window when a pretty bird with heavy eyes and cold fingers dragged him through the street. Laughing and chatting in grammar she borrowed from somewhere else and orthography of English she butchered mercilessly.

Johnny’s hunger is a vicious wild thing that he kicked down for years (good boys don’t ask for anything, don’t cry loudly and don’t crawl back from an injury that should have killed them immediately), but the beast grows up and now tears him apart to get even. 

Suits him well.

Creature of aching shameful need kisses your inner thigh and Soap feels them merging into one, no longer separate sinful pieces, no more bad-wrong-stop in his head. 

You’d pull him in, smiling under his smooches and biting hit arms and spreading your legs and he wouldn’t feel wrong. He wouldn’t feel like a freak.

Like a sinner.

Not when he kissed your inner thigh and your legs opened for him like gates to Heaven, his absolution glistening at the apex of your thighs. Nor when he leaned in and kissed the soft mound, your coarse curls pressing to his nose.

“Ah’ve been selfish and…”, he tries again, his shoulder aching, his head pounding, hunger of his getting out of control. Because you’d sit on his lap and his head would finally get silent – your fingers in his mouth, opening it wider, prying open his jaws so he’d drool all over you, whimpering when you’d sink on his cock. 

Mean as fuck, bonnie. Not going to let him say even a word? 

You’d just just hum in a language he doesn’t understand, prying his jaws open and licking into the wet maw of his mouth, your hips rising and falling, rolling into him – the tides of your sea were coming up to wash him off of his sins. 

Your eyes – the storm, your eyes staring at him with the same heavy intensity he’d see in the eyes of your painted saints, your eyes – silent promise and question. 

What were you asking of him? What did you really want in the space between Johnny’s hunger and Johnny’s rage? What did you say when he was cut open and drooling all over your hands, the insides of his want showing, the edge of his delusion fraying? 

What did you want with him when he wanted nothing with himself even on the good days? Too moody, too drowsy, too broken and too slow. Not a match to his shiny talented brother in arms, not a match to his reliable ever standing captain, not a match to the heavy authority his L.T yielded. Not a match. 

He couldn’t keep up, he got sloppy, he broke down and now he was on the fucking bench. 

Why did you need to come and bring him down with your radiant merciless shine?

Why did you make him want for something he did not deserve and was never worthy of? 

He remembers asking in the delirium of his pleasure, in the aching raw need to be soothed, to be loved-loved-loved.

What did you say, Johnny couldn’t remember to save his life. He just remembers the way his teeth would press in the pads of your fingers. 

What did you want with him, m’eudail? 

Johnny laps at your fingers, presses down his teeth just shy of breaking the skin – your cunt spasming around him, almost unmaking him on the spot. 

Johnny whines when you pull your fingers out, babbling answers to the question you didn’t ask.

Yes, m’eudail, yes. Anything. 

His eyes are shining, tears rolling down his cheeks when you’d raise your hips and let his head slip out of the slick heat of your pussy with a wet sound.

Mean as fuck, bonnie. Not going to let him come for the third time in a row now? 

Soap aches all over on a good day, but this is aching of a different kind, his eyes half lidded and half feral when you’d roll out “wanna be good for me, John?”.

Yes.

Yes-yes-yes-yes.

Please, he wants to be so good, he can be so fucking good for you, bonnie. He’d do anything, whatever you ask, anything at all, please, m’eudail, please let him come. 

Corners of your lips twitch when he’d cry, drooling all over your hands. Dog of a man – aching for approval, aching for salvation. 

“No.” would seal his fate for another hour with Johnny groping your ass and hips, fingers rubbing in the touch of his in your skin like he doesn’t want to just leave bruises on you but fingerprints.

Greed of his almost as big as his hunger, his jaws closing around you the day you dragged him down the street to show that he had just missed a turn to the Catholic church, your eyes shimmering with laughter, your lips cold from winds and sticky with lipgloss. 

“Mine.”Johnny aches, his hips jerking up to meet yours, slick and lube dripping down his shaft and scrotum, sweat dripping down his face – star-shaped scar on his temple itching from salt. 

Johnny is selfish, he burns himself out from inside, slams down the nails with “dread-shame-guilt” written all over until he can’t feel anything but divine suffering, until everything else blurs out. So he can keep ignoring the tender flutter under his ribs when you kiss his jaw and murmur “darling John”, your accent thickening and your lashes casting long sharp shadows. 

Selfish-selfish-selfish, sneers the voice in his head but Johnny looks up at you, his thumb circling around your clit, his lips curling in a smile when you bite the inside of your cheek and glare at him. 

“Mean as fuck, bonnie.” Johnny breathes out, feeling so free he could breathe without hurting, his eyes warm, his whole face lighting up with tenderness he refuses to acknowledge. 

Nothing to look at there, nothing at-fucking-all.

“Gonna be guid fer me, m’eudail?” He murmurs, two of his fingers stretching you out, torturously slow, infuriatingly good, your pelvis practically in his lap when he pushes a pillow under your lower back and drags you closer.

He toys with you, taking every bit of pleasure from your reactions, no matter how small – his fingers curling inside of you until your breathing hitches, your eyes getting glossier, your mouth falling open.

That’s because you deserve it, bonnie.

That’s because the hunger the size of Johnny wants you pliant and trembling, wants you teary-eyed and babbling, wants you to fuck yourself on his fingers so he can watch.

Same fingers he’d use to sign the Catholic cross – forehead-chest-left to right shoulder – his thumb tapping your clit just so he can get all of your attention to himself. His middle and forefinger finger your fluttering dripping hole.

For the Father, the Son and The Holy Spirit, m’eudail. Isn’t it right?

“Amen.”Johnny breathes out, pulling your legs up, hoisting them over his shoulders so he can get closer. His thumb on your clit moving, slick sound of your own hunger scorching your face, your lids closing shut.

How inappropriate would that be if you asked the man to slap you right now?

“Амінь.”, you instead choke out, forgetting your English and Johnny grins, his head falling between your legs.

Silence stretches in the confessional, someone’s cough snapping Soap out of his daze, the feel of your legs on his shoulders is so vivid his headache backs off and he can see a little better. Thank God for that.

He sits in the dark, smell of wood and dust not soothing him like always before, rosary in his hands not clicking like it should, his face too hot and his pants tight when he forces himself to keep talking.

“Ah’ve been vain.”, Soap says and tries not to think to the way he sported your lipstick kisses all over his neck last time he met the rest of the team, feeling on top of the world, feeling like maybe he is not behind and he is doing something right.

Like he’s finally reaping the good stuff and not the usual “sorry about that, mate”, not the condescending advice of ever friendly Gaz, not the silent stares Ghost gives out, not the arched brows of Captain who acts like Johnny is 15 and can’t fucking see the way they act around him ever since he got discharged.

Soap tries not to think that he boasted about his bird to his team, grinning like a madman, hammer of his excitement swinging when he’d lean on the table sharing details, sharing things he probably shouldn’t have.

Sharing about his bird who is not really his.

Soap tries not to think the way Ghost at some point went out for a smoke break and he followed the man, still chirping away his lieutenant’s ear and trying to get…what was he even trying to get out of Ghost?

A rise? A reaction?

Pat on the back for being a good lad and adjusting all well and proper to civilian life even though three months ago he was clawing up the walls and calling Simon at the middle of the night, slobbering about his headaches and heartaches and asking for things he shouldn’t have?

Things Simon gave him with excess. Until he didn’t.

And then Soap really slipped, spiralling down, clawing at every excuse to see the team, to chat them up, to not feel like he’s being left behind.

And now…now that he got you, now that he’s sporting sticky lipstick kisses all over his throat and cheeks and grinning like a madman as he shares even more with Simon. Because that’s…that’s his L.T., right? That’s his Simon. That’s his Ghost. He can tell him anything, can’t he?

But just because he could didn’t mean that he should have.

Not when at some point Simon hummed, his eyes heavy with something Johnny didn’t fucking like, Simon’s hollowed out eyes crinkling when bastard’s lip curled upwards, when he leaned in and breathed out smoke sideways.

When he rolled out your name off his bloody tongue like he did it a hundred times before, the easy familiarity of it burning Johnny, hitting Johnny in the chest like a bitch of a recoil, deafening Johnny with rage-hurt-rage.

Because why did he have to say that?

Why did Simon need to go and take away the only good thing that appeared in Soap’s clusterfuck of a life after deployment?

“Ah’ve been selfish and prideful and vain.”, he confesses, shame and rage warring in him, his grip on rosary tightening, his face burning. Because bad-bad-bad. Bad fucking dog, Johnny, bad sergeant, bad boy.

No wonder you got up silently and left without arguing when he rained down on you like a hysterical wife, when he said things he shouldn’t have, when he got so fucking jealous he could hardly tell left from right.

The only thing in the empty cracked shell of his head is the way Simon grinned, rolling out the name of yours, easy affection — old and practiced, like Ghost was there before Soap even could dream up you in the painkillers-induced delirium and before God lead him to you.

The only thing in his brain is the way you shrugged off his initial snappy mean comments, not seeing a problem with the fact that you fucked with his fucking lieutenant.

That Ghost fucked Soap’s bird. Soap’s sun.

Soap’s you.

“Ah…pushed someone away. For guid. Dinnae ken how to take it back and…ah messed up.”, Soap continues and braces his forearms over his knees, his shoulders aching, his head pounding, his heart hurting.

Fucking hell, how did he even get into this?

When did he went from having your easy shine and sharp teasing to not having you at all? Not as a hook up, not as a friend with benefits, not as his bird. Not as anything.

Soap tries not to think about he way you dragged him out to hike after he finished up his fucking rehabilitation. God knows you were stubborn and dragged him to hell and back until he relented and went in.

Snapping and cursing and complaining all the way.

But he went and as the result you were driving out somewhere in the smack of the dab of the god of his own homeland to “see pretty places, darling John”.

Didn’t see much of pretty places, but got drenched in the rain and almost had a fistfight on some bridge, because you just don’t know how to stop and he just doesn’t know how to back down.

Too chatty for your own good, both of you are. No fucking wonder you both fucked Ghost. Seems like L.T. has a type.

Soap clasps his hands together, memory of you — sweating and groaning flashing through his mind like a lightning bolt. Some people are just not built for hiking but you refused to accept that you were one of them.

Dragging Soap up and down the trail so he’d get his steps for the day before you relented and started the journey down to the cabin you rented.

Also in the smack of the dab of the bloody gob.

But you’d grin at him a little too excited and suddenly it all would be worth it. The rain, the cold, the gloom and endless green-green-green of the hills because really, there was nothing else but like hell you’d let Johnny to just go back.

He can sit on his ass back in the city, out here you two are walking the trail up and down and sideways.

Didn’t help much that Johnny was evidently built incredibly well for hiking and tolerated the difficulties of it with infuriating ease.

“Speed down”, you’d huff out, tugging on a sleeve of happy and overly energetic Soap. He does, but grins with a little too much satisfaction for your liking.

You should get on his nerves more often, the man looks moisturised and well-rested, seems like you aren’t trying hard enough. 

“Ye meant, “slow down”.”, he points out, savouring every syllable. Big dog of a man, a little more and he will drool all over his sentences. 

And all over you if you aren’t going to pull the cut of your sweater a bit higher. 

“I meant, fuck you, John.”, you scoff at him, deliberately ignoring his energetic “wha’? right here, hen?” and smack his hands off when he attempts to pull your sweater lower to get himself some more cleavage to look at. 

Big bad dog of a man.

“You are so sad.”, Soap starts, grinning like the Devil’s prettiest henchman. “Very very sad.”

You groan loudly, trying to drown out his gloating with your wails as you walk away from him, people turning their heads at the two of you. But unfairly so, even post rehab Soap’s legs are faster than yours. 

“So so sad. A little more time and people will start throwing coins at you.”, he draws out in an infuriatingly good imitation of your accent.

“Ah will leave you at church step like ye are a bad dog. Or a bad orphan.”, you threaten in poor imitation of his and Johnny cackles so hard he has to stop walking and steady himself on someone’s fence. 

“They didnae take me”, Soap grins at you like it’s good news not even Catholics wanted him all too much and takes a turn to ignore your “i wonder why”. “Ye are stuck, bonnie.”

“I will leave you at a different church”, you grumble and he has the nerve to giggle again and louder, almost slipping into a full chested laughter, the one that makes blood flow to your face and he knows it a little too well. Fucker. 

“Like a wee bairn?”, Johnny asks with too much enthusiasm, the arch of his brow curious and effortless. He slings his sweaty arm over your shoulders and beams like a thousand suns when you hiss at him. 

“Like a wee saint”, you murmur, squinting at too bright and not warm enough sun. The weather is so atrocious that you risk turning into ash at this point. 

But Johnny cocks his head to the side — just watches you for a few moments like he is not sure he heard you right. He is no saint, he’s hardly the part of the wolf pack that 141 often feels like. 

John is a big mutt of a man. A stray that found you and refused to leave later. 

All coarse hair and big beautiful mouth full of teeth that you still want to touch. 

“Saint of what, hen?” 

You take a pause, eyes trailing star shaped scar on his temple and you grin again, like it’s something funny, like you could come up with a dozen jokes on the spot — each new worse than the last one. 

“Patron Saint of one-way trips”

Johnny blinks at you. Thrice. Quickly. 

Realisation dawns on him at the same time you start cackling and he gasps, smacking your hip. 

Wicked wicked woman you are. Mean as fuck, bonnie, mean as fuck. 

“Real dark, hen.”, he mumbles and leans in to bite the apple of your cheek for good measure. Just to keep it between his teeth, pretending to chew on the soft flesh so you don’t go getting chattier than you already are with him. 

“They won’t take you as anything else”, you laugh, your shoulders shaking when you add, “You eat too much otherwise.” 

“Now, THAT you gonna take back”, Soap gasps scandalised and tries to walk in the direction opposite from yours. 

As if either of you knows this trail well enough not to get lost. 

“John, come back! Come back, John, don’t leave me here, I’m no orphan”, you gasp out laughing, following him on shaky buckling knees and Soap starts walking faster. 

His shoulders also shake and maybe that’s why he refuses to slow down, only picking up his pace when you threaten to throw a rock at him.

Blue-eyed bastard.

“Ah took mah blessings for granted. Ah…did things I shouldnae have. And ah’m not sure I can take them back. Not sure she’d take me back.”, John continuous, dragging himself out of the memory that makes him ache just harder because he doesn’t fucking deserve to sit here and reminiscence.

He doesn’t deserve the warmth, doesn’t deserve to know how you laugh when you are so mad you could strangle him but he made just the right joke and now you are furious but doubled in half.

Johnny doesn’t deserve you. But God knows he wants you.

God knows he doesn’t know when to back down, so he sits in the confessional and the same evening packs his things up and takes off.

God knows he doesn’t deserve shit after stunt he pulled.

God also knows that on occasion Soap couldn’t care less what he deserves, what he’s allowed, what would be okay to take.

On occasion, Johnny gets why the wide-eyed perfect birds fall for bastards like Ghost. Because Simon always took what he wanted.

At times it was a fresh kill, at time it was Johnny, at times it was Johnny’s head he liked to fuck with.

Old affection of his destructive and poisonous, but as stable as a man like Ghost could ever get.

So in a rare moment of solidaric compassion Soap packs things up and sets off to go and see you again.

You don’t have to take him back, bonnie. Don’t have to do a single fucking thing, not after things he said, not after him being a daft fuck who couldn’t grow a pair and admit how much he wanted you.

He just…just wants to say that he’s sorry.

Though it doesn’t seem to make you any friendlier when your eyes cross with his.

Johnny stands in the middle of your church, awkward and out of place, his Mohawk freshly shaven, his eyes the impossible blue of old gravures and God’s wayward sheep, his legs long enough to walk him to hell and back.

You stare back at him, fingers clutching the wax candles, your brows furrowing, your defences snapping in place because what the fuck he is doing in your church, when you come to pray and not have a pleasant chat.

“What do you need?”, you cut to the chase, glaring and Holy Mary is behind your back and you are not going to feel guilty and you aren’t gonna cry.

But Soap steps closer, angles his head to look at you, shoulders spread out, his gaze unwavering when you try to make him look away-away-away.

“Ahm sorry.”, he murmurs quietly, not touching you. Not yet. Not when you are wound up spring that will uncoil and push him till he breaks. “Ah was a cunt.”

Your grip tightens on your candles, the smell of frankincense sweet and cloying, you rage simmering just under the surface when he stands there and has the nerve to look hurt.

Because he deserved it. Because he hurt you and you want to hurt him.

Your fingers twitch to scratch, to slap, to hit him again and again until he recoils, until he curls in on himself like a wet napkin of a mutt he was when you first met.

Because you don’t know how to stop and he never learned how to back down and doesn’t plan to start learning now, hunting you down in a city that should be as foreign to him as your language is.

Because you come to pray and not to have a pleasant chat.

And here he is, standing in your church in his blue jeans and blue sweater with his blue eyes.

What does he even want with you? After everything said and done what would he want with you?

When he made it so clear what he thinks of you and your past and your ways and your sins. When he condemned you and himself, his voice cracking, his eyes feral and hurt, his scarred shaky fingers curled into fists that he’d slam into the mirror as soon as you’d leave his flat. And leave him.

“Don’t swear in my church.”, you snap at him and Johnny nods, eyes impossibly soft, lips of his curled into the annoying downturns smile.

“Want me to step outside?”, he offers gently, having the nerve to joke when you are that mad at him, when you want to bash his head on the wall of your church and leave his star-shaped scar cracked open and bleeding.

New saint for your church. Saint of one-way trips.

“I can’t say what I want you to do, God wouldn’t approve of it.”, you grumble, turning away from him and light up a candle, your hands trembling when he sidesteps around you.

“Never stopped you before, m’eudail.”, Soap mentions off-handedly and you roll your eyes at him because yeah, maybe he is right but you have standards. No swearing in your church. And no sex in his.

Boundaries had to be drawn when you started…whatever the fuck that was. Not like you could call it dating. You just were together. Always and everywhere.

Until you weren’t.

“What do you want, John?”, you sigh, glaring at him sideways so he tilts his head to be able to look you in the eye, getting a little closer.

Half a step.

Not enough to make you pull away, but enough to make you notice that he is starting to fill the field of your vision. “You watch me like a big dog. It’s scary.”

“Ah’m not a big dog”, Soap corrects you automatically and steps a little closer, standing just a finger away from you, practically crowding you in the corner of your church. “And ah want ye. Always. Forever. As long as ye’d take me.”, he shrugs like it’s obvious and not a thing he remembered only after blatantly stating his need to have you.

“You are a massive dog”, you snap right back, smacking his hip when he gets too close, his hand snaking over your shoulders, his fingers plucking candles out of your loosened grip and silently lighting them up in front of saint Galina’s mural. “Stop pressing to me, you said yourself no sex in the church”, you hiss at him, feeling his smile when he leans lower, his lips ghosting over the temple of yours.

Wolffish grin of his sending flutter that you refuse to acknowledge. You don’t want him, you don’t need him and he doesn’t want to have sex with you.

What’s more here to say? The man is just wasting your time.

“Ah said, no sex in my church, bonnie. Whatever happens in your church is between you and God.”, Soap says with surprising diplomacy, your face freezing when you turn your head to him. Like you can’t believe his audacity.

“All this time I could have fucked you in a church and you were silent, MacTavish?”, the hiss of yours sends shivers down his spine, uncoils sweet aching in his lower abdomen, his nose pressing to the cheek of yours, teeth aching to sink in and drag you back to Scotland.

“You still can.”, Johnny murmurs, nuzzling in you, breathing you in like this is exactly what he needed. His mean bird, snapping her beak at him, threatening to leave him without his bloody fingers if he’s not quick or smart enough.

His sun, his soulmate, his wife.

There is a stretch of silence he feels acutely, breathing your smell in just deeper, trying to remember the way it makes him dizzy in case you smack him in the middle of your church and call the fucking police on his ass for harassing you in the house of the Lord. That would not be fun.

“Doesn’t mean im taking you back.”, you announce after a moment, your glare on him heavy and exasperated when he beams at you like Devil’s prettiest henchman.

Like God’s wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“Ye dun have to, mo chridhe.”, Johnny rumbles, pressing himself tighter in you, your palm slipping under the hem of his sweater and shamelessly groping his pec. Someone’s been missing him just as badly, didnae ye?

Johnny lets you pull him under the stairs and pull his cock out of the pants, pumping it too rough and too quick, his tongue darting out to go over his lips, his eyes only on you.

Johnny doesn’t mention that you don’t have to take him as anything. He’s just going to be yours.

“Would ye be sad if ah broke Simon’s jaw?”, he murmurs quietly and rolls his hips in your stilled grip, your head snapping up to look at him.

Needy creature in his chest rumbling that he has to get you back home. Under him. Crying and babbling and spreading your legs and laughing at his smooches.

“Did you?”, you ask instead and spit on the head of his cock, smearing it over the sensitive flesh, rubbing it in, tightening your hold on him.

“Ah plan to.”, Johnny shares like it’s a good piece of gossip and you can’t help but kiss him, your tongue licking into his mouth, his drool dripping in your mouth and down his chin, his hips rolling into your touch. “Can take it as yes?”, he breathes out, breaking a kiss and gripping the wall harder when you growl at him.

Mean as fuck, bonnie. Won’t let him say even a word now?

“You can take it however you like, John. But you break his jaw and he’d break your spine.”, your throat works, the free hand of yours holding onto his shoulder when Johnny slips his palm under your skirt.

Touchy, cocky, bad bad dog of a man.

“You will just have to kiss it better.”, Soap smiles a little dazed and his fingers pull your panties to the side, finally getting to touch the wet heat of your pussy.

Aw, hello to you too, lassie. He’d missed you just as badly, not to worry.

“Can’t even leave you at church doorstep anymore. Fed you too good, now you are too big”, you breathe out, angling your hips so he can slide a second finger inside of your pussy, Johnny’s eyes hungry and dazed, Johnny’s eyes half lidded and half feral.

Johnny just nods at all your complains and stretches you until you drip down his fingers, choir singing something beautifully, his free arm wrapped around you. Holding you in the dark corner under the stairs.

Maybe he should lift a ban on sex at his church. Confessional booth would have been more convenient.

“Gonna be yers then”, Soap slips up and adds when you open your mouth to remind that you aren’t taking him back and aren’t letting him wiggle his way back in and he should go fuck off back to Scotland. “Could be yer saint, bonnie. Could be so guid to ye for being guid to me”, he promises, his thumb circling your clit, his middle and forefinger nestled inside of your fluttering needy pussy.

Hungry fucking thing, he can feel how much you missed him and his fingers and his unhinged ideas and his borderline insane lewd babbling during sex.

“Kinky.”, you murmur quietly and nuzzle in his shoulder when he hoists you knee up, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. “You have to know, I’m bad at praying”

Johnny laughs quietly, sinking into you like he never left, like he’s coming home and bringing you with him and calling his L.T. to fistfight the bastard until he breaks him something. At least a pinky.

His grip around you tightening, his lips ghosting over your cheeks and nose and temples and all over. Wherever he can reach, his smile imprinting on the inside of your eyelids.

Should be illegal for a man to have a mouth this beautiful.

“Think we gonna be alright, bonnie. Think we gonna be fine.”, Johnny breathes out like it’s a little more than just about your lack of praying knowledge or a little more than sex in your church or a little more than your tug of war ever since you two met.

You grip him tighter, your cunt spasming around him and Johnny has to count to ten and back. In Gaelic.

But you breathe out “yeah. Gonna be fine”, and Johnny pulls you up, pressing your back to the wall, letting you kick his lower back as much as you want.

He’d let you do just about anything.

Whatever it takes to be yours. Whatever it takes to earn another blessing of his sun.

Soap rolls his hips into you, his breath hitching when someone walks just above the two of you, adrenaline pumping through him when you pull the collar of your sweater down so he can get his mouth on your tits.

Forget what he said, bonnie. Next time you are gonna do it in a confessional booth.

He needs his better half riding him as close to God as possible. Maybe this way he’d show that he may be the worst wayward sheep there is, the saddest bastard in the universe when it comes to blessings and chances.

But he sure as hell knows a thing or two about devotion.

Even if it’s the one aimed only at you.

[hihomeghere]

the newest chapter to baptized by fire made me think of some things… arthur between charles and m/c, so overwhelmed by the feeling of being full and filling up his wife…….. m/c praising him and staring at his face screwed up in pleasure……… so sorry if u don’t take nsfw asks but i was having thoughts 😵‍💫

Oh I take nsfw asks 😏

Warnings/tags : Unprotected sex, anal, cursing, piv, Top!Charles, Bottom!Arthur, breeding kink whoops!

Divider by @saradika

Minors do not interact

“Arthur.” Your voice pulled the azure eyed man’s gaze to you. Nearly drowning in his pools, your hand rested against his cheek. His beard was coming in, the honey brown hair softer than the stubble he had kept. “Arthur.” You repeated, running your thumb over his cheekbone. His brows are pinched together, each breath a stuttering gasp as he twitches inside you. His thighs trembled against yours, his arms shaking in the same fashion as he struggled to hold himself up.

“‘M alright sweetheart just-“ His voice is wrecked, swallowing thickly as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You want me to stop?” Charles' deep baritone called from behind him, his hands strikingly dark against Arthur’s pale hips. 

“No!” His eyes shot open again, panicked now as he craned his neck to look behind him. “No just- just give me a minute.” You can feel him pulse deep inside you, clenching unconsciously around him as a small moan left your lips.

“Christ.” He nearly crumbled on top of you, his hair falling into his face as he hung his head. A deep rumble moved up Charles' chest, dimpling the flesh of Arthur's hips as he gripped him.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, chuckling softly as you tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. 

“You ain’t- shit Charles.” Arthur groaned, his brows pulling together tightly. 

“He’s real big, ain’t he honey?” You cooed, smirking at him. How many times had he spoken those same words to you? 

“Course he’s fucking big.” Arthur panted, gripping the sheets beside your head. Charles chuckled, kissing Arthur’s freckled shoulder. 

“You just gotta relax.” Charles hummed, hooking his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. He huffed at that, closing his eyes. “Atta boy.” Charles cooed, kissing his cheek. “Can I move now?”

“Shit. Yes.” Arthur raised his eyes to look at you, gleaming with determination. Charles pulled back a few inches, before he slowly thrust forward. In turn, Arthur’s hips moved, pressing himself deeper into your warm heat. You moaned, laying your head back on the pillow as he turned your insides to mush. 

With each thrust Arthur lost more and more of his composure. Trembling and panting above you as Charles pulled whimpers and whines from his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed, sweat glistening on his neck. You tilted your head forward, running your tongue along his salty flesh.

“Good god.” He whimpered, his hips jolting forward. 

“You liked that, didn’t you baby?” Charles hummed, his voice low against Arthur’s ear. A shiver running down his back, gasping as Charles thrust harshly into him. 

“Ah!-“ You cried out, pleasure shooting through your core and down your legs.

“I can’t-“ Arthur choked, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“You can.” You said breathlessly, gripping his chin as you forced him to look at you. “You’re doing so good- so good honey.” You cooed, your gold ring glinting in the low lamplight. Charles grunted with each thrust, pushing Arthur further up the bed and deeper into you. You itched to wrap your legs higher on his hips, to pull him deeper. “You gonna fill me while Charles fills you?” You hummed, holding his face in your hands. His eyes, half lidded in pleasure, nearly rolled back into his head at your words.

“Y-yeah, imma fill you sweetheart.” He babbled, nodding his head. 

“Fill me up until it takes. Ain’t that right Char-les.” Your breath stuttered as Charles picked up the pace. The sound of skin on skin filled the bedroom, along with your harsh breaths. “Gonna fuck me full?” You whined, biting down on your lip as your toes started to curl. You could tell he was close, as were you. The coil inside your belly tightening, ready to snap. 

“Shit-“ Charles hissed above you, the lightning strike scar twitching as he clenched his jaw. 

“Charles-“

“No.” He growled, his eyes obsidian as he stared down at the two of you. Arthur whined, a pitiful sound ripped from his chest as he twitched inside you. “She comes before you do.”

Arthur’s hand moved down your body, finding the bundle of nerves between your legs with ease. Lightning flew from his finger tips as he rubbed against your clit. Your mouth opened in a silent cry as the coil snapped, your toes curling as you came. Clamping down around Arthur, your cunt milking him for his release.

“Charles-“ Arthur choked, his eyelids fluttering as his hand gripped your hip.

“Come.” Arthur collapsed, his groan nearly shaking the walls of the cabin as he came. A deep guttural sound as he poured into you, filling you with molten heat. “Shit, shit, shit-“ Charles huffed, his hips stuttering against Arthur’s as he pulled him flush to his pelvis.

Arthur laid his head between your breasts, his breath fanning against your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. For a moment the only sound was all of your breath, harsh and panting as you struggled to return to this plain. 

You wet your lips, looking down at Charles as he pulled out of Arthur. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as Charles cleaned up his mess between his cheeks.

“You want some water baby?” Charles asked, gently massaging Arthur’s hips as he kissed his way up his spine.

“Mmhm.” He nodded, turning his head to lay against your breast. He raised his hips, pulling out of you with a soft sigh. His arms wrapped around your waist like you were his personal teddy bear, nuzzling into your chest. 

Charles returned with a canteen, handing it over to Arthur as he laid down next to you. Arthur brought it to his lips, a trickle running down his chin as he greedily drank. He handed it to you, the cool water soothing your throat.

“Think you learned your lesson?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow as he ran his fingers down Arthur’s back.

“Yes. Yes I did.” He huffed, cracking open an eye to glare half heartedly at him.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐓

Sunlight falls down from the azure sky like a relentless, yellow river. The California heat is pure and spiteful, enough to dot your hairline with sweat and make you occasionally fan yourself. It's new to you. But the heat is good, though--you're going to soak in all the warmth you can before you have to go back to your cavernous house, the one with the unpacked boxes and uncomfortably immaculate tile floors.

Moving houses is always the worst part for you. Not even the packing and unpacking and organizing and grocery shopping, but how stale everything feels. Rooms that are bare. Walls that are empty. Windows that are fingerprint-free. Cabinets without crumbs. Rugs without teething toys and swaddles. Floors without mud.

Everything feels cold at the new house. And it will for a while--you know that now after having moved so many times in the past few years.

From where Jake is standing, just a bit closer to the water with your babbling son in his arms, he watches you. You're laid out on a beach towel, a new one with the tag still on it, and your eyes are closed as you sunbathe. For one of the first time since moving back to California--to Fighter Town, USA--you look restful. Peaceful.

"Look at mama," he says to your son, a smile tugging on his lips. He's bouncing where he stands, the sun beating down on his shoulders. "Isn't she pretty, huh?"

Your son babbles, little pink tongue poking out as he grins toothlessly at Jake, squinting at the sun. He adjusts his straw hat--the adorably small one that makes his heart squeeze every time--and presses a soft kiss to his feathery eyebrows.

"She looks so happy, doesn't she, baby? Doesn't she?" He asks, grinning. "Mama's what we call solar-powered."

Your sun grins back--an identical, squinty-eyed, wide grin. And when Jake laughs, your son echoes him.

"Twins," you whisper to yourself when the warm breeze carries the sound of your boys to you. And then you sigh contentedly, sinking further into the sand. "My boys."

"Oh, we're making her smile," Jake sing-songs. He tickles your son's belly and his laughter erupts from his wet lips like a sweet song. "Just look at that!"

"I can hear you!" You call, grinning.

Cupping your hand over your eyes, squinting to see Jake and your son. And there they are, watching you, grinning the same grin. Your tall, broad husband and your little, chubby baby. Your heart couldn't get any fuller if you tried it--you're certain of it.

"Oh, we've been caught!" Jake says, gasping. He looks at your son and your son looks at him, babbling and giggling and slobbering. "Quick! Distract her! Do something cute!"

At all the attention and enthusiasm from his father, your son dissolves in giggles. They're deep and hearty, straight from his belly.

"It worked," you call to them, tongue swollen with affection.

"Knew it would," he says back, high-fiving your sons curled hand. "We make a good team, bud."

Jake turns to look out at the water--the endless blue and the creamy foam. He's missed California, always finds himself dreaming about it. He glances at you again--your smooth skin, your slack face. He's glad that there is at least sunshine here. Enough to keep you warm.

He wonders, as your son reaches up to tug on Jake's sunglasses, if this is where your children will grow up. Will they dip their toes in the water after school? Will they go surfing with their friends on the weekends? Will they have an extensive seashell collection? Will there always be sand in the carpet? Will their hair be forever permeated with saltwater? Will their skin always be sun kissed and warm?

And you--will you adapt to California? Will you bask in the sun after dropping the kids off at school? Will you find all the good wine spots for date night? Will you wear flow dresses and always have bare feet? Will you keep sunscreen in your purse and always have a few pairs of sunglasses on your person at all times?

More than anything, in this single moment, Jake wants to stay for a while. No more moving--for himself, for your son, for you. Especially for you.

𓇼 𓇼 𓇼

There is sand everywhere: in your hair that is still damp with saltwater, wedged between your skin and the wet swimsuit you're still wearing, underneath Jake's fingernails, between your son's toes.

It squishes underneath your feet as you bounce softly, holding your son in your arms.

"Easy goes it," you whisper softly to your son, cradling his soft head as you ease his body--which is heavy with sleep--down onto the mattress of his crib. You know you're going to have to shake the sheets out once he wakes up--sand is still crumbling out of his hair. "Poor baby. Couldn't even make it through a bath, huh? Daddy tuckered you out with all that swimming, huh? Didn't he?"

The room is dark--blackout curtains are always the first thing Jake installs in the nursery--and cool, the sound machine int he corner lulling ocean sounds aloud.

Jake stands in the doorway, leaning up against the frame, still in just his swimming trunks. He watches you caress your son's pudgy cheek, watches you bend at the hips to kiss his face like you always do. His heart squeezes when he glances around the mostly-bare room. He thinks all the heat in this room, every bit of it, must be coming from you and your love.

For a long, long moment, you just watch your baby. You see so little of yourself in your own child, which you used to think would bother you. But you love Jake so much--an overwhelming, unmeasurable amount--that it only feels natural for that love to multiply in the form of a smaller version of him. And he's there, sleeping on his seashell-printed sheets, his lips parted as he drools.

"C'mon, mama," Jake whispers to you. "We've got a hot shower calling our names."

Stroking his soft hair, you inhale all the salt and sun on his skin. Your sweet, sweet boy with sand still in his hair and messing his sheets. Your heart swells at the simple notion of something being genuinely messy for the first time since moving.

"I'm coming," you whisper. "Just give me a minute."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: Please, don't touch the art

For this round, drabbles are written based on a random choice of character and image from this pinterest board. Pls feel free to keep adding to it.

Character: Nick Fowler

Prompt

Warnings: this drabble includes elements such as stalking. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

One might think you simple if they could see inside your brain. If they could feel the sheer awe that sweeps over you, consuming you with each little detail, stirring your stomach into maelstrom of emotion. Your first time abroad is as much a fantasy as a privilege. Too wonderful to be real. 

But it is. It’s all so real. It still hasn’t sunk in. Three days amid the ancient streets of a far-off land is not nearly long enough to convince you. 

You look up at the vaulted ceilings as you stop short. You mouth hangs open and you fix it only as you notice someone watching you. You give a sheepish smile and put your chin down. You try to seem casual as you near the painting behind the velvet rope.  

It will never feel normal to be in a place like this. Not for you. Your eyes stray from the art to the other patrons amid the low murmur. There’s a layer of deference in the air, a recognition of the layers of centuries old pigment and millenia tinged stone. 

You feel underdressed against the simple but sophisticated black attire of the art snobs. They belong  in their thick-framed glasses and statement jewelry. The men in their collars and ties, their pressed jackets, and leather loafers are almost apathetic to the sanctity all around them. 

As you put your attention back to the Italian artist’s brush strokes, a shadow approaches from your left. You shift to allow them a fair view of the painting. They come shoulder to shoulder with you, their sleeve grazing your corduroy jacket. 

“Beautiful,” he says. You resist the urge to look over at him. 

“Very,” you agree as you consider the difference between the azure and cyan shades. You imagine them being mixed on a board with yolk under a dusty Tuscan sun. 

He’s quiet as he stands in the lull. He clicks his tongue, “I didn’t mean the art.” 

It takes a moment to understand. When you catch his meaning, you turn to reply, a babble that fizzles into nothing. He’s gone. 

You flinch and look around. There’s no hint of the stranger, not that you could pick him out. You frown and blow out between your lips, once more facing the painting. Are you dreaming again? 

🖼

You sit on patio, parallel to the narrow walkway of the stony streets. You sip espresso from a small cup, hints of cinnamon and almond woven into the bitter taste. The warmth of the beverage adds to the beads of sweat drawn out by the afternoon sun. 

You set the cup down and pull your book closer. You’ve only flipped through a few pages so far. You just don’t have the mind for imagining when all around you is like a fairytale. You let it close and tap your fingers on the curling cover. 

The iron chair across from you scrapes on the ground and you sputter as a stranger promptly claims it. The man sits with his shoulders wide, legs open, and hands firmly on his thighs. He grins as you look at him with confusion. 

“Hello?” You utter. 

He smirks and scoffs in amusement, “hi.” 

You blink and wait for him to say more. Does he speak English? You look around then back to him.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak--” 

“You traveling alone?” He wonders. 

You snap your mouth shut and sit back. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Why is he asking? 

“Waiting for a friend,” you lie. 

His eyes flick up and down. You adjust the sheer scarf around your shoulders and hook one leg over the other. You move your wrist and peek down at your watch. 

“Ah, been waiting a while,” he muses. 

You don’t know how to answer. You pull your purse into your lap and stiffen, “so I have. I should call them.” 

“They didn’t come to the museum either.” 

You keep from standing up and flutter your lashes, “you’re following me.” 

“Checking in,” he stands and waves away a server as they approach, “making sure someone worse isn’t watching.” 

“Wha--” 

He’s already walking away. You shiver and stare after him, heart racing. Have been so oblivious that you didn’t even notice him? Hard to miss a man like that with his piercing blue eyes and sculpted features. Worse to think that you would be easier to miss. 

[skyward-floored]

IAU Sky and and Sun spending time with any of their kids?

Here’s them spending time with all their kids! Featuring an activity I thought Aryll especially would enjoy. Took me a while to come up with something haha, I’m out of practice writing fluff 😅

Aryll is about 5-6 here, the triplets are somewhere in the 1-2 range :)

————————————————————

Sky rifled around in the pantry, looking for the jar of peanut butter that he’d thought was in here. No matter how many cans and jars he moved around though, he saw no sign of it. Maybe Sun had put it somewhere else? He thought for sure she’d said it was here, though.

Sky huffed and pushed over a can of dried hylian tomatoes, then exclaimed in triumph. The peanut butter had been wedged behind it at the perfect angle where he couldn’t see.

He pulled it out and stood, striding back to the table where he’d been before, and Aryll watched him in interest, sneezing suddenly into her lap.

“Bless you,” Sky said sympathetically, and his daughter sniffled.

“Why did you get the peanut butter out?” she asked, and Sky smiled.

“Don’t you remember, pumpkin? We’re going to make bird feeders. This goes on the pinecones.”

“Peanut butter on pinecones? For real?” Aryll exclaimed, and Sky chuckled, putting the jar in front of her.

“For real. That’s to help the seeds stick,” he explained as he grabbed several butter knives to eventually spread it.

“And the birds will love it!” Aryll said excitedly, and Sky smiled.

“Uh-huh. But we have to wait until Mommy and the boys come back with the pinecones.”

“I could’ve gotten pinecones,” Aryll pouted, and Sky patted her on the head when she set her elbows on the table.

“I know, but until those sniffles go away we don’t want you spending time out in the cold unless you have to,” Sky said, then turned as he heard the door click. “And it sounds like they’re back now anyway.”

“Daddy!!” a voice yelled. Footsteps pounded across the floor, and Crimson scrambled into the kitchen with his cheeks pink with cold and melting snow coating his boots. “Pinecone!”

“Well look at that, very nice!” Sky said with a smile, taking the two pinecones that Crimson waved at him and setting them on the table. “These look like great ones. Now let’s get your stuff off before you get snow everywhere, kiddo. What did you do with your mom and brothers?”

Crimson rapidly babbled something in toddler language that Sky only half-understood, but he nodded along anyway, picking out something about coats and snow and pinecones. He could hear other voices by the door, and hoped it was Sun taking off boots so there wouldn’t be more melting snow on the floor. They would already need a towel so nobody would slip.

By the time he finished peeling off all of Crimson’s layers, Sun had walked in, bootless, with their other two sons following behind her in their socks as well. All of their faces were flushed from the cold, and Sky saw Sun shiver as she pulled her scarf off.

“We got a pinecones!” Azure said triumphantly, his arms full of the prickly seed carriers. He ran forward and tossed his whole load on the table, making Aryll yelp, and Sun give him a look.

“Hey, no throwing in the kitchen, Azy,” she reminded, and he climbed up on a chair, legs wiggling as he proudly looked over his pinecones.

“I see you all were successful,” Sky directed towards his wife, and Sun grinned, eyes bright. Her hair poked out from her hat, a few snowflakes melting on her lashes, and Sky couldn’t help joining her side and pressing a kiss to cold lips.

“We sure were. Found plenty of pinecones,” Sun said after she returned the gesture, nestling up to his warmth with a shiver. “And we only had one emergency involving mittens.”

“Very nice,” Sky congratulated, giving her a quick embrace before pulling back, though he kept a wing around her. “Are we ready to have four kids all covered in peanut butter?”

“Butter!” Sage said excitedly, holding a pinecone tight to his chest.

“Not just butter! Peanut butter!” Aryll said indignantly, sniffling when her nose tried to drip. “And seeds so the birds have food for the winter.”

“Exactly,” Sun nodded, and scooped up Sage as she sat down, their smallest son nestling into her lap. “Now who’s got the peanut butter?”

“Here!” Aryll chirped, holding up the jar above her head in a triumphant pose.

“Great, let’s get to work then,” Sky said as he took a knife, but Aryll suddenly gasped, setting down the jar and waving her hands.

“Wait wait! I forgot!” she yelped, and scrambled out of her seat and out of the room. Sky raised an eyebrow, but he shrugged and began spreading peanut butter, knowing he had quite a few pinecones to get through.

Aryll came rushing back in in a few minutes, and Sky sighed at the tiny bird sitting primly on her shoulder.

“Honey, we’ve talked about bringing birds inside,” Sun reminded, and Aryll drooped, giving her parents sad eyes.

“But Dee is good! He never makes a mess or is too noisy or scares anyone!” she begged, the chickadee letting out an innocent chirp. “And I want him to help!”

“Well... he will be eating these when we’re done,” Sky said consideringly, and Sun raised an eyebrow. “Maybe just this once?”

“I suppose so,” Sun gave in with a sigh, and Aryll cheered, Dee trilling with her.

Aryll sat back down, her bird friend watching the proceedings in interest. Sky popped a mouthful of birdseed, crunching on it as he handed Azure a pinecone he’d finished peanut buttering, and Aryll grabbed her own knife and got to work along with Sun. The triplets were all too small to really spread peanut butter. Sage was trying anyway though, and Sun did her best to steer him.

True to Sky’s earlier comment, all four kids were at least partially covered in peanut butter by the time they were finished spreading it over the pinecones. The table was also coated in birdseed, and Crimson had accidentally destroyed a pinecone at one point, sending little woody bits all over the room. Aryll’s chickadee was eating some of the seeds on the floor, Sky had peanut butter in his wings, and despite the fact that he knew the mess was going to take ages to clean, he barely cared.

It was moments like these he treasured the most.

All of his kids finally finished their pinecones, Aryll using every single one she could get her hands on. She was determined to make sure the birds had food while it was snowy outside. Sun grabbed some colored string that they tied around the cones to use as hangers, and then it was time to hang them.

They placed most of them where you could see them from the living room, a short tree with lower branches the perfect height for the feeders. Then Sky placed a few in random spots in their backyard, and a couple outside Aryll’s room, ones she could see from her window. Aryll then insisted on the biggest one she made being hung in the tree outside Sun and Sky’s window, and she squealed happily as a tiny nuthatch flew up only moments after he finished hanging them all.

“Looks like they work,” Sky said as they all watched birds slowly gather, happily pecking seeds off the pinecones.

“Birs,” Azure said thoughtfully, then squealed as two cardinals zipped by, red standing out sharply against the snow.

“Look, there’s Beep! Say hi to Beep!” Aryll yelled in excitement as a little sparrow began pecking at the seeds, and her brothers began wildly waving their arms, which made the bird fly off. “Oh, guess he wasn’t hungry after all.”

Sky chuckled from his place on the bed, Sun flopped next to him as they watched their kids all gathered at the window. He couldn’t help the yawn he let out, and Sun nestled up beside him, head resting on his chest.

“They’re certainly a handful,” she commented with a smile, Crimson yelping as Sage tried to climb on him in order to see better.

“Yeah. But they’re our handfuls,” Sky replied, and Sun chuckled, closing her eyes.

Sky did the same with a soft sigh, and they both listened to their kids excitedly watch the birds, the smell of peanut butter in the air as a deep sense of peacefulness settled over Sky.

...At least until all four of his children decided to jump on him.

[nekohime19]

Mini Mac # 40 : fireball bath time

Savage doens't like baths, 😔

Macaque was cleaning Savage, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was trying to clean her. The lil wiggling worm wouldn't stop squirming around. She twisted herself in every way to escape his claws, sometimes even pawing at his hands in the vain of hope of deterring him. Macaque wasn't deterred. She was covered in mud and it would dry if he didn't clean her soon. How did she get this dirty? He honestly didn't know. He turned away for one minute and the next thing he knew his daughter's bright fur was covered in mud. She was always quite difficult when it was bath time. She preferred grooming. But grooming could only get you so far when your whole body was covered in mud. 

“Come on, firecracker. Be nice to dad, okay?” Cooed Macaque as he tried to lower his daughter into the bowl filled with fresh water drawn from a nearby river. Savage pouted (her expression very similar to Rumble's) and splashed Macaque. The black-furred monkey brushed his wet air away and frowned at his giggling fireball. “Yes, this is so funny, splashing dad is funny isn't it?” Savage chuckled, her laughter echoing all around them like the sound of a chime. 

“Adaaaa, aaal et.” Babbled Savage as she reached towards Macaque with her chubby lil paws. Recently, she started to babble a lot. Macaque was hoping she would say her first word soon. The black-furred monkey nodded, acting like he understood his daughter langage perfectly. 

“Ada al et, indeed.” Nodded Macaque. He battled with his daughter for a few more hours. Once she was finally clean, he put her in the crib with her slumbering brother. Rumble was curled around his doll, his face pressed against the silk blanket. Macaque brushed away the fur falling on the cub's forehead and kissed his head. Savage crawled towards her brother and curled around him. She liked to do that to latch on his warmth. Macaque found the sight unbearably cute. 

“You managed to clean the lil monster?” Asked Bajie as he sat near the fire camp. Macaque hummed and looked up from the crib. 

“Yeah, she's finally mudless. And all her fights made her tired.” Sighed Macaque as he rubbed his shoulders, being bent all the time to clean Savage made his back wince a little. 

“I swear your brat can teleport. That or she's very fast.” Snorted the pig, Macaque couldn’ t agree more. 

“What are you stirring tonight?” Asked the black-furred monkey, it smelled quite good, Bajie definitely improved since his first try. 

“Plums stew and Ao Lie stop eating grass before dinner!” The dragon-horse looked up from the batch of grass he was munching on, he did that a lot in his horse form. 

“But I'm hungry.” Sighed the dragon-horse. 

“You wait a few minutes, you glutton.” Huffed Bajie. 

“Put something warm on your back, it helps a lot.” Advised Sanzang as he turned towards Macaque. 

“Yeah, thanks kiddo. Any news of Wujing and Wukong?”Asked Macaque. 

“They're still patrolling for demons ahead. They'll come back after a bit.” Answered the monk, he then added more nervously : “I hope…”

Macaque snorted at the monk's nervosity, some things never changed. He then turned towards the crib at the sound of a sleepy mrrps. Rumble eyes were half-open, he was trying to push away his sister who was latching on him like an octopus. Macaque chuckled and went to aid him. Savage tended to squeeze the life out of her brother sometimes. 

After dinner, Macaque curled next to the crib and fell asleep. He woke up some hours once Wujing and Wukong came back. 

“You're back?” Mumbled Macaque as he rubbed his eyes. He saw out of the corner of his eyes Wujing preparing himself to sleep. Wukong laid next to Macaque and the crib and sighed, he looked quite upset. “Everything is okay?” Asked Macaque, a bit worried. 

“I… We’re approaching a demonic city…” Mumbled Wukong. 

“Oh we gotta avoid it then.” Replied the black-furred monkey. 

“It's ruled by Azure, Peng and Yellow-Tusk. Heaven is not gonna leave them alone, Mac… I…” Wukong didn't need to say more. Macaque sat up and opened his arms, the great sage shrinked and scrambled in the other monkey's arms, hugging him tightly. 

“It'll be okay.” Mumbled Macaque as he petted Wukong's head. 

“I hope so.” Mumbled the great sage. 

“Wanna know what Savage did today?” Asked Macaque in hope of making the other monkey smile. 

Wukong snorted and put his snout in the black-furred monkey shoulder. “What did the lil fireball do?”

“She splashed me. Bath time is a true battlefield I tell you.”

Wukong chuckled at that, his eyes creaking in amusement. But there was still worry lingering on his face.

+ cut scenes

Macaque : alright Sav, I'm just gonna put your brother in the crib then I'll be back to you, stay put, okay? 😌

Savage : 😊

Macaque *after putting Rumble in the crib and turning back to Savage* : Alright I'm done- what the-🤨

Savage *covered in mud* : 😊

 

Rumble *being held by Savage in the crib* : Dad! Help me! She's trying to kill me! 😭

Savage : warm fuzzy brother plushie 🥰

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[centuryberry]

I left this question on QOTM in the comments on AO3, I left it in Chapter 1, but I didn't really thought much about it. What if there's an AU where Yue was abandoned as a (sorta) newborn on FFM? Like, either her father, out of jealousy, decided to leave her there, or acting on her mother's wishes to protect Yue, Shanzha breaks through the wards, leaves Yue in a basket and runs off before she was caught. How would that work?

Who will be the one to find her? One of the Generals? A soldier? Wukong himself? And if someone does find her, perhaps they find a note by Yue's mother asking for Yue to be cared for, while also saying that her father's clan will most likely be cruel to her? If a soldier or one of the Generals find her and bring her to Wukong (and possibly Macaque?), how would Wukong react to baby!Yue? What about Macaque? Would they adopt her?

Who knows, but I'll admit that I'm especially curious how would the Brotherhood would react, especially DBK, PIF and Red Son when she's slightly older. Speaking of, how different would Yue be like if she was raised by Wukong on FFM?

Oh wow, I must've missed this one! Well, it's a good thing I'll answer this here!

(More below)

So, I can't imagine a likely scenario where Shanzha just up and leaves Yue at FFM's doorstep. Come over there with Yue? Yes. Leave her there and go back to LoES? Very not likely. Also, Yishen would've rather dropped Yue off a cliff instead of going through the effort of safely leaving her at an island paradise.

The best scenario I can come up with would be Sangshen, knowing that she didn't have much time left in the world and not trusting the Zodiac Clan at all, taking the initiative to send Yue away somewhere safe with the help of some artifact. Maybe some one-way transportation circle type thing. Either way, baby Yue ends up on FFM's figurative doorstep with a blanket, a milk bottle, and a note.

It's Beng who finds her. As he is in charge of patrolling the kingdom's borders and being a father himself, he was able to recognize the faint cries of a baby monkey even as the sounds of the forest almost completely drowned out her voice.

Yue's six ears almost immediately gain the General's attention and she's brought over to Macaque. Everyone by that point is convinced that Yue is his. While insistent that he's NOT the father, he still takes her as his own and accepts single fatherhood.

(Lol not on Wukong's watch.)

Wukong is super curious and definitely not-at all jealous about Macaque procreating without him involved, so he comes to meet the baby.

It's love at first sight. Baby Yue is so, so cute. Her little nose scrunches up so adorably. Everything comes out of her mouth in chirps and squeaks. Her ears were darling. And she looks so much like Macaque! Wukong eagerly helps out with child-rearing (since he's such a good friend) and unofficially takes the role of another father. They're both so disgustingly domestic.

All of FFM would hear about Yue's achievements and everything she did would be hot news. She grabbed Wukong's finger! She ate her solid foods for the first time! She's babbling! She's crawling! She's-

You get the point. Wukong even commissioned artists to make multiple paintings of her.

The Brotherhood would be far less antagonistic and threatening in this scenario though Azure would be salty as hell to see Shadowpeach live the domestic dream without actually being married. Yellowtusk would congratulate the new parents and look to Yue very fondly. Peng would be ambivalent.

The Demon Bull Family would react very differently. DBK would cry and hold bb!Yue so tenderly. She's so tiny! And PIF would spoil her with all the baby toys and clothes. Red Son would think she's pretty useless and boring at first but that changes as she grows.

Yue in this scenario would still grow up to be endlessly curious and super responsible, but she's also less tense and paranoid. She's a bit cheeky too. She would be so loved and so happy.

(Shanzha and RinRin would come to FFM for sanctuary one day but that would be another story...)

[triptychgrip]

A few times Viktor tries new things in retirement

1) Weed

As you might imagine, Yuuri is extremely, extremely anxious about it, and looks up countless Reddit threads on the do's and don'ts for first-timers. They end up cutting a raspberry-flavored edible into eighths, and despite Viktor whining after a half hour that he "doesn't feel anything", Yuuri doesn't allow him to have another helping (not yet, at least).

His cautiousness ends up being a good idea because only 5 minutes after Viktor's sulk-fest over being denied, his azure eyes go vacant and he scoots right to the edge of the couch. Just as Yuuri makes to ask if he's alright, Viktor whips his head around, eyeing the side of his face with unnerving focus.

Yuuri pokes his cheek and his fiance gives a slow, delayed giggle, before, inexplicably, placing both hands on Yuuri's jaw and leaning over to peer directly into his ear.

"Vitya?!" Yuuri squawks, pawing at him a bit. 

"Yuuuuuuuuri, why didn't you tell me that your ears made such fantastical, seductive music?!" Viktor demands in a purr, with a hint of outrage. "I always knew you made musicality with your body, but this....THIS..."

Yuuri never finds out what he means because Viktor trails off and stands up, abruptly, and then begins marching in the direction of the kitchen (where they'd laid out a variety of snacks, in case he got the munchies). Or he tries to march, rather, because every lift of his foot takes four times as long as it normally would, and Yuuri bursts into giggles and records a video of him trying to traipse across the room, clumsily.

An hour later, he's petting Viktor's bangs while his fiance throws up, having gorged himself on too many snacks at once. Loyal Makka is on his other side, cocking her head at his nonsensical babbling. Despite his stomach upset, Viktor seems elated, already talking about "a take two, except this time, I can try to quad flip while high!"

2) (Gourmet) Baking

It's not that Viktor had never baked pre-retirement, but the things he'd tried making were pretty simple, at least by his standards: cookies, brownies, and one time, matcha-flavored cupcakes that the two of them had demolished in one sitting.

But he'd never attempted the formidable challenge of French pastry making. Specifically: Kouign-amann, an endeavor that nearly shatters all of Viktor’s confidence and leads to more than a few teary meltdowns over how many turns of butter-folding, exactly, were required to achieve that elusive texture.

(On his seventh failed attempt, Yuuri tells him that it seems as perfect as one could possibly hope to achieve and a sense of dawning comprehension befalls Viktor, who is floored to realize that his fiance might, in fact, be an unabashed liar.)

As with everything good in the world, he ends up turning to YouTube for visual help, and thanks to the comments section of one particular video, Viktor ends up making a version that he, Yuuri, Yurio, Georgi, and Mila finish over the course of just two hours.

Viktor happily rubs his stomach, reveling in the fact that he can now eat whatever the hell he wants, AND that he now has the freedom to make his fiance all kinds of indulgent treats that he'd never had the time to learn how to make, beforehand.

"I mean, it turned out alright, don't look so pleased with yourself, geezer," Yurio grumbles.

Both of his cheeks are bulging, and he's already reaching for a third slice. 

3) Video Games

This endeavor is one, admittedly, that Viktor is not exactly enthused about, but he is still committed to it. Because learning how to play even one video game decently well means that he's not totally excluded from Yuuri and Yurio's fierce face-offs (which are usually also marked by virtual appearances from Phichit, Otabek, Leo, Mila, and Sara). 

After much back-and-forth (and lots of ranting from Yurio, who is less than pleased that "the geezer's gonna be purposefully bad at it, all so you can cuddle his pouting away, Katsudon!” *retching noises*), they decide on Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood.

Try as he might, Viktor just does not have the patience to sit through all of Yuuri's thorough explanations around the gameplay objective and world-building elements.

And it's not to say that Yuuri is a bad "coach"; his fiance is incredibly patient with him, not showing even the slightest hint of frustration when Viktor asks, for the tenth time, what the goal of this particular quest is, again. 

By this point, even kind, sweet Sara looks liable to kill somebody, and after a good hour-and-a-half of his best efforts, Viktor decides to have mercy on Yuuri, sheepishly admitting that "maybe Viktor Nikiforov and video games just don't go together".

A collective sigh of relief is exhaled.

"It's Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov", Yuuri then smugly reminds him, and he beams in response, ecstatic that his fiance is already so eager to address him as such when their wedding is still several months away. 

Viktor rests his head on Yuuri's shoulder, suddenly not feeling that bad about letting "the experts" resume their gameplay. Maybe not everything he tries in retirement needs to be a wild success; Yuuri will still be there, regardless.

-----

"Turn this into a fic" my brain whispers, as I quietly sob about the number of WIPs I already have in rotation.

If you have headcanons about things Viktor might try in retirement, feel free to let me know!! I ADORE the idea of him truly allowing himself to grab life by the horns, with Yuuri at his side (and the pressures of his career behind him) 💓

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Damned

Just after dawn, Lillandyr created something beautiful. Eyes half lidded in the dark, limbs tangled in silk sheets… she smiled, sated and sore, bruises and scrapes aside. 

First, she created a lovely place of golden grass, azure sky and sweet honeysuckle perfuming the air. It was a beautiful anywhere near a field of poppies and a glistening, babbling brook that rippled and trickled and sighed in drowned whispers. 

Lazy, fat clouds slid across the blue, carried by the warm breezes. A young rabbit dashed for the cover of deeper brush and song birds trilled just out of sight. Everything was sweet and good and alive all washed in shades of gold and teases of lurid reds. 

She made herself just as sweet. Bare faced, long, gilded hair unbound, Lillandyr dressed herself in blushing pale silk and girlish lace. Her smiles were no longer wicked, but soft and sweet. Her eyes didn’t narrow and weren’t filled with sharp cleverness, but they were wide and guileless. 

At first, she’d thought to put herself in the ruined dress and restore it in the illusion. But just the notion made her angry all over again. And it was a dress for Heathcliff…something to inspire lust and maybe even anger…though things had not quite gone the way she’d thought they would. Perhaps they went better. Perhaps worse. She’d decide later. Or never at all. 

Not that it mattered because THIS was revenge. Less complicated. 

Dreams were easy things to slide into sleeping heads. People were less suspicious of her illusions because it was the nature of dreams to be confronting and strange. Dreams were the familiar made unfamiliar and in that way, she was never caught. 

What do the damned long for when they dream? What soft vision is poison to the heart of heartless things? What graves of the past could be cracked open, wet earth spilling moldering remains clad in the raiment of hopeful youth? 

Would it be the watercolor smear of the living moving around them, blessed with the milk and honey and breath and soft press of flesh, of eyes filled with soul and not the empty witch lights of the dead? Would it be moments relived or the aching, desperate and pointless hope of redemption through the love of a warm, mortal heart? 

And when you give these sweet vespers to the damned, these ephemeral fog made things vanish when they are released from dreaming. What do the damned do when they taste what they can no longer dare to have?

They do anything you say, chained in sunlit kisses and whispered pleas. 

And so revenge did not come on dark wings or poisoned lips. It came as the girl Anya had once dreamed herself to be before she learned better. Soft and lovely with open arms and heart. 

Aronsen would dream he stood in the golden grasses, surrounded by the bobbing heads of red poppies. Lillandyr wasn’t smiling in that clever way she did to make him jealous. Her smile was soft, fox eyes earnest. 

Delicate, warm hands cradled his face, the ghost of a touch. She didn’t kiss his mouth. Her lips, barely there like moth’s wings, brushed his cheeks, his forehead. And there was no desire for blood. There was no wild, hot hunger. There wasn’t even lust.  

It was the sort of longing that belched up from the pits of the soul. It was a soft and gentle poison. 

“Beautiful,” she murmured without her lips moving like it is in dreams. She said things he longed to hear. Things she would never say. Things he would never admit to wanting. 

When they lay in the grass together, her head rested on his chest and he could smell the perfume of her hair. They didn’t speak. And he would drift to sleep only to wake in the crypt. Alone…cold…a dead woman’s arms draped over him, her hair like dull straw. A sick parody of the insidious and beautiful dream.

Beautiful dreams are slow poison to the damned.

@wraaronsen

[sukiloves]

fall from heaven — gojo s.

includes — gn!reader, dom!reader, sub!gojo, pwp, bj, nicknames/pet names (angel, pretty boy, baby, lovely)

franz's notes — can't stop thinking abt how submissive and breedable s2 gojo looks 😩 i've fallen into gojo fics rabbit hole and decided to make one myself hehe icb he's the only one who will bring me back to writing again lolol

there are a lot of things that you love about gojo satoru. but your favorite are the sounds he make whenever you're both entangled in bed.

it is true that he's as verbal in bed as he was outside of it. all the pretty noises that comes out of his perfectly glossed lips are delicious, and you eat it all up every time.

you can't help but admire him now under the moonlight, on his back in your shared bed, sweat clinging to his skin giving it a faint shine, his striking azure eyes struggling to keep themselves open as he watched you, his right hand gripping the sheets - tight enough to tear - while the other one holds your head down on his cock.

fuck. he looks so far gone and so, so, gorgeous like this with a blush dusting his cheeks and chest.

“ahh...like that, angel. just like - ah! - that,” he praised in between whimpers, hips bucking up into your mouth with a little more fervor than before. his dick gave a twitch inside your mouth, signalling his impending orgasm.

your head's gone fuzzy from satoru's sounds, gently thrusting your hips to find some relief for the growing wetness in between your thighs.

humming against him, you pulled his cock out of your mouth with a pop, batting your eyelashes up at him as he groans at the loss.

“you're so pretty, ‘toru,” you cooed, planting a kiss on his tip as you stroke him, making him gasp and buck his hips once more – chasing his high.

he blushed even deeper if that was possible, avoiding your gaze while he hides his face on the pillows.

“aww, getting shy, pretty boy?” you teased, speeding up your movements, “look at me.”

with hesitation, satoru brought his gaze back where you're still lying down in between his spread legs, hand rubbing his hard cock up and down as you stare at him so intense he felt his heart stutter.

“please, baby.” he begged, breaths coming in short puffs.

“hmm? please what?” at this point, you had started to lick his dick leisurely, watching his reactions, every rise and fall of his chest, every twitch of his body.

you love to savor the moment where the strongest is reduced to a babbling, moaning mess.

“please...” he whined, “make me cum, i'll be good!”

deciding not to torture him any further, your head dropped down and swallowed all of him in one go, making satoru cry out but it quickly died down as he bit his bottom lip.

for the second time that night, you pulled him out of your mouth which earned you a sob.

“i wanna hear you, baby.” you whispered against him, “wanna hear your pretty moans just for me, yeah?”

when he nodded, you put him back in, bobbing your head up and down in time with his moans. they were like a melody – changing in tune, rising up and falling in pitch. his body moving along to the beat of his pleasure and you memorized every note.

“gonna- haa...gonna cum!” he moaned out, punctuating his words with the telltale signs of his climax – his back arching off the bed as he threw his head back, cock twitching nonstop in your mouth as he filled it with his release, parted lips letting out moans of your name mixed with unintelligible curses.

you helped satoru come down from his high, cleaning up his mess with your tongue and running your hands lovingly along his legs, up his torso and chest where you both met with a searing kiss. satoru moaned upon tasting himself on you.

“thank you, lovely.” he mumbled on your lips. you smiled against it.

“anything for my pretty boy.”