#but he never really cared.................................. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kingkat12 · 2 days ago

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on the record (clark kent x reader)

WARNINGS: piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), banter, teasing, secret office romance, established relationship, sort of sex tape but not rlly cause it'd be an audio sex tape??, fluff, porn with plot, no spoilers!<3

summary: finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.

word count: 4,362

a/n: hey everyone!! I literally never write anything that isn't Bill Skarsgård related, but I saw the Superman movie today and couldn't help thinking how HOT David Corenswet was!!! so this fic goes out to my best friend who I saw this movie with, hope you like it you little gremlin (ily babes let's play starstable soon tihii) credits to @krayonimous for the gif!!<3

"Oh, come on,"

My words were whispered under my breath, dragged out by my annoyance at the sight of the front page of The Daily Planet today.

Superman Speaks: The Peace-Mission, by Clark Kent.

I pushed the paper away like it offended me, letting it slide crooked across my desk. The headline still stared up at me, taunting as ever, and I could practically hear his voice in it-- soft-spoken, heavy with concern, and full of just enough gravitas to make even the skeptics stop and feel something.

It was getting annoying, at this point-- every other week came another exclusive, and yet another quiet little masterstroke from Kent. Would it ever end?

Clark's desk was still empty, of course. The chair next to mine was untouched, his coat not draped over it yet, and I could feel my irritation fester. If that had been me, I'd have been fired a month ago. But because of these damn exclusive Superman interviews, he had secured himself a spot at the company, no matter what.

I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk-- once, twice, just to give myself something to do with the irritation.

And then, right on cue, the elevator dinged.

Voices rose-- someone greeted him before I saw him, and then there he was, walking in like he had just stepped off the cover of his own feature, glasses a little fogged from the humidity, tie not even pretending to be straight. Still, with perfectly tousled dark hair like that, and with eyes the shade of dreamy lagoons, it was impossible not to stare. He smiled, nodded, and offered a sheepish morning to the general hum of recognition around him for getting the front page. And then, just to top it off, someone clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on 'another one'.

... God.

He even had the nerve to look embarrassed about it.

I looked back at my screen like I was busy, like I wasn’t tracking the exact number of steps it took him to get from the elevator to his chair, like I didn’t hear the gentle thud of his bag hitting the floor next to mine--

“Morning,” Clark murmured, settling into his chair.

“Barely,” I replied, eyes on my inbox-- if I allowed myself to look at him, I'd just think about how broad his shoulders were now that he was so close, and I couldn't do that to myself, not at work.

Clark didn’t respond right away; he just scooted his chair in with unnecessary force, trying to get my attention. I didn’t look over, but I knew he was smiling. “You saw the story?” he asked, all innocence.

"Impossible to miss,"

"What did you think?"

Inhaling sharply, I shrugged; "I think it's very convenient that you're always at the right place at the right time,"

Clark huffed a quiet laugh; “You didn’t like it,"

“Oh, I never said that,”

“You didn’t have to,"

I finally glanced at him, trying not to gawk at his beauty. Clark was already watching me, elbows on his desk, with that same irritating softness around his plush mouth that made him look more sincere than he had any right to be. His tie was really a disaster, though-- looped too tight, one side bunched like he had gotten distracted halfway through.

Not that anyone but me would notice or care; it was sort of endearing on days when he didn't have a new front-page Superman interview, anyway. “It's just interesting, that's all," I said. "That Superman only talks to you. One could argue that you might be bribing him."

That only made Clark's boyish smirk widen. “Superman is a man of the law,” he murmured, teasing as always. “He would never accept bribes. I ask and he talks, that's all,”

“Mhm... Right,"

I turned back to my screen, biting down on a grin myself. I didn’t need to look at him to feel the air crackle between us. The buzz of it always gave me a high-- always. What had started out as office friction had turned into something sharper, something hotter, and now it sat between our desks like a huge elephant no one wanted to admit was there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clark lean back and stretch slightly, his tight, white shirt stretching over his broad chest-- he had the balls to look smug about this, yet that slight rosy colour appearing in his cheeks contradicted his every move. He enjoyed this too, I was certain of it. “You know,” he murmured. “You could always pitch for the next one. Superman might be up to giving you an interview... Everyone knows you're the best writer in the office.”

I looked at him slowly, not yet impressed. “Oh, really now?”

Clark shrugged again, lifting his hands in faux surrender. “It’s not my fault he likes talking to me,”

I gave him a flat look, snorting. “You’re intolerable,"

“I think you should try,” he murmured, dragging a folder out of his bag as he disregarded my last words. “He might be up for it. On the record, and everything."

That was it-- my eyes rounded out. "On... the record?"

That was new.

Clark's blue eyes practically shimmered as he put his earbuds in, casual as ever, yet his smirk betrayed him; "Who knows? You might get lucky tonight,"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The scent hit me before I even dropped my keys-- garlic, butter, and something rich and comforting I couldn't put my finger on. I stopped halfway through taking off my coat, catching sight of him in the kitchen; Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in my favourite pan like he had lived here for years.

I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding. This was my favourite sight to come home to.

I could already sense the smile in his voice without him having to turn to me; “Hey, you,” he murmured.

Oh, wow. “You made dinner,” I breathed, watching the way his white shirt stretched across his broad back-- finally, I could gawk at him now that we weren't at work.

“You were grumpy this morning,” Clark replied, unaware of the way I was looking at him right now; or was he? “I figured you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make you.”

Of course. Of course he'd do this after our back-and-forth banter this morning. "I wasn't grumpy," I put my coat away before finally approaching Clark, leaning against the kitchen counter as I tried to see what he was making. "But you know I can't be acting over the moon for you at the office. Everyone would catch on."

He hummed, still stirring. I watched him work, letting the silence stretch between us in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable. It never did with him-- not here, not like this. The air felt warmer than it should have, like the kitchen lights had dimmed a little just for the two of us. “Smells good,” I murmured, my back pressing against the kitchen counter as I turned, reaching up to brush a soft, black strand of his hair away from his forehead.

“It’s your favourite,” He said it without looking up, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t planned this out from the moment he left the office. Sweet, sweet boy.

I could only smile; I liked us when we were alone, when we didn't have to hide our feelings. No cape, no headlines, no rivalry-- just Clark in my kitchen, sleeves rolled, cooking for me because he wanted to. Because underneath everything, he knew me, and I knew him.

... More than anyone.

“Clark,” I murmured softly, dreading my next words. "I'm worried someone's going to find out that you're getting these Superman interviews because... well, you are Superman. I wouldn't want you to blow your own cover."

Clark didn't answer anything at first-- then, his brows furrowed into that look I knew too well. "Is that why you were so grumpy this morning?"

"I wasn't grumpy," I mumbled, tracing a line down his broad shoulder to his hand. "Just concerned."

Clark finally set the spoon down, resting it carefully on the edge of the pan before turning to face me fully. His blue eyes were unreadable, and it made my anxiety bubble. “I appreciate you worrying,” he said, voice low and soft. “But I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep the lines separate.”

I searched his face, and the way his jaw flexed as he chose his words carefully. I scanned the quiet certainty in his posture, how even now (smelling like garlic and city air) he held himself like someone who had the world to carry. “I know you do,” I admitted. “But... still. Every time someone jokes about how close you are with Superman, I feel like I’m holding my breath.”

At that, Clark snorted, cracking up into a smile; "You're the one that makes the most jokes about that,"

"Yeah, but that's because!--"

"If anything, you're the instigator of those rumours,"

"I'm not, I just-- Clark, do you hear what I'm telling you?"

Muting his laughter, he let his shoulders slouch, showing that he was backing down. "I do have a solution, though," he murmured. "I wasn't joking about what I said earlier."

I didn't need a mirror to know my eyes shot out a spark or two. "Me interviewing you?"

"Yes,"

"As Superman?"

"Yes,"

"That sounds... fair," I mumbled. "Finally, you won't know the questions beforehand. It's actually much more ethically sourced than how you do it, if we're taking media laws into account."

Clark huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his fingers along the edge of the counter before stepping just a little closer to me. “Ethically sourced?” he echoed. “You’re going to cite journalism codes of conduct now?”

“I might,” I said, chin lifted. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

His hand found my waist-- light, familiar, and grounding. “So, let me get this straight,” he murmured, voice dipping just slightly. “This will be a legitimate, recorded interview with Superman. Questions unapproved. No edits. No off-the-record pauses.”

“Exactly,” I nodded once, hoping to bite down my smirk. “Full transparency.”

He tilted his head, black hair kissing his forehead, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully behind his glasses-- “Will you go soft on him?”

“No,” came my answer, instant as ever. “I’m going to grill him like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Clark grinned, all teeth this time. “I’d expect nothing less,”

The space between us thinned again, shrinking in that way it always did when we weren’t pretending. His thumb rubbed a slow, absent circle at the small of my back, and the scent of garlic and butter and whatever else he’d conjured tonight clung to the warmth around us like something domestic we were still getting used to.

“I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this,” I said, a little breathless, more off-guard than I meant to sound.

“You’ve wanted to get him in the hot seat for months,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, and if it keeps people from asking too many questions, then yeah, Let’s do it. On the record.”

I held my breath, feeling my heartbeat soar. "Now?"

"Sure," Clark shrugged. He pulled me closer like it was no big deal, like he didn't know that every touch from him set me on fire-- "But if we're doing this, then we're going to do it my way."

"... What?"

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Oh, I should've known.

I should've known that Clark would do something like this, that cheeky bastard.

My attitude this morning could've set this off too, I had no idea-- all I knew was that I had to keep quiet if I wanted this audio to be able to go on the record.

Still, it was impossible not to squirm as Clark's big hands greedily grabbed at my hips, long fingers caressing my skin as his tongue swirled my right hip-bone; holy fuck. He reached for my underwear, tugging it upward to get better access, to get me twitching harder against my duvet. "You've-- You've got a lot of heat on social media lately," I started, stumbling through my questions whilst running my hands through Clark's thick locks as he continued to make me weak.

He hummed against my skin, leaving wet kisses up along my stomach. "I don't read that stuff," he murmured. "Superman doesn't have time for selfies."

I rolled my eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. How could he be so composed, even now? Even after he somehow managed to get me out of my clothes with all of his intact and on? "You're gonna-- You're gonna refer to yourself in third person?" I glanced at the audio recording device I had propped on the bed, swallowing hard as Clark's kisses started darting down again, his lips brushing against the hem of my dampening underwear.

"Hm?" he answered, mind clearly wandering.

"This is on the record-- Superman,"

"And what about it?"

"Doesn't it sound a bit--" My breath hitched as Clark's hands left my hips, now grabbing at the underside of my thighs to spread my legs. I glanced down at how he had situated himself between them, comfortable and cocky as ever, blue eyes darkening with want. My voice was barely a squeak; "Pompous?"

At that, Clark raised a brow at me, clearly amused. "Really, now? Pompous?"

I decided not to push it-- I had other things to focus on, now that I really had Superman here...

Between my legs.

"Today, the-- the secretary of defence said he was going to--" Before I could stop it, my breath hitched once again, watching Clark press open-mouthed kisses against my clothed clit. Was he trying to make this impossible? Totally. This interview would be deemed impossible by any other interviewer, surely, but me? Nu-uh. I was going to prevail, no matter how hard he made this for me. "Look into your actions," I continued. "He's going to-- look into them."

At that, Clark laughed; I could feel the rumble of his chest vibrate the bed, with how big he was compared to me.

"That's funny?" I snapped, trying to gain some leverage.

Clark raised himself a bit, blinking up at me with that classic, cocky, all-American boy smile like he had done nothing wrong. "My actions?" he echoed, hooking his fingers around my underwear. "I stopped a war."

I shrugged, hoping to act as normal; "Maybe,"

"Not maybe," he huffed, peeling my panties down my thighs. "I did."

"Well, you did illegally enter a country?--"

"For the sake of peace," Clark was getting snappy now; if I hadn't heard it in his voice, I would've pieced it together with how he tossed away my underwear, settling between my legs once again. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" I mumbled.

"Like that,"

Before I could pry more, before I could say anything proper, my body betrayed me-- my back arched against the feeling of his warm breath falling against my soaked sex, and I held back a whimper that I certainly didn't want on my recording machine.

"Be nice," Clark said, before gently wrapping his lips around my clit without warning, suckling me softly.

My hands practically flew into his dark, thick hair as I tried to cushion my moans into my pillow, but to no avail-- a quiet moan left me, and I could feel Clark smile against me. Still, I knew I had to keep my brain sharp, knew I couldn't give in this easily; "Did you-- consult with the president? Before trespassing?"

At that, Clark groaned against me, sending vibrations up along my spine that I had never felt before. "No," he mumbled against my sex, before grabbing my thighs harder, pushing them further against me like he wanted me to fold in half. I could only whimper as he then laved his tongue between my folds, circling my clit with the softest kitten-licks known to man-- he was trying to drive me nuts, wasn't he?

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, so you?-- fuck--"

"Language,"

"-- Sorry,"

I could feel his smooth skin against my inner thighs, freshly shaven, and the sensation only added to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside me with every move. Clark's tongue moved in slow, teasing circles now, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against me, icy-blue eyes flicking up to watch my reaction every so often.

I wasn't going to let him win; he could have the front page for all that I cared, but not this. I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to finally let out a cohesive sentence; "Do you know why that-- looks bad?"

Clark didn't answer, too busy wrapping his lips around my clit again, a little firmer this time, which was enough to have me fighting the urge to clamp my legs around his head.

"Superman," I tried, glancing at the recording device once more; was this footage even usable? Should I bother not calling him his real name? "It seemed like you were acting as a-- as a representative of the United States without having consulted the-- the government?"

Irked, Clark raised himself to properly look at me; with his big hands still gripping the underside of my thighs, plush mouth glistening with my slick, he suddenly didn't seem so happy to be answering my questions anymore. "I wasn't representing anybody except for me,"

"Did you not think about-- what it would look like?" Now that I wasn't getting the life sucked out of me, I could finally catch my breath. I propped myself up on my shaky elbows, meeting Clark's blue eyes with compassion. "I understand that you must've been under a lot of stress, but--"

"Oh, you have no idea,"

"But could you perhaps have considered the consequences?--"

"That wasn't as important as!--"

"What is more important than avoiding war, Superman?--"

"People were going to die!"

At that, we both stilled.

My mouth parted in shock at the fact that sweet, gentle Clark had raised his voice at me like that. I stared down at him, frozen.

It didn't take long before he raised himself to his knees, visibly taken aback by how much my questions were affecting him. He blinked a couple of times, trying to recover, as his hands slowly lifted from my thighs, letting them naturally crease over his.

None of us spoke until I dared-- "I'm sorry,"

Clark didn't move. Avoided my gaze. Didn't breathe either, as far as I could tell.

With a sigh, I reached for the audio recording device, shutting it off; that was enough for now. The interview wasn't as important as what was happening in front of me. I didn't care that I was undressed. I didn't care. Carefully, I sat up, daring to gently cup his face; "Clark," I murmured. "You're a good man. You did what you thought was right. I don't hold that against you, no one does."

Clark's jaw was tight under my palm-- still warm, still damp from me, but set. “I know you don’t hold it against me,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, but rough. “But you still asked, like you wanted me to say it was wrong. Like you thought it was."

“I don’t want you to say it was wrong,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “I want to know that you at least thought about it, Clark... That you didn’t just act on instinct or impulse."

His eyes flicked up to mine at that, too fast, too sharp.

There it was-- proof that Superman was human, in his own way. Impulsive. Rash. Passionate. Rattled with guilt.

Clark exhaled like it hurt to admit his mistakes, even though he hadn't said them out loud. He knew that I knew. Carefully, he leaned into my touch, just barely, his hands now hovering over my legs, unsure if he was still allowed to touch me after raising his voice, like that one slip of temper meant he didn’t get softness anymore.

My fingers sank into his hair again, stroking through it slower now, calmer. "You saved the day, Superman," I murmured, a trying smile finding its way to my lips. "That's what's important, okay?"

"Okay," Clark echoed, his heavy blue gaze avoiding mine.

Enough. I couldn't stand to look at that sad face anymore; "Let's forget the world for a moment, hm?" I pressed a kiss to the right corner of his mouth. "It's just you and me, now," Left. "And that wouldn't be possible without you, so come here and reap your reward."

Finally, Clark's eyes peeked up at me again, interest spiking. "What do you?--"

I didn't let him finish that sentence.

It also didn't take long before my arms draped around his neck, pulling him down with me onto the bed with a heated kiss. Clark accepted, caging me with his broad shoulders, mouth moving against mine like he wanted to remember every curve, every push, every whimper; he let out a pleasured sigh and smiled into the kiss, melting my heart.

Clark's passion was all-taking-- he moved to softly nibble on my earlobe, licking a stripe up the shell, which he knew always got me giggling, as we got him out of his black jeans. I could feel the way our breaths clashed, how our chests pressed together in a moment of fire none of us could control, pure impulse, before his reassuring words came as always; "I've got you," he murmured, the soft head of his cock prodding at my entrance, his big, calloused hands once again gripping at my thighs.

"Need you," I breathed, nipping at his strong jaw. "Want you, Clark-- need you."

Clark hummed; "Bet," he teased, before rocking forward, just enough for the head to push inside.

The whimpers that fell from my mouth were impossible to stop, and my hands gave his dark hair an involuntary tug. "Fuck,"

I knew he didn't like swearing, and I knew that'd be the key to getting what I wanted. With an annoyed huff, Clark pushed his cock into me, letting out a shaky sigh against my shoulder as I shuddered against him. Thankfully, he couldn't see my sheepish smile of victory; I had waited for this since the second I saw that front page article. This feeling. Him inside of me. Just us.

The first few thrusts were deeper than usual, probably fueled by our fiery interview and my affinity for cuss-words tonight, but I didn't mind-- being filled up by Clark was such heaven, that I didn't really care how it happened. I'd sell my soul for this, surely; for my fingers to burn with euphoria coursing through my veins.

Clark pulled out halfway and pushed into me again, firmer this time, making my breath hitch as my nails left crescent moons into his broad back. "You feel so good," he murmured, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had me melting into my duvets. "Missed you like this."

"Missed you too," I moaned, pressing a weak kiss to his shoulder. "Stop-- saving the world all the goddamn-- time."

At that, Clark could only laugh; "Cause this is more important, yeah?"

"Obviously,"

"Right," he purred, his slow, deep, dragging thrusts practically muting me from that point on. I could only clench around his thick length, suppressing my cries of pleasure against the muscular range of his shoulders.

"Want me to stop saving everyone, hm?" Clark went on; "Want me to stay here and take care of you?"

I could only whimper-- yes, yes, yes.

With a satisfactory hum, his plush lips found my throat, sucking a mark against my skin, branding me over and over; he might as well have stamped a Superman-stamp on my neck. "I would if I could," Clark huffed, groaning against my skin; I felt his cock twitch inside of me at the intrigue of that thought, and it made me clutch him harder as he fucked me into the mattress, instincts taking over. "Would stay here-- make you feel good, make you cum, make you-- satisfied--"

I could hear it in the roughness of his voice that he was close, closer than he usually was at this point. Was it really our heated arguments today that had fried both our nerves? I couldn't tell.

To delay just a moment more, to continue revelling in our wet union, Clark propped himself up on his knees, guiding my legs over his thighs again-- his hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing firm circles, intent on getting me over the edge first. Fucking gentleman.

I choked down another lewd moan, the pleasure building quicker than expected. "God, Clark, I-- I can't--"

"It's okay," he murmured, watching me with those big, blue, loving eyes I adored. "Want you to let go when you're close, okay? Could you-- Could you do that for me?"

"Anything," I breathed. "Anything for you."

Clark let out a hum of approval, warm as always, as my vision started going hazy; he continued circling my clit with the nicest of pressures, making my toes curl, making my breath catch, and I soon enough had to tell myself to breathe, chanting it over and over in my head. Without meaning to, in the midst of me fighting the building feeling in my whole body, I shifted my hips-- I didn't mean for it to angle Clark deeper, but it gave me the grandest of rewards.

Clark let out the filthiest groan, feeling his cock engulfed in wet, tight heat, and that did it for him.

I didn't mean to, I swear.

His right hand left my clit, and with both, he now gripped my hips tighter as his thrusts turned erratic, desperate, impulsive, but with awareness of his strength; it didn't take long before he buried himself inside of me with a deep, shuddering gasp of relief. His forehead dropped against mine as he spilled inside me, body trembling from the force of it, panting with the shock of his unexpected release.

I had no idea what came over me, or how it happened-- but with how Clark was angled, it didn't take more than two upward rolls of my hips, helped by his strong hands, to have my clit pressing against his body, and it was a sensation so light, so desperate, so chased and sought by all-taking arousal, that it shattered me even harder when I realized I was cumming from practically... nothing. My legs trembled as I felt my clit pulse, lashes fluttering shut at the intense rush.

Only Clark could have me falling apart like that, and only I could have Superman collapse like this on a Friday night.

He might not be a man-- but he surely fucked like one.

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teaboot · 2 days ago

Note

Ok, not to get seriously political or anything, but is Canada's relationship with the US honestly destroyed? It seems like Trump has stopped threatening to annex Canada-I know you're not omniscient, but has Canada moved past that kind of? Do you know what some others Canadians think about America now?

I only really know the environment in my own circle but from what I’ve heard and discussed with others nobody ever took it seriously enough to really care to begin with. Even the small handful of weirdos who like him seem to have considered that one a clown shoes move. It was never a legitimate concern

People I know who mention America go “oh yeah I was hoping to visit New York but uh…. Maybe when they’re done with the fascism”.

Which SOUNDS flippant, but like. What do you do when your next door neighbor is Germany 1938

Your president was a clown and now he’s not even a funny clown, just a sad and scary clown, and the overall tone from the outside looking in is “maybe if those poor people had a decent education and medical care they wouldn’t be in this mess” but damn it’s a combo of pity and fear right now

#Current events

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onlypinkslut · 2 days ago

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toji fushiguro x slutty pregnant!fem!reader 🍼 NSWF 18+ 🍼

✩ part one ✩ next>>

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cw: emotional neglect, pregnancy struggles, bodily fluids (piss accident), public humiliation, realistic depiction of pregnancy symptoms (swelling, leaking, back pain), visible body changes, body image issues, loneliness, mild degradation, toji gaze, nonverbal tension, soft obsession, breeding themes, toji being a feral man with a quiet fixation.

♥︎40k words

six months ago you didn’t know this was how you’d end up. you didn’t picture yourself waddling in a sundress with swollen ankles and a back that constantly ached. you didn’t imagine waking up in sweats at 3am, leaking through your flimsy bralettes, cheeks hot, thighs slick, stomach bloated and heavy with a baby you were growing alone. you thought he loved you when it happened. you thought he’d change.

but he didn’t.

he kept saying it was an accident.

you told him if he didn’t want to be a father, then he should’ve worn a condom. but that conversation replayed every night now, his words like needles. he barely touched you since. never kissed you goodnight anymore. didn’t care when you cried over your sore nipples, didn’t care when your back gave out in the kitchen and you needed help getting off the floor. you didn’t recognize your own body anymore. your hips had widened into a full slope, your thighs touched now when you walked, jiggled with every step, and your once-small belly button had popped forward like a button on a shirt too tight. even your arms had gotten softer, rounder, heavy from cradling your stomach. you looked in the mirror and didn’t see a woman anymore. you saw a thing that was made to be used, filled, bred.

and worst of all… you were horny.

feral.

pregnancy hormones had made you into something sick. you got wet over ads for formula. you rubbed your thighs together when you felt the baby kick. your nipples were always sore and swollen, so sensitive they ached if your bra rubbed wrong. and your boyfriend didn’t even want to look at you.

toji fushiguro hadn’t touched his fiancée in over seven months and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. it was because she didn’t let him.

the first year of their engagement had been fine. empty, curated, expensive, but fine. hana liked luxury and he didn’t mind buying it. handbags, skincare fridges, matching sets from paris that sat untouched in velvet-lined drawers. she was polite and pristine, a pilates instructor with perfect posture and cold hands. but she had rules.

she slept with her face mask on. she cried over gaining three pounds. she timed her orgasms like they were workouts, breath sharp, core tight, never letting go too much, never messy, never sloppy.

he should’ve seen it coming.

she froze her eggs the same week she bought her new veneers.

when he told her he wanted a baby—really wanted one, not in some theoretical future, not as a borrowed cousin at brunch—she looked at him like he said he wanted to raise a wolf.

she said it would ruin her body.

she said he didn’t understand the trauma of childbirth.

she said adoption exists and we can hire a surrogate and you’re being selfish.

and he tried. fuck, he tried. he nodded through her presentations, even met the poor art student she suggested should carry their child. she looked about seventeen and couldn’t even look him in the eye.

and still, hana asked if he was happy.

he was not.

he was not fucking happy.

he was thirty-eight. his back hurt every time he tied his boots. he was tired of drinking protein sludge and being around women who smelled like almond milk and botox. he wanted to smell skin. milk. birth.

he wanted something real.

and lately, he’d been having the same dream.

someone warm in his lap. soft. heavy. crying. breasts leaking down his arms, stomach big and tight against his chest, thighs sticking to his legs. he’d wake up rock hard, humping the sheets like a dog, teeth clenched.

he never told hana.

instead, he started driving at night.

aimless loops through old streets. past playgrounds, daycares, corner markets that sold diapers and baby wipes and off-brand pacifiers in pastel plastic. he’d park and sit there sometimes, engine running, his hand fisted in his lap, thinking about what it would smell like to press his nose to a breast that had fed a baby.

he couldn’t explain it.

he didn’t want sex. he wanted breeding.

and every time hana spoke now, he felt something crawl up his spine.

she booked a couple’s massage for them that morning. he skipped it.

she texted him a blurry selfie from the spa, legs crossed, glass of lemon water in hand. you’re missing out, she wrote.

he didn’t reply.

he was already in his car.

you had to sit on the edge of the bed just to put your shoes on.

your thighs kept swallowing your panties. your ass had gotten so fat you could barely pull your old underwear over it, and you’d long given up wearing anything with a waistband. your stomach sat like a heavy globe on your lap, skin tight and itchy and patterned now with angry pink lines. your nipples darkened so much they looked bruised and your bras were stained from constant leaks.

you used to cry about it.

used to beg him to tell you you still looked pretty. but he barely touched you anymore. said he was tired. said he didn’t feel attracted to you when you were like this.

you’d scream and ask what like this meant.

he’d say he didn’t mean it like that.

you stopped asking after that.

you weren’t even supposed to be pregnant. he said he was gonna pull out. he said it was an accident. and when you peed on that stick and came out crying, he just stood there. said you should think about options.

but you couldn’t.

you’d felt something the second that second line appeared.

you felt it now too. every kick. every roll. you knew you were doing this alone but you still felt… alive.

horny. god, it was sick. but you were always wet. always aching. even now as you waddled beside your friend in a too-tight sundress, your thighs chafing, your back sweaty, your breasts heavy and bouncing slightly with every step. your belly was pushing the fabric so far forward the dress looked see-through from how taut it was stretched.

you’d only come out to buy pacifiers.

but now you were sweating through your dress and hungry and needed to pee.

you were mid-sentence when it happened.

a loud horn. a screech.

your friend screamed and yanked your arm so hard you almost toppled.

you screamed too, not even thinking, not even breathing—just instinct, arms wrapping your belly, feet locking in place, every nerve in your body snapping shut like a cage.

the car missed you by a hair.

but the fear made you lose control.

a gush of hot piss rushed down your thighs, soaking your dress. you felt it drip into your shoes.

your face burned.

your heart thudded in your ears and your breath caught in your throat as the truck skidded to a stop, tires shrieking.

and then the door opened.

you barely heard your friend swearing beside you, too dazed to focus on anything but the figure that stepped out.

he was huge.

broad in the way that filled doorways. thick thighs wrapped in black canvas, boots heavy enough to crush bones, shoulders stretching a plain t-shirt that looked dark grey but might’ve once been black. sweat clung to the sides of his throat, his sleeves rolled tight over veiny forearms, one thick vein bulging from his neck like a rope as he walked forward.

he had a scar across his lip.

his eyes were green.

they hit you like a truck harder than the one he almost drove into you.

his gaze dropped immediately.

to your soaked thighs.

to the wet fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the underside of your belly, the hard outline of your nipples through your dress.

he didn’t blink.

and then, for a split second, he breathed in.

like he could smell you.

you felt your knees buckle.

your lips parted.

and in that moment, neither of you said a word.

you couldn’t move.

your soaked shoes squelched when you shifted and the piss had already cooled between your thighs, clinging to the inside of your knees, dripping down to your ankles. your fingers were locked around the underside of your belly, cradling the heavy weight like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth. you were trembling. cheeks flushed. eyes wide and wet.

he stopped right in front of you.

and stared.

your stomach, tight and round and stretching the fabric until it went sheer under the light. your breasts, so full and heavy the seams of your sundress were straining, nipples clearly outlined and puckered. the patch of soaked cotton between your thighs, dark and humiliated.

aecha’s voice cut through the air before you could even catch your breath.

are you crazy?!

her words snapped the silence like a whip.

you were still frozen, heart pounding in your throat, thighs sticky, feet soaked. the heat of your piss had already turned cold, clinging to your skin and dripping down to your ankles, your sandals squelching softly beneath you. you clutched the underside of your belly tighter, like it might slip out of you if you let go.

she spun on him, voice sharper now.

you didn’t even stop at the red light. are you fucking insane?! you almost hit her!

toji’s eyes didn’t leave your body.

he didn’t flinch.

his head turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge her—but his gaze kept dragging back to you, slow and tense like his jaw.

his tongue moved behind his cheek before he exhaled low, steady.

i didn’t see them.

his voice was flat. deep. rough like it hadn’t been used in hours.

you were still gasping, lips parted, your belly rising and falling beneath your dress as you tried to breathe through the shock. you could feel the fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, your thighs, your inner legs slick with piss and sweat. your friend hadn’t noticed yet. she was too busy stepping in front of you, protective, furious.

she’s pregnant, she snapped. look at her! she pissed herself, you asshole! you think this is okay?

toji didn’t move.

he looked down. at your legs. your shoes. the dark patch spread between your thighs. his eyes didn’t jerk away like most men. they stayed there. his lashes heavy, mouth tense.

i didn’t mean to scare her, he said, slower now, quieter.

his shoulders rolled as he breathed again, but the breath was tight. controlled.

you barely heard them. your ears were ringing. all you could do was stand there, trembling, hands gripping your belly like a shield, heart still stuck in your throat. you weren’t crying. not yet. but your eyes had gone blurry, hot, wet.

you blinked once and your vision caught him.

he was massive.

his chest stretched the fabric of his shirt. veins curled over the bend of his arms like rope. a scar dragged the corner of his lip. his hair was damp at the temples like he’d been sweating behind the wheel.

his mouth moved like he was about to speak, but then you shifted your weight and your belly moved again—soft and slow—and his mouth stopped moving.

his jaw locked.

his gaze traced the underside of your belly like he was memorizing it.

sir, what the fuck, her voice hit again, too close this time.

her hand was on your elbow now, tugging you back instinctively. you took a step, one sandal slipping slightly, the sound wet.

she kept yelling, waving an arm toward the truck, toward the red light, but his attention didn’t drift again.

it was glued to you.

and when he spoke, his voice was more clipped now.

i’ll drive you to a hospital.

your friend let out a sharp breath.

oh, so now you’re gonna be helpful? you try to kill us and now you’re suddenly a gentleman? get the fuck out of here. you’re lucky she’s okay.

he exhaled through his nose, slower this time.

he looked like he was about to argue but then you moved again.

your thighs rubbed. your belly shifted. your chest rose—and the outline of your nipples was visible now, two swollen circles pressing through the cotton. your dress clung to the wetness between your legs. your lips were parted. your eyes glossy.

his face twitched.

your voice broke the moment. small, quiet, soft like you’d forgotten how to speak.

s’kay… sir…

it was barely more than a breath.

you hadn’t even meant to say it.

you just wanted the heat to end. the embarrassment. the tension. you weren’t thinking.

but the second it left your mouth, he changed.

his stomach pulled tight under his shirt. his shoulders rose just slightly—his whole body flexed, once, like he was biting something back. he swallowed hard and you watched his throat twitch.

he didn’t say anything.

he just stared.

and in that second, you could feel it.

the shift in the air. the burn behind his eyes. the way he was looking at you—not like a man who made a mistake. not like someone worried.

like someone starving.

you lowered your eyes, breath shallow, and let your arms hug your belly again.

he stepped forward once.

and your friend moved to block him again, furious.

you’re not going near her. we’re calling someone. you’re a fucking pervert.

he didn’t answer.

his eyes dropped one last time to your thighs, your roundness, the soaked patch darkening your dress.

he clenched his jaw.

you were still trembling when you heard her again.

your friend’s voice—loud, breathy, full of panic and disgust—like she was trying to speak enough outrage for the both of you.

you could barely process the words. your pulse was ringing in your ears, blood hot and wet behind your knees, and your thighs were still slick with piss, sticky and clinging under the weight of your sundress. the fabric sucked to your skin now, outlining the full curve of your belly, your swollen breasts, the soft part of your ass that had doubled in size since month four.

he was still standing there. staring.

his body hadn’t moved. broad frame parked right in front of you like a barricade. thick arms loose at his sides, fists flexed once—like his hands were caught between apology and something darker.

she was still yelling, something about suing, about the red light, about how you could’ve fallen. how you could’ve lost the baby.

but the words didn’t feel real.

only the ache in your bladder. the hum in your belly. the burn in your throat.

you blinked. the back of your hand brushed your stomach again, slow and automatic, like your body was trying to shush itself. like maybe if you rubbed enough, the heat would stop climbing.

you looked up at him.

it took effort to speak, voice thin and scratchy from the shock.

he didn’t mean to.

your friend stopped.

turned to you like you’d just betrayed her.

what?

you could barely meet her eyes.

it’s okay. really. just—just calm down.

he didn’t even touch me, you wanted to say. he didn’t hurt me. you couldn’t explain the tremble in your knees, the way your fingers curled tighter under your stomach like you were shielding something sacred.

toji’s voice came low behind you.

not sharp. not defensive. just heavy. irritated.

you need to stop yelling.

he wasn’t looking at your friend.

he was looking at you.

she’s already scared.

the air went quiet for a beat.

your friend scoffed, eyes darting between the two of you like she couldn’t believe what was happening. like she was about to explode.

and still, he didn’t move.

he was so much bigger up close.

you hadn’t realized how much until now.

he was standing in front of you fully, body blocking the sun, taller by at least a foot. his chest rose slow and thick under a worn black tee, his belt sitting snug across a hard waist and broad hips, cargo pants hugging his thighs. the outline of his biceps twitched slightly under rolled sleeves. his neck, veined and flexing with each slow breath, looked like it could snap jaws.

he looked down at you like he was studying something raw.

a creature he’d never seen before.

he glanced once more at your belly—still shifting softly with the baby’s movement—then back to your face.

you barely reached his chest.

you rubbed your bump again, slower this time. you weren’t thinking. your fingers just needed to move.

the silence was thick now. uncomfortable.

and he broke it.

let me take you to a hospital.

his voice was lower now. slower. his throat worked through a swallow as he added—

or at least let me buy you new shoes. new clothes.

his eyes dropped to the puddle near your feet.

your soaked sandals. the piss glistening across the tops of your feet, tracing your ankles, your calves.

you didn’t answer right away. your fingers were still rubbing slow circles at the top of your belly, like a woman hypnotized. your lips felt dry, but your eyes were soft now, too soft, blinking slow like you were calming down—because he was calm.

he was so calm.

and your friend was standing beside you, breathing hard, arms crossed, trying to regain control.

we don’t need your help.

toji didn’t even look at her.

he took one half-step closer. not enough to threaten. just enough that you could smell him.

you tipped your head back to look up at him, lashes fluttering as the shadow of his body covered yours again, heat crawling up your neck like shame.

but he didn’t mock you.

he didn’t pity you.

he just looked at you like he saw everything.

your fattened thighs, your stretched stomach, the leak-stained crotch of your dress, the quiet way you trembled under pressure and still tried to be good.

you didn’t know why your lips moved again.

but they did.

soft. breathy.

okay…

your friend made a noise behind you, somewhere between disbelief and rage.

you didn’t hear her.

you were still staring up at him.

and he—

he hadn’t blinked once.

aecha’s voice came sharp behind you.

tighter this time. pissed. frantic.

no.

you flinched.

no, you don’t know him. you don’t even know him. just because he’s got some fancy car and a belt that costs more than your rent doesn’t mean you can trust him.

her hand wrapped around your wrist without asking, tugging once. hard. like she thought if she pulled fast enough, you’d snap out of whatever spell you were under.

but it wasn’t a spell.

you screamed.

not loud. not theatrical. just a soft, strained, pregnant scream—high and aching, more like a cry than a yell. your sandals squeaked, your balance slipped, and your free hand flew to your belly protectively as your whole body buckled forward.

aecha.

you whined it. breathless.

what’s wrong with you?

tears blinked down your cheeks without warning. hot, fast, shameful. your voice cracked around the edges, too hormonal, too broken, your other hand still pressed over the top of your belly like you were cradling the baby through the shock.

aecha didn’t back off.

she was fuming.

no. i’m not letting you go anywhere with him. i don’t care how he talks or how fucking pretty you think he is. he’s a stranger, and you’re pissing yourself in the street, and you’re six months pregnant—your boyfriend is going to flip out.

you snapped your wrist from her grip before you realized you were moving.

don’t.

you yanked your arm away with a force you didn’t know you had, your breath ragged now, lips trembling.

dae wouldn’t even care.

you didn’t mean to say it. it came out like a gasp.

if dae was here, he’d be embarrassed. he wouldn’t be helping. he’d look at me like i’m disgusting.

you paused, one hand still pressed against your belly, dress soaked and clinging to your thighs.

he wouldn’t have stopped the car.

aecha’s face twisted. something between betrayal and helpless rage.

then fucking go, she hissed. her arms went up, face burning red.

go with your pervert. good luck.

she glanced once over your shoulder at him, then back to you, eyes narrowing.

good luck, slut.

and then she turned.

she didn’t say goodbye.

you stared after her, stunned, lips parted, heart thudding in your throat.

and that’s when you felt it.

warmth behind you. a shadow moving closer. no touch. no breath. just presence. heavy and thick and masculine and impossible to ignore.

you didn’t have to look to know it was him.

he was behind you now.

and towering.

his voice came low. not soft. not mean. just flat with quiet judgment.

looks like you got some issues to work through with your people.

a pause.

let’s go, pretty girl.

you blinked slow.

you turned your head, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder.

you could smell him.

spiced cologne. versace eros. musk and heat and the faint burn of a cigar smoked hours ago. not fresh. just clinging to him like memory. like sin.

you didn’t say anything.

you just started walking.

your steps were slow. sticky. the wet fabric between your thighs chafing. your breath still uneven. your face hot with shame.

he didn’t guide you. didn’t rush.

he walked ahead, a step or two in front of you, broad shoulders stretching his shirt. his back was wide. tapering into that solid waist, thick belt, heavy boots. he opened the passenger door of his black range rover and held it without a word.

you stood there.

staring at the interior. the leather seats. the glossy touchscreen. the quiet hum of luxury. the cleanliness.

your eyes flicked down.

you were soaked.

your legs were dripping again, slowly, and the hem of your dress was stained from where the piss had clung and dried along your thighs.

your voice was so small when it came out you almost didn’t hear it.

do you have… a towel or something i can sit on?

he turned his head toward you.

his brows rose. barely.

and then a quiet snort. not amused. not cruel. just slightly exasperated.

he tilted his head, leaned an elbow on the door, and looked down at you fully now. his pecs flexed under the cotton of his shirt as he breathed, arms heavy and veined, his expression unreadable except for the bare twitch in his jaw.

it’s just piss.

you flinched.

he blinked slow. looked at the seat. looked back at you.

a lil mess.

his eyes dropped once—belly, tits, thighs.

ya think i care?

his voice dropped lower.

i’ll get it cleaned. that’s what car washers are for.

he leaned in just a little.

what you should care about is that you didn’t get your belly crushed by a fuckin truck.

you blinked again, glassy-eyed.

now sit.

you nodded.

slow. obedient.

and you did.

the leather stuck to the backs of your thighs the second you sat.

it was warm. not from the sun, but from the seat itself, like his truck had been running long enough to trap body heat inside, to soak it into the cushions. the piss that had dried into your panties dampened again from the pressure, and you could feel it pressing up, warm and slick between your thighs as your weight sank in. the stretch of your hips forced your knees to spread slightly, and your belly rose high between them, taut and round and full, pushing against the lower curve of your breasts. the seatbelt was too tight. the air smelled like pine and men’s cologne and the lingering ghost of a cigar—smoke and sweetness, burnt sugar and old breath. your breath stuttered. your fingers hovered over the seatbelt, unsure where to start. your hands were trembling. your panties were sticking to your folds. your thighs still burned. and he was standing there. outside. his shadow cutting across your lap through the windshield, frame so wide he filled the driver’s side window before even opening the door. you looked down at yourself and felt so exposed, even in the air-conditioned silence of his car. your nipples were hard again. your stomach shifted. your lower back was starting to ache but you didn’t say anything. you just sat there with your knees sticky and apart and your fingers curled in your lap like a child, body sore, face hot, mouth dry, and the part that scared you most was how safe you felt. how wet you were. how good it felt to be looked at. not with pity. not with disgust. not like dae did. but like you were something to keep. your breath hitched as he finally opened his door and slid in—his presence loud even in silence, engine purring as he shut the door and filled the cabin with nothing but heat and him. toji.

and you couldn’t look at him yet. not yet. not without gasping.

he drove with the kind of ease that only came from a man who was used to being in control. one hand on the wheel, broad palm curved over the leather grip, the other resting low on his thigh, thumb tapping the denim like a rhythm he didn’t notice. he slouched into the seat but still took up all the space—spread knees, wide back, the muscle in his forearm flexing every time the car turned. the cabin was cool but heavy with heat, the kind that lingered after bodies had been inside too long. the faint hum of the engine, the low thud of tires rolling over patched concrete, the quiet pulse of the air vents—it all blurred together as the city smeared past the windows.

you hadn’t said much since getting in.

you were still adjusting to the way the leather clung to your thighs. your stomach sat heavy in your lap, tight and round, straining the fabric of your dress, rising and falling with each uneven breath. the belt stretched uncomfortably across the slope of your belly, biting a little into your side, and your feet had already begun to swell again. you stared out the passenger window, arms curled loosely around yourself, hands smoothing down the same spot over and over—just below your navel, like you were trying to convince the baby inside that everything was fine. that you weren’t trembling. that you hadn’t just been humiliated in the street.

his voice broke through the hum.

how far along?

you didn’t look at him. just blinked slowly, lips parted from the weight of everything.

six months.

he hummed low. not a word. just that sound men made when they were thinking but didn’t want to give too much away.

you like it?

you breathed out through your nose. not a laugh. not an answer. just something tired.

it’s hard.

you could feel his eyes on you even if he didn’t turn his head. just that quiet, crawling weight of being watched. it didn’t feel judgmental. just present. too present.

in his head, he compared you to hana.

hana, who used to stand in front of the mirror pinching her skin between her fingers like it was a threat. hana, who rationed her food in ounces. hana, who said things like my body is my business and i don’t owe anyone a baby and then cried when her period made her bloat. he hadn’t seen her naked in months. hadn’t wanted to. she was delicate, yes. beautiful in the way you admire from far away. but she didn’t feel real. not like this.

you—soft, flushed, visibly struggling to stay upright in the passenger seat, leaking into your soaked panties, cheeks blotched, thighs swollen, belly round and shifting beneath your own hand—you looked like a woman who had been taken. like you’d been filled up and left to carry it, like your body had bloomed in real time from pain and pressure and feral need. you looked like you needed someone to hold you up and drag you through the fire, not give you protein shake recipes.

he shifted in his seat, thumb tapping harder.

the screen lit up.

hana.

incoming call.

you saw it. you didn’t need to stare. the photo—her white teeth, perfect tan, frozen in that fake-candid look. the call pulsing on the glossy black screen, vibrating softly beneath it.

he ignored it.

you said nothing.

it came back. again. same call. same name.

his jaw ticked once. he silenced it with a flick of his finger, then pressed into the touchscreen and disconnected bluetooth completely.

you heard him clear his throat. like it meant nothing.

got any cravings? want me to get you some sushis.

your eyes drifted toward him, half-lidded. your lips curved, lazy. slow.

he was trying.

you’re really gonna offer sushi to a pregnant woman?

you turned your head to the side and looked at him, properly, for the first time.

he didn’t smile, but his lip twitched. the scar across it stretched. he looked back at the road.

look, i don’t know the rules.

his voice was rougher now. the kind of hoarse that came from clenching too long, holding something in.

you rested your cheek against the window for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as you rubbed your belly again.

mmm. just get me something greasy.

he glanced sideways. the kind of glance that scanned too much in too little time. his eyes dipped over your knees, your thighs, the curve of your ass flattened against the seat, the soft roll of your hip pushing against the seatbelt.

anything in particular?

you shrugged.

fast food. something shitty.

he laughed—barely—but it cracked his chest open. a low, grating sound, deep from his stomach. he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and muttered something like okay under his breath, his eyes lingering longer this time. not on your belly.

on your mouth. your thighs. the way you shifted when you said shitty like you wanted to be seen.

you sat there. leaking. swollen. unbothered.

he turned the wheel one-handed again.

and took the next exit.

he didn’t talk too much at first.

his voice had that weight to it—masculine in the quiet way, the kind of voice that stayed low, gravelly, a little dry at the edges like it only got used when necessary. deep but not showy. like he could make your whole name sound filthy just by saying it once in that slow, half-bored tone.

but now that the silence had cracked, he let the words come easier.

you didn’t even know how the conversation started. he said something about how hot it was lately, how the city smelled like pavement and sweat, and how your man should’ve been the one out there with you, carrying your bags, watching the road.

you hummed. didn’t say much. just rubbed your belly and pretended you weren’t throbbing between the legs.

his voice kept going.

sometimes steady, sometimes quiet, always low. god, so low. like his whole chest vibrated with it. and you tried not to react. you crossed your legs and then uncrossed them. you shifted in your seat and every time the tires hit a bump in the road, your swollen breasts bounced under your dress, nipples raw and aching. you knew. you knew he noticed. his hand never left the wheel but his jaw kept flexing tighter.

your thighs rubbed with every movement, sticky with sweat, the soaked fabric of your dress wedging between them like it belonged there. your sundress had ridden up almost to your hip by now and you hadn’t even realized until his eyes dropped for a second too long at a red light and he caught the crease where your thigh met the swell of your ass.

he didn’t say anything.

but he knew you saw him look.

you twirled your hair around your fingers and turned toward the window again, pretending not to care. pretending you weren’t horny out of your mind. pretending your pussy wasn’t hot and wet and swollen, pressed into your ruined panties, clenching every time he spoke low beside you.

he sounded like he could fuck with his voice alone.

the kind of voice that didn’t rush. didn’t ask permission. the kind that told you what to do and made you want to do it, even while your pride made you cross your arms tighter under your sore tits and act like you were listening to the radio instead.

he said something about how nobody gave a fuck anymore. how men these days were soft. too scared to deal with blood or stretch marks or leaking or mess.

you glanced at him out the corner of your eye.

and you couldn’t help it.

you smiled.

a tiny little smirk tugged the corner of your mouth and you let it sit there, quiet, like a secret.

he caught it.

he didn’t say anything at first. just glanced back.

what?

his voice curved a little. not quite teasing. but it had a different texture now. a subtle pull. a hook.

nothing, you said, twisting your hair again.

he didn’t push.

you wished he would.

you were chewing the inside of your cheek now, pressing your thighs together, trying to sit still but you couldn’t. everything ached. your back. your feet. your pussy. you wanted him to say something disgusting. you wanted him to stop acting normal. to reach over and drag your leg over his thigh and press your hand to the bulge you knew had to be there.

but he didn’t.

he just drove like he wasn’t about to lose it.

like he hadn’t been staring at your soaked thighs ten minutes ago like he was starving.

he adjusted the mirror. rubbed the back of his neck again with that big, veiny hand. cleared his throat like it might calm something in him.

you liked the way he drove.

one hand on the wheel. broad fingers tapping sometimes. arm flexed enough to make the veins shift up his skin, thick forearm stretched out under the sun. he leaned back a little more now, like he was getting comfortable.

you peeked at his lap.

quick.

low.

his zipper was bulging slightly. not obscene. just present. enough to make your mouth dry.

he asked if you were always from the city. what you did before. what you were planning to name the baby. he didn’t sound like he cared for small talk—he sounded like he wanted to know. like he’d memorize every word. like he’d store it somewhere.

you gave short answers. didn’t want to talk too much or seem desperate. you weren’t the kind of girl who poured her heart into the first man with a car and muscles and a voice that made her spine buzz.

but you were squeezing your thighs together again.

and he noticed.

you knew he did.

he didn’t speak for a while after that. just breathed.

the window was cracked and his cologne was still thick in the air—versace eros and something else. tobacco. his skin. sweat. something dark.

you hated how much you liked it.

he asked if you needed to stop. if you were hungry again. if there was anything he could get you.

and you couldn’t stop your lips curling again.

you didn’t even look at him when you said it.

i already told you.

his eyes flicked toward you.

fast food. nothing cute.

he huffed a breath out his nose.

half laugh. half groan.

you eat like a guy.

you smiled wider.

you drive like a guy.

he laughed at that. really laughed. voice deeper when it cracked open like that, his grin pulling crooked over his scar.

you like it?

you turned toward the window again.

smiled.

maybe.

and god—he wanted to pull over.

he wanted to stop the car right there and make you say it again but slower. messier. with your lips wrapped around the word.

his hand flexed tighter on the wheel.

and you?

you just kept rubbing your belly.

playing innocent.

and bouncing softly with every bump in the road.

the dress was too small.

he’d handed it to you outside the fitting room like it was just a quick fix. said nothing special, just something soft for now. it wasn’t fancy—just a blush-colored thing, simple cotton, ribbed texture with a soft hem and v-neck that dipped too low—but you didn’t expect it to cling like it did.

it pulled tight under your chest the second you slid it down. the fabric caught the curve of your breasts and pressed there, lifting them up without a bra, the cotton molding around the swollen weight of them like a second skin. you could see the dark outline of your nipples through it immediately. the hem refused to go past your thighs. it stopped high—mid-thigh in the front, rising even more in the back where your ass had filled out from the pregnancy. the side seams looked stretched already. you couldn’t even bend over in it without flashing everything.

but it was soft. and it was his.

and when you stepped out, biting your lip, shifting your weight, mumbling something about how fat you felt—he didn’t laugh. didn’t tease.

he just looked at you.

and nodded once.

perfect.

you didn’t realize how high the heat would climb until after lunch. it was already late—sun starting to slope orange against the sky—and the fast food had settled heavy in your stomach, mixing with the bloat of hormones and heat. you felt stuffed. full. thighs rubbed when you walked. your black panties were too tight now, sticking to the lips of your pussy under the cotton, digging into the crease of your hip. every step you took, you felt them ride higher. cling deeper.

and you liked it.

he helped you back into the car again, hand resting on your hip as you climbed in slow, your belly swaying, the thin dress catching against your ass. he adjusted the door for you, hand brushing lower than it needed to go, steadying you—and the pressure of his palm against your waist made your thighs clench before you could stop it.

you bit your lip.

looked up at him.

he didn’t say anything.

but he was smirking.

and you didn’t even hide your smile when you leaned back in the seat and let the dress ride up higher.

you lounged sideways in the passenger seat now, belly rising in the middle, thighs spread slightly, one hand idly smoothing the front of the dress while the other twisted into your hair. your cleavage was soft and obvious, breasts heavy and pushed up by the tight cut of the neckline, stretch marks faintly visible along the upper curve. you let your legs fall open just enough that the edge of your panties peeked out. black. soaked. tight around your hips.

he didn’t say anything.

but he wasn’t pretending not to look.

the screen buzzed once—another call from hana—and he shut it off with a flick of his thumb. didn’t even flinch.

thank you, you murmured, not meeting his eyes.

for the dress. for the food.

your voice was warm. syrupy. that kind of sweet that made men think they weren’t being manipulated.

and sorry, you added. about my friend. she’s always been like that.

he raised an eyebrow, glancing over at you as he pulled onto the highway.

like what?

bitter.

you smiled, softer this time.

we’ve known each other since high school. she’s… competitive. when we were younger, if i got attention from guys, she’d make this face. like she was offended by it.

his jaw worked as he merged lanes.

so she’s always had that energy.

you nodded.

mhm. the you-think-you’re-special energy. the i’d-look-better-in-that energy. she never liked when men paid attention to someone else.

he nodded slowly.

yeah.

his voice was darker now. not angry. just quiet.

i get it.

you watched him for a second. the way his neck flexed, one hand still loose on the wheel. his chest rising under the soft stretch of his tee. the bulk of him completely taking over the driver’s seat like the car was made around him.

he didn’t ask anything for a while.

then—

your boyfriend.

he said it flat.

he lucky to have someone like you?

your smile curled slowly.

you didn’t answer right away.

just twisted your hair tighter around your finger and dropped your eyes to your lap.

soft giggle.

i think he’s still figuring that out.

toji exhaled through his nose. one of those deep, quiet sounds men make when they want to say a hundred things and swallow them all.

he looked at your thighs again.

your stomach.

the line of your black panties between your legs.

he didn’t hide it this time.

you saw him look.

you didn’t stop him.

you smiled again.

he’s not exactly hype about the whole baby thing, you said lightly, adjusting your tits with one arm as you spoke, pretending it was casual.

he wanted me to end it.

toji didn’t respond.

he was gripping the wheel tighter now. his knuckles pale.

and you?

you shifted again. thighs spread wider. dress riding up.

i wanted it.

he didn’t look away.

you smiled again—slow, slutty, aching from the inside out.

you asked, and he answered.

my girlfriend hana doesn’t want kids too, he said, voice rough now.

you tilted your head.

but you do.

he didn’t answer.

he didn’t need to.

you could feel it.

and the silence sat between you now—thick, hot, alive.

your panties were soaked.

and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

the air had gotten quieter.

not awkward, not stiff—but that kind of silence that starts to gather when two people are sitting too close and pretending they’re not thinking the same thing.

you were still lounging in the seat, belly rising with every breath, thighs parted from the weight of it all, the pink dress riding high enough now to tease the crease between your leg and hip. your panties had long soaked through. you could feel it each time you shifted, the cotton sticking and pulling between your lips. it was obscene, how hot and wet you were just from talking to him.

and he was still pretending to drive like it was nothing.

you didn’t know what made you do it.

maybe it was the way he stared at the road like it had done something to him. maybe it was the clench of his jaw when you mentioned your boyfriend not being excited. maybe it was the vein that curled over his hand as he gripped the steering wheel, that thick forearm flexing with every slight movement.

but when you looked at him again—really looked—something caught in your chest.

you gasped. soft. barely audible. more breath than voice.

he noticed.

you didn’t hide it this time.

he turned his head slightly, still driving, and you saw it—the frustration sitting in his jaw, the way his mouth tightened around it like he was chewing something bitter.

you okay?

you nodded, but your eyes were still on him. still wide.

he sighed.

it’s nothing.

he glanced over at you again.

i just think your man’s an idiot. that’s all.

you blinked slowly.

your hand rubbed over your stomach again, gently, without thinking.

i don’t get it either.

his mouth twitched. like he didn’t want to say what came next but couldn’t stop it.

you show up like this. all soft. glowing. you chose this. carried it. wear it like it’s yours. your back’s hurting and you’re still smiling like it’s worth it.

he ran a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated.

and some guy has that—you—willingly, and he’s too fuckin blind to know what he’s got.

you shifted again. slowly. your thighs spread further, the hem of the dress crawling higher.

you looked out the window to steady yourself.

he kept going.

hana froze her eggs last year. told me she wanted to preserve her options. said pregnancy’s a trauma to the body.

he scoffed once. dry.

called it that word—trauma. like it’s a disease.

your brows knit as you turned back to him.

she can, though. right? she’s able to?

he nodded once.

yeah.

then she’s stupid.

your voice was firm. no giggle. no sugar.

there’s so many women who can’t. who’d kill to carry once. and she can? and won’t?

he didn’t answer right away.

he looked straight ahead, chest rising.

i always wanted it, you know.

you were quiet now.

wanted a team. kids everywhere. house noisy. gym gear all over the floor. sons i could raise hard. teach them not to take shit.

he paused.

and girls i’d spoil so much they’d never need some prick to tell them they’re pretty.

you bit your lip.

your voice came quieter now.

you’d be a good one.

he looked at you.

not with pity.

not like you were some single mom in need of saving.

he looked at you like you were his already.

and you touched him.

you didn’t think. you just let your fingers reach across the console, brushing against the warm skin of his arm, right below the sleeve.

it was harder than you expected.

dense. hot. tight with muscle.

your fingers looked small against it—soft and slow as they moved over the grain of his forearm, up toward the curve of his bicep.

he didn’t move.

but his knuckles whitened on the wheel.

you’re not wrong, he said finally.

his voice was lower now. hoarse like it was dragged up through his chest.

i don’t care about weight. i don’t care if she’s sore or messy or loud or cries for no reason. i’d still take care of her. i’d train harder. go to the gym more. lift more. carry her if i had to.

he paused.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, your hand still resting against his arm, heat from his skin seeping into your palm.

some women don’t know how lucky they are.

he looked at you again.

you think i’m lucky?

you met his gaze, cheeks flushed, breath warm.

you don’t need to ask.

he didn’t smile.

not really.

but his hand shifted.

and yours stayed where it was.

you kept it there, resting gently against the rough swell of his forearm like it had a right to be there, like it belonged. your fingers were soft, too soft—he could feel the difference instantly, how much smaller they were, how different they felt from what he was used to. you weren’t doing anything special. you weren’t stroking or gripping. you were just there. pressing against him like it was natural. like you didn’t need to ask.

you watched the road, but you weren’t looking at it. your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing. you were too aware of the heat rising up your thighs again, of the wetness clinging under your panties, of how tight your dress felt now that you’d eaten. your belly was heavier. the pressure made you spread your legs more, the hem riding up again, black panties peeking in the corner of his eye as he turned the wheel.

you glanced at him.

his jaw was still clenched.

he looked straight ahead, his mouth drawn tight, hand gripping the wheel like it owed him something. but he didn’t tell you to move. didn’t shrug you off. didn’t say a word about the way your palm was still pressed to his skin, how your nails had grazed a vein a minute ago and made it twitch under your touch.

you swallowed softly.

he finally spoke again, voice rougher than before, like gravel pressed into asphalt.

i tried to talk to her about it once.

his throat moved as he swallowed, fingers tapping once against the leather of the wheel.

told her it wasn’t about control or forcing her to be something she’s not. it was about what i wanted.

you listened.

not with pity. not to flatter him.

but because he sounded tired.

not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

just a man who’d spent too long wanting the wrong thing from someone who couldn’t give it.

she said i was trying to change her.

he laughed, but it wasn’t a good one. it was hollow, low in his chest.

i said i’d love her no matter what. even if she gained weight. even if she got pregnant by accident and hated it at first. even if she screamed through every month.

he paused, jaw tightening again.

told her i’d be there. i’d train harder. protect her. spoil her if she needed it.

he turned to look at you for just a second.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, biting your lip.

your hand squeezed his arm—just once, soft, reassuring—but you didn’t pull away.

some women just… don’t get it.

your voice was quiet now.

they want to be wanted, but not needed. they want attention but not weight.

you felt the tears sting at your throat suddenly. not the dramatic kind. just that little ache when someone says something that hits too close.

and you said, almost in a whisper—

i would’ve killed to hear that from my boyfriend.

toji turned his head again.

looked at you.

really looked.

his eyes dropped—slow, unhurried—to the soft curve of your belly, the gentle way your dress clung to the roundness, the stretch of the fabric across your full breasts, the faint peek of your black panties between your thick thighs, the sheen of sweat under your cleavage.

he looked back up.

you’re too good for him.

your heart knocked once against your ribs.

you shouldn’t say that.

but you didn’t mean it.

he didn’t answer.

his hand left the wheel for just a second—long enough to rake through his messy hair again, push it back like he was trying to cool himself down.

he laughed once, quieter this time, more like an exhale through his nose.

you’re bold for a pregnant woman.

you smiled.

pregnancy makes me bold.

you shifted again, crossing your legs in the seat, the fabric stretching tighter across your ass as your stomach jutted higher. your thighs clamped together, sticking from the heat. your dress hiked again, and the waistband of your panties caught just under the curve of your belly.

you didn’t bother to fix it.

he didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t looking.

and when his eyes dragged up from between your thighs to your breasts again, you let them linger.

he said, softer this time—

it’s good.

his voice was low now, like it belonged in a bedroom and not a car.

that women like you exist.

you tilted your head, letting the air settle.

you mean messy? tired? hungry? always needing help standing up?

he chuckled once.

i mean real. not empty.

you smiled again, slower this time.

stretch marks and all?

his answer was immediate.

especially those.

and you laughed. but it broke into a soft sigh, because you believed him. you wanted to. even if it wasn’t your name he’d said over the phone. even if he hadn’t touched you. even if you were still pretending this was just a ride.

he didn’t take his eyes off you at the next red light.

and you didn’t look away either.

you just rested your hand on your belly again.

and kept your legs parted.

you shifted again in the seat.

slow. deliberate.

your thighs parted wider as you leaned back against the cool leather, one hand resting under your belly, the other smoothing up toward the top curve of it, fingers trembling slightly as the pressure shifted. you could feel the kick coming before it happened—the little roll beneath your skin, the low tight push that made your breath catch in your throat.

and then—there. sharp, firm.

you gasped.

not soft this time.

a real sound, laced with something deeper—like a moan that didn’t know where it belonged. it left your mouth open, lips parted wet, and your head tipped back for a second as your thighs shifted again, trying to accommodate the stretch of movement inside you.

mpf fuck.

you whispered it like it was nothing. like it belonged to the air between you.

he gripped the wheel tighter.

you rubbed your bump again, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of your dress, just above the peak. the cotton was so tight now you could see the outline of your belly button, the shape of the kick pulsing against it.

another gasp.

you bit your lip.

his voice broke the silence. strained. low.

you alright?

you nodded slowly, still panting, still rubbing.

yeah.

you turned your head to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth open just enough that your breath hit the window when you exhaled.

he’s kicking again.

toji’s throat moved.

you hummed again, but this one was filthier—lower, breathier, like it was meant for someone. your thighs tensed, parted slightly again as your back arched gently, belly tilting forward.

you can feel it… if you want.

your voice didn’t come out innocent. not anymore.

he turned toward you—just for a second—but that second was enough.

your dress was pulled so tight now across your chest that your nipples were visibly hard beneath the fabric. your breasts were on the verge of spilling out with every bump in the road, cleavage slick and full and heaving with each moan. your thighs, spread open around your belly, let the black band of your panties peek up again, soaked and clinging. your stomach moved once more beneath your palm, the kick pressing out like a signal.

he stared.

you’re gonna make me fuckin insane, you know that?

his voice wasn’t teasing anymore.

you bit your lip again and smoothed your hand lower, pressing gently just above the kick.

he’s strong.

toji let out a breath, slow and tight, adjusting his grip on the wheel like he didn’t trust himself not to swerve off the road.

you still want to feel?

your voice was lower now. nearly a whisper. but not nervous.

you wanted this.

his hand came off the wheel.

and he reached for you.

his hand left the wheel like it was instinct. like his body moved before he gave it permission. fingers flexed once in midair, hesitating, unsure of where to go—her thigh? her belly? the waistband of those soaked black panties peeking between her legs like a secret?

you didn’t look at him at first.

you kept your eyes out the window, lashes low, rubbing slow circles over the roundest part of your stomach, where the baby had shifted again, pushing into your palm from the inside like it knew. like it was putting on a show.

you moaned again. this time softer.

higher in your throat.

a breathy little sound that wasn’t innocent but still tried to wear the costume.

toji’s breath caught. you heard it. low and hot, right before he cleared his throat and spoke again, trying to steady himself.

where?

you turned toward him slowly, like it took effort.

your lips were parted. your cheeks flushed. your thighs still slightly open, dress bunched up at the top of them now, cotton stretched so thin across your breasts it looked translucent in the light.

you lifted your hand and touched a spot—low, near the right side of your belly, just above your waistband.

here.

he moved closer.

his hand hovered now, a few inches from your stomach, broad palm trembling slightly with restraint.

you waited.

bit your lip.

tilted your head like you were thinking about something dangerous.

you don’t have to, you said softly, lashes fluttering.

but your voice betrayed you. that breathy little twist at the end made it sound like you wanted him to. like you wanted him to know you were too polite to beg but your body was aching to be touched.

he didn’t answer with words.

his hand lowered.

and pressed gently over yours.

you both gasped at the same time.

your hand was soft. his was rough—calloused, thick, hot even through the thin cotton of your dress. the weight of it on your stomach made your thighs twitch slightly, made your spine curl forward just a bit, belly pressing into his palm like it wanted to be held.

he didn’t rub. didn’t move. just rested it there.

like he was grounding himself.

the baby kicked again. hard.

your breath caught, lips twitching.

you moaned. sharper this time. almost a whimper.

he felt it.

his fingers tensed slightly, thumb brushing over the fabric where your skin curved up beneath it, tracing the shape of the movement.

his jaw clenched.

he’s strong, huh?

you nodded, biting your lip again, curling your fingers under the hem of your dress like you were fixing it—but you didn’t pull it down.

you let it bunch up more.

your thighs spread a little wider.

he’s active lately, you murmured, shifting your hips just slightly in the seat.

probably feels all my tension.

you glanced at him now. eyes glassy. lips wet.

then maybe you should relax, he said.

you giggled.

you’re sweet.

his hand didn��t move.

your stomach moved again beneath it. your dress was nearly riding up over your hips now.

you looked down at his hand.

big. veiny. flexing slightly every time your body shifted under him.

your fingers brushed his wrist—barely—just as another kick moved under the skin.

you smiled like it tickled.

and then you sighed, slow and breathy, as if the weight of his hand somehow settled your entire body.

mmh. yeah. right there.

you weren’t talking to the baby anymore.

and he knew it.

you didn’t move his hand. not even when he flexed his fingers, broad palm dragging lightly over the curve of your stomach, thumb grazing the rise of your bump like he was memorizing the weight of it. the baby kicked once more—gentler now, like it was settling—and you sighed, leaning further back into the seat, letting your legs relax, your dress riding higher with every breath.

you rubbed over his hand slowly. like it was normal. like this was something people did. your fingers traced the ridges of his knuckles, the callouses across his palm, the edge of his wrist where his veins stood out thick beneath the skin. you let your thighs part just a little more and pressed his hand flatter against the top of your belly, humming quietly like it soothed you.

he was driving slowly now. slower than needed. the streets were mostly empty, just sunset bleeding into dusk and soft city lights flickering on like sighs. the hum of the car, the soft brush of your fingers against his, the heat of your skin—it filled the air between you like smoke.

he spoke again, voice quieter now. lower. almost like he was pretending to ask something innocent, something polite.

how’re your breasts holding up?

you turned your head and looked at him, pout forming before you could stop it. your eyes were glassy again, lashes heavy, mouth open slightly from the heat pooling in your core.

mmph. sore. disgusting. huge.

you shifted in the seat, one arm sliding up to cup the weight of one. your hand barely covered it.

nipples are… dark. fat. i hate them.

toji’s jaw ticked once, fingers flexing again where they rested on your stomach. he made a soft sound. not quite agreement. not disagreement either. just… pressure.

mm. happens.

his hand slid lower, rubbing in slow circles over the tightest part of your belly.

you cupped both breasts now, tugging the dress down slightly—not too far. just enough to let the neckline pull lower, the swell of cleavage more visible, soft skin marked with faint reddish stretch lines that glowed in the warm light. you didn’t hide it. you showed him like you were showing a friend a rash. like it was helpful.

see?

he nodded once.

tight. controlled.

yeah. looks heavy.

you let out a breathy little laugh.

they are. everything’s heavy.

he rubbed lower.

your thighs twitched again.

the ride was quiet for a few more blocks. your eyes fluttered slightly, head resting against the seat. the movement of his hand over your belly had slowed, turning into gentle strokes. your fingers had drifted back to his wrist, tracing him. grounding yourself.

when he turned onto your street, the headlights caught the curve of your apartment building, familiar and dim.

you straightened a little, twisting toward the window.

he’s not here.

your voice was small. hollow.

you stared at the driveway. your boyfriend’s car wasn’t parked.

again.

you tried to sound annoyed.

but you just sounded… tired.

toji’s voice came after a beat, warm and low.

you want me to walk you up?

you hesitated.

then smiled a little.

nah. s’kay. i should walk. sitting too long makes me sore.

you started shifting in your seat, preparing to gather your bag, your limbs heavy and sticky from heat and arousal and all the weight you carried. you adjusted your dress, but didn’t pull it down all the way. you still let it sit high across your thighs.

thanks for today.

you looked at him when you said it, trying to smile fully, but your voice cracked just a bit.

really. i… i’m glad i met you.

he nodded once.

eyes steady.

but he didn’t speak.

he just reached over slowly, his hand sliding down.

at first it was casual. neutral.

his palm moved across your thigh—thick, warm—fingers curling slightly as they met the meat of it, squeezing once.

you gasped softly.

he didn’t flinch.

s’nothing, he muttered.

his hand moved slightly. back and forth. rubbing slowly over the top of your thigh.

man’s supposed to help.

his voice was deeper now. quieter.

especially when women get like this. pregnant. tired.

his hand moved again.

you were frozen.

his palm slid higher, fingers brushing over the seam of your inner thigh now—pressing, then pulling back, then pressing again like he was testing what your body would allow.

he squeezed your thigh again.

and then—lower.

just a little.

the heel of his hand brushed the crease where your pussy met your leg.

you twitched.

he didn’t react. didn’t apologize.

his voice stayed steady.

feels hot.

his palm settled there.

you looked down.

your panties were soaked. you knew they were. drooling, almost. the outline of your pussy pressing against the cotton like it was begging. swollen, puffy from the heat, from the attention, from the sheer frustration of being untouched for so long.

you moaned softly. not loud.

just a breath that came out too thick to hide.

he rubbed once more.

still pretending it was nothing.

still staring forward like he was only helping.

and you sat there. legs open. tits sore. panties wet. eyes wide.

letting him help.

you didn’t even notice how tightly you were squeezing your thighs until he pulled his hand back.

his fingers dragged slow over the seam of your skin, where your panties had already begun to stick from how wet you were. the cotton clung to your pussy, soaked and puffy, every inch of you swollen with heat and pressure and the weight of everything you weren’t getting at home.

his thumb brushed higher—just barely.

enough to graze the edge of your lips beneath the fabric.

you twitched.

gasped softly.

your eyes fluttered.

he didn’t say a word.

just rubbed his hand over your thigh again, slower this time, dragging the wetness upward—until it glistened faintly in the glow of the console light.

then he pulled back.

you watched him.

dazed. throbbing.

he didn’t meet your eyes.

just sniffed once—quiet, subtle—like clearing his nose.

but you saw the way his fingers hovered near his mouth before he wiped them quickly on his jeans.

casual. nothing to see. like he was drying sweat.

but he knew.

you both knew.

his door opened first.

the air changed immediately—the warm thud of summer night sweeping in, thick and heavy, the sound of his boots on the pavement, his keys jangling softly as he turned toward your side.

you sat there. thighs wet. heart racing.

he opened your door slowly.

his scent hit you all at once.

man. not boy.

spiced cologne and soap and something low and smoky, like the back of his neck had held a cigar once and never let it go. the smell of chest hair and heat. of someone who never needed to speak too loud.

his shadow fell across you as he leaned down.

c’mon.

you blinked.

i said i’m good, you muttered, shifting like you were going to step out.

but your knees didn’t follow.

your body was too heavy. too hot.

and he didn’t wait.

he bent down and lifted you—slow, deliberate, one arm slipping under your knees, the other beneath your back.

your ass dropped onto his forearm with a soft thud. skin to skin. hot. bare. the dress had ridden up too high now and you weren’t wearing anything under it but those soaked, thin panties.

you gasped again.

your arm looped around his neck out of instinct, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt.

toji.

mm.

he didn’t look down. didn’t adjust his grip.

just straightened with you in his arms, shifted your weight against him like you didn’t weigh anything at all.

his free hand reached into his pocket and clicked the key fob.

behind you, the car beeped softly, locking with a low whine.

you felt his bicep flex beneath you.

felt the sweat on your back.

felt the way your thighs stayed parted from how wide his arm stretched them.

you turned your head slightly, breath catching.

you didn’t have to—

your voice cracked a little.

he cut you off.

man’s not home, is he?

you swallowed.

no.

then let me do my job.

his voice was flat. clipped. almost annoyed.

he carried you to the stairs like it was nothing.

like you didn’t weigh eight months of softness and craving and water and blood and aching need.

like you weren’t pressed right against his chest, tits full and rising against him with every shallow breath.

he didn’t speak again until your feet touched the ground at the top of the stairs.

you were flushed. gasping a little from being held like that.

you know…

you turned around, one hand on the doorframe, your voice soft.

you can leave now.

his brow twitched.

just slightly.

leave?

he repeated the word like it offended him.

i didn’t carry your ass up here so you could say that.

you blinked.

he looked you up and down—slow, like he was taking inventory.

the way your dress clung to your stomach.

the wet outline between your thighs.

the stretch marks high on your tits, the way your nipples dented the cotton.

your hair twisted, messy. cheeks flushed. pupils wide.

he stepped closer.

i didn’t drive you. feed you. dress you. carry you…

he reached out—touched your belly again.

soft. reverent.

just to get dismissed like a fuckin delivery man.

you swallowed hard.

didn’t say anything.

he looked at you for another second.

and then, softly—

you want me to leave?

you didn’t answer.

your pussy said no before your mouth could.

you didn’t even pretend to argue.

you stood there in the doorway with your hand curled around the edge of your belly and your dress sticking to the curve of your ass and you said it under your breath, lashes low—

m’kay. you can stay.

he didn’t say thank you.

didn’t smirk.

he just nodded once and muttered—

that’s what i thought.

then reached past you to open the door himself, his arm brushing your side, heavy and warm, the keys still in his hand as he turned the knob like it was his house, like he’d done it before.

you stepped in first.

he followed you without hesitation, boots landing slow and deliberate across the threshold. the air inside hit different—cooler, still, softly perfumed from whatever cheap plug-in you’d tucked in the hallway outlet weeks ago. lavender. maybe vanilla. maybe just something warm and clean.

the apartment was quiet, dim but warm from the low amber bulbs you always left on in the evening. not much furniture, but what you had was yours. a small white rug. thrifted couch, overstuffed with throw pillows you never sat on. pale curtains. framed sonogram on the end table. two plastic baby bottles on a folded towel by the kitchen sink.

you turned slightly, face flushed from heat and nerves and unspeakable filth still wet between your legs, and started walking barefoot toward the living room.

your dress clung with every step. you moved slow, almost dragging your feet like you needed him to see the sway in your hips, how the hem rode higher in the back now. the air made your inner thighs prickle, sticky with your own arousal, and when you sank down into the cushions of the couch, you let your knees fall open like it was just comfort—just soreness—nothing more.

but the fabric bunched. the pink cotton stretched.

and the soft swells of your breasts pushed forward, the top of your dress scooped too low to hide the warm brown skin of your areolas. dark now. wide. peeking from the neckline like you hadn’t noticed. your belly sat heavy in your lap, tight and round and twitching now and then from the baby’s soft kicks.

toji lingered at the doorway for a second, his boots still planted on the hardwood, staring around the apartment like he needed to memorize it.

you said something light.

i picked the rug. on sale. and the plants. they’re fake, but…

you smiled to yourself, shrugging.

he looked at you.

at the rug. the table. the bottle warmer.

you wanna take your shoes off? you said, glancing down. i always do when i come in. keeps the floor clean.

he huffed softly, kneeling with one hand on the wall for balance. big hands unlacing heavy boots, sliding them off one at a time. when he stood again, he left them neatly by the door beside your white sandals, his socks thick and dark against the pale carpet.

you were already reclined into the couch. your legs bent slightly now, thighs parted, the dark triangle of your panties barely covered by the dress bunched between your knees. your stomach looked even bigger from this angle. heavy and high. tits full, round, straining the neckline.

toji walked over, slow and solid, and sat beside you without asking.

the cushion dipped under his weight.

his body pressed against yours immediately—his thigh against your thigh, the side of his arm grazing your shoulder, thick and warm and solid like concrete. he threw one arm across the back of the couch, not touching you, but hovering just close enough that you could feel the heat of it behind your neck.

he turned his head slightly.

sniffed once.

not loud. not obvious.

just a quiet inhale through his nose, slow and deep.

you smelled like something soft and edible—cheap body cream, maybe cocoa butter. something with sugar. something sticky.

he exhaled and leaned back further into the couch, eyes scanning the room again.

s’nice.

his voice was low. quieter now.

he let his hand drop lazily to your shoulder for a second, squeezing it with his thumb like it meant nothing.

you sighed, leaning into the couch more, letting your legs open slightly again, belly heavy between them, thighs pressed against his.

your panties were wet enough to leave a mark on the fabric now.

and still, your voice stayed light.

i didn’t think it’d feel this good to sit again.

you smiled.

he looked at your legs.

yeah?

you hummed.

yeah. everything’s swollen. thighs. feet. tits.

he nodded, eyes dropping to the spot where your nipple peeked from the stretch of fabric, the color darker than he imagined. rawer. wider.

he cleared his throat.

you’re… handling it well.

you giggled softly, letting your head tip to the side, toward his shoulder.

you’re handling me well.

he didn’t respond.

but his hand dropped behind your back again. heavier now.

he rubbed once, slow.

and kept breathing you in.

you didn’t move away when his hand dropped behind your back.

he wasn’t even touching you fully, not really. just resting his arm there—casual, possessive in that offhand way men like him were built to be. his forearm grazed your upper back when you shifted, and you knew he could feel it when you shivered. when you exhaled too long. when your thighs pressed tighter and the wet between them warmed into something more dangerous than just heat.

you reached lazily for the remote on the end table, the curve of your breast pressing into your belly as you leaned forward, your neckline dipping just enough that the top swell of your nipple peeked out again. dark. wide. heavy from how full you were.

he watched it.

didn’t blink.

you flicked on the TV, volume low, some late evening news hum in the background.

you adjusted yourself again, resting back into the couch, thighs parting like they needed space to breathe. you felt the wet press of your panties stick and tug at your folds, a slow, warm pulse sitting low in your gut. you didn’t fix your dress. didn’t close your legs. just leaned your head slightly toward him, acting like none of this meant anything.

you glanced up at him, your voice a little lighter now.

you want a drink or something? water? beer?

you stretched your arms a little like it was no big deal, pushing your tits up again under the tight cotton, your belly sitting perfectly round and high between your legs, pressing into the hem of your dress.

he didn’t hesitate.

i don’t need a beer when i got this.

your lips curled into a half-smile before you could stop it.

you rolled your eyes, biting your lip after like it didn’t mean anything, like the heat suddenly building in your chest and dripping down your spine didn’t just flood your panties again.

you’re so full of yourself.

your voice cracked slightly as you said it, but you smiled—flushed and warm and sore, and secretly, aching.

toji didn’t move.

he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you more than he already was.

but he noticed everything.

he saw the way your breathing changed. the way your thighs flexed. the way your dress had hiked so far up now it looked like you were halfway undressed without realizing it.

he turned his head slowly toward you, the side of his nose brushing your temple, voice rough.

and you love it.

you looked up at him.

big eyes. wet mouth. skin hot.

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t need to.

you leaned further into the couch, pretending to get comfortable—but really, you just wanted his arm closer, his thigh touching yours again.

his hand shifted behind you slightly, elbow brushing your shoulder, knuckles grazing the back of your neck in that soft, quiet way that didn’t feel intentional but was.

you reached for the throw pillow in your lap and pulled it down over your thighs, adjusting it like it was for support—but really, it was the only thing stopping you from rocking your hips into the couch.

you didn’t know what you wanted him to say next.

but you knew he knew.

and toji?

he just sat there, breathing you in, letting the tension climb. letting it drag.

the tv played quietly in front of you. meaningless noise. background to a silence so heavy it made your chest throb.

and you couldn’t help the next breath that slipped out of you.

wet. warm.

and just a little too close to a moan.

you shifted the pillow.

slowly. carefully. like you were just trying to get comfortable, just trying to support your sore thighs and aching back. but the second the edge of it pressed between your legs—right against the heat soaked into your panties—you moved again.

softer this time. lower. letting the curve of your pussy drag against the fabric like it wasn’t on purpose.

you sighed.

toji heard it.

he didn’t move. didn’t speak at first.

just watched you from the corner of his eye—your belly rising and falling, thighs tensing slightly under the cotton, your dress now so high up it barely covered the dark triangle where your panties had long been sticking to your folds.

you shifted again. slower now.

his voice came quiet.

rough in the way a man speaks when his mouth is dry but his cock is hard.

what’s it feel like?

you blinked, dazed.

what?

pregnancy.

you looked at him, surprised.

he was watching your stomach now, his hand resting behind you still, his other forearm draped along his thigh. he wasn’t touching you—but his gaze made your skin prickle like he was.

he spoke again, slower.

what’s it feel like. when you pee. when you shit. when you move. you ever feel… trapped in it?

your face flushed instantly.

you swallowed. shifted the pillow again, hips pressing forward just slightly to catch more pressure against your soaked cunt.

it’s weird, you said softly, eyes down.

i used to be normal.

toji’s brow twitched.

you shrugged, pouting slightly, rubbing your hand over the top of your bump like you were grounding yourself.

then i got… soft. everything got big. my belly. my thighs. my tits. nipples went dark. my pussy got darker too.

you laughed once—half embarrassed.

even my pee smells weird now. and i sweat more. it’s like… nothing fits. like i don’t look cute anymore.

he watched you in silence.

then hummed low in his chest.

didn’t say he agreed. didn’t nod.

just let the sound sit there.

and then he leaned back a little further.

s’just tits and pussy.

you blinked. turned toward him.

what?

he looked at you like you were the one being dramatic.

that’s all it is. your body’s doing what it’s supposed to.

he glanced once at your thighs, your dress, the faint outline of your pussy straining against the pillow you were grinding slow and subtle into.

you’re eating for two. sweating for two. feeling for two.

his voice was low now. flat. honest.

so what if your pussy looks different. that’s what it’s for.

your mouth opened slightly.

your hand pressed down harder into the pillow.

your thighs tensed.

he looked at your tits.

you said they got heavier.

you nodded slowly.

he lifted a hand, flexed it once, like remembering.

still light enough for me to carry you earlier.

thank you for reading if you made it this far 🩷 i’m sorry i couldn’t use the usual pink layout this one was just way too long 😭 but i hope the story still hit. love u. part two cmming tmrw filthier and nasty 🎀

onlypinkslut

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mrspiastri · 3 days ago

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✩ angel baby ?? 👼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, a little bit more fluff, tiny bit angsty nothing tooo bad

wc: 2.9k words

an: IM BACK BITCHES, based on this req!

When this debate had started, you could not remember, but now you were trying your best to not show how red your face looked as you laughed along with the rest of the table.

It was a regular post-race dinner, and Carlos was talking about how he couldn’t think of dating a fan of his.

“I just don’t think I could. I mean, what if they only like me for the fame, you know?”

You didn’t think much of it until your own boyfriend chimed in.

“Me too; it would weird me out, y’know?”

Now, you should have probably mentioned this to Lando at some point during the beginning of your relationship. But to be fair, he never asked, and you’d also only been dating for 8 months—so is it really such a crime to have not told him? You’d never found the chance to tell him you were a major fan of his prior to you meeting.

Of course, you recognised him when you first met—which was at a dinner party hosted in his honour for the company you worked at, who happened to be one of McLaren’s sponsors.

You internally tried your best to not lose your mind when you saw him, choosing to hide with your colleagues as they teased you for how worked up you seemed.

But what you hadn’t expected was for him to walk over to you with two flutes of champagne and then spend the entire night in conversation, with him even sneaking out early with you to get gelato and walk you home.

Ever the gentleman, he made sure to get you home safe and even waited till you reached your apartment—but not before getting your number and a promise that you’d meet him for lunch the next day.

You didn’t sleep a wink that night, too overwhelmed at the idea of going out to lunch with maybe your favourite male celebrity. And if there was a mini helmet of his from Silverstone 2024 on your bedside table, that was nobody’s business but your own.

Okay, maybe you weren’t a psycho stalker fangirl or whatever, but you did know your way around the fandom. You could list all his wins in chronological order, his podiums at each circuit, and could claim to be an owner of at least 4 (!) ln4 hoodies.

You never really admitted you used to be a fan because it was plainly embarrassing. Not to mention, it wasn’t like you actively hid it; you just didn’t care enough to remember.

Now, however, with him talking about not dating a fan, you couldn’t help but sip your wine a bit nervously as you nodded along. It was safe to say you and Lando were still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, but honestly neither of you ever thought it would stop.

To say you were enamoured by each other was an understatement, especially with the man completely wrapped around your finger—you could ask him for the world, and he’d show up with it and the stars too.

But with this new revelation, you weren’t sure how to really bring up the topic.

🪻🪻🪻

The next morning, after Lando woke you up to the scent of eggs frying and coffee being brewed, you decided to bring your line of questioning forward. He placed your plate in front of you along with your morning latte, and in that moment you tried to bring up last night’s conversation as nonchalantly as possible.

“So, last night was kind of silly, huh?’

“Whaddya mean?” He replied through a mouthful of toast.

"You know, the whole 'I’d never date a fan' thing you and Carlos were talking about. ” You took a sip as you tried to not make eye contact.

“How was that silly?”

“Like, it’s a bit childish, no? What’s wrong with being with a fan?”

“It’s just weird; like, how do I know you’re not with me because of the fame and all that?” Lando argued.

You didn’t have a response to that without sounding weird for arguing over the subject, so you let it go.

Lando, however, didn’t.

He didn’t think much of it at first. He had just shrugged and continued eating, too focused on trying not to burn his tongue on the eggs he insisted on making for you every Saturday morning.

He found it kind of funny at first. The way you suddenly seemed defensive over the topic. He didn’t think too much of it in the moment, but after he kissed your cheek and cleared your plate, he caught himself thinking about it again as he stood at the sink, running water over your empty mug.

But later, while you were out on the balcony, curled up with your laptop and replying to emails, Lando stood in the kitchen drying a mug and thinking about what you’d said.

He played the memory back in his head more times than he’d admit, narrowing in on the way you fidgeted with your coffee spoon, how you didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t like it when you looked unsure, especially not around him.

Still, life carried on. He flew off to another race weekend while you stayed back to finish a big work presentation, and your FaceTime calls stayed as sappy and full of inside jokes as ever. If anything, he only missed you more.

He didn’t bring up the fan thing again, not when he had you smiling sleepily at him over a video call at 1 am, wrapped in your fluffy robe with your hair still damp from a shower.

He didn’t even think about it when you sent him a care package to his hotel, with snacks and vitamins and a small note that said “you got this, superstar.” He even found himself re-reading that note like a lovesick idiot while sitting in the team garage between sessions.

You, on the other hand, were doing your absolute best not to spiral. The guilt wasn’t huge, but it was persistent, like a little pebble in your shoe. You’d been such a fan, not just a casual “oh yeah, he’s a good driver” kind of fan.

You were active on Twitter, defending him to the death, posting edits of him and liking every one of his photos that came on your timeline.

But you’d changed; that version of you had been real, but so was this one. The same girl who had Lando's toothbrush in her bathroom and who knew exactly how he liked his tea. You weren’t faking anything.

Still, something about admitting the truth just felt risky. What if he took it the wrong way? What if he thought the whole relationship was some long game, like you’d schemed your way into his life?

So you didn’t tell him. And time passed.

You watched more races, cheered from the sidelines or from the hotel room, always with your heart in your throat. You memorised his travel schedule better than your own. You kissed him good luck in the mornings and held him close at night when he was too tired to speak. And Lando just fell harder.

Every time he saw you waiting for him in the paddock, holding out your arms for a hug and smiling like he was the only one in the world, he swore he’d never get used to it. He was so gone for you.

🪻🪻🪻

“Don’t you get bored of me always talking about racing?” Lando questioned you as you shared a bowl of popcorn while watching some of his racing clips. He liked doing that sometimes; it was a way for him to check his mistakes while also being able to observe his victories.

“If I were bored of racing, I don’t think I’d be in a relationship with a racing driver, now would I?” You quipped, flicking his forehead affectionately.

He simply smiled at you, one of his signature cheesy grins, as he laid his head down on your lap.

You softly brushed your fingers through his curls, at the risk of him whining about you messing with the products he spent 20 minutes applying this morning.

The two of you were fixated on the screen, your eyes concentrated on his car zooming down the straights.

“Wait, which race are we watching again?” He questioned as he reached for the remote.

“Monaco 2022”. You replied deftly, popping a few kernels into your mouth.

Lando had a slightly amused look on his face, not expecting you to be so engrossed, but happy nonetheless.

“God, this one still makes me nervous,” you muttered, watching a particularly intense on-track battle.

Lando looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Still?”

You froze. “I mean, it was a good race. Real classic, y’know?”

“You watched this live?”

You tried to smile casually. “Sure. With some friends.”

His eyes narrowed just a bit, suspicious but intrigued. “Wait, how do you even remember this overtake?”

You shrugged. “I guess I was into racing.”

“You were a fan.” He said it slowly, like the idea was just now clicking into place. “Of me.”

You didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket up higher and stared at the screen, hoping he’d move on. But he turned to face you fully, grinning now.

“No way. Wait, no. You were. That’s why you brought it up over breakfast months ago. You were embarrassed.”

“I wasn’t,” you mumbled, cheeks heating up. “I just didn’t think it was relevant.”

“You little liar!”

“I’m not!”

“Then why did you hide it?”

You shook your head, but the words were already rising in your throat. “I didn’t tell you because—I was scared.”

He frowned, tilting his head. “Scared of what?”

You played with the edge of the blanket between your fingers, not looking at him. “That you’d think I was with you for the wrong reasons. That I was just some fan trying to get her five minutes of attention or—or chasing after your money or your name or the whole WAG circus. I didn’t want you to look at me and wonder if it was all fake.”

Lando was quiet for a moment.

You could feel your heart in your ears.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you continued quickly, cheeks hot. “But you said you couldn’t date a fan, and it just stuck with me. I didn’t want to risk it. Things were too good. You were too good. I didn’t want to lose you over something so embarrassing.”

“You really thought I’d leave you over that?”

You tried to smile, but it faltered. “I just didn’t want you to think I was one of those people.”

Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “God, you think so little of me.”

The words hit you like a slap, but before you could say anything, he reached for you. Gently, he pulled you over and settled you into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs as he held you close. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, like he needed to anchor you to him.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice steady now, no trace of laughter left. “I don’t care if you used to have posters of me on your wall. I don’t care if you knew all my stats or made edits or wrote fanfiction; for all I know. None of that matters. Youmatter. What we have now matters.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you stayed quiet.

“I know you,” he whispered, fingertips tracing soft circles against your back. “You don’t care about the spotlight. You hate the cameras. You’ve never once bragged about us on social media or cared about being seen. You’re not here for the parties or the designer tags or the lifestyle. You’re here for me. And I see that every day.”

Your hands slid up to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the small scar on the bridge of his nose. He looked so serious, so impossibly sincere, it made your chest ache.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” you said softly. “I just didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He was still holding you, still cradling you in his lap like you were made of glass and something he’d never let slip through his fingers again. His hands were warm against your back, one resting at the base of your spine and the other slowly running up and down the curve of your side like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I mean it,” he said again, voice low and sure, brushing his nose against yours. “I don’t care if you knew every stat I ever had. I don’t care if you had a shrine of mini helmets or screamed every time I got on the podium. You could’ve painted your walls neon yellow, and I’d still think you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”

Your heart squeezed. “I didn’t paint my walls, but I did have a sticker on my laptop.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes lighting up, but it was full of love now; that kind of warm, weightless love that made your skin feel sun-kissed even in the dim light of the living room.

“You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, and then leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours.

“And you’re in love with someone who once told off a stranger on Twitter for calling you overrated,” you whispered back.

“I am so in love with her,” he said with a grin that made your stomach flip.

Then he kissed you.

Slow at first, like he had all the time in the world, his lips brushing over yours in a way that made your heart stutter and your breath catch. He kissed you like it was something he hadn’t done in a while, like he was rediscovering you. His thumb traced your cheek, his hand sliding into your hair, holding you close without crowding you.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

All the fear you’d carried, all the silly embarrassment, melted into the way he tasted—a little like the popcorn he’d eaten earlier, a little like the mints he always kept in his pocket. It was soft and familiar and brand new all at once.

He pulled back only slightly, his nose brushing yours again. “You’re mine, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes a little glossy, mouth still tingling. “Always.”

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, like even this much space between you was too much. You could feel the way he smiled into it, could feel the quiet little sigh he let out like he’d finally exhaled after holding his breath for months.

You curled your fingers in his hair and kissed him harder, laughing softly against his mouth when he let out a quiet, dazed ‘fuck’ under his breath.

All was well, until—

“Wait, you were on Twitter?”

“…Maybe,” you mumbled.

His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon. You have to. Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”

“Maybe”, you mumbled.

His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon, you have to! Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“Okay, but this time I’m serious.”

Sighing dramatically, but secretly already giggling to yourself, you reached for your own phone. You opened the app and scrolled for a moment before finding it. The long-forgotten fan account: locked, dusty, and inactive for over two years.

You held it out wordlessly.

Lando took it, eager.

And then immediately burst into laughter.

“@ln4everangelbaby?! Are you kidding me?”

You snatched it back. “I was seventeen when I made that, Lando.”

He was already breathless, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “No, wait. I need a minute. Angel baby? What was that even supposed to mean?”

You covered your face with your hands. “You had these really cute photo from your debut year, and someone called you that on Tumblr, and I thought it was cute, okay?”

“Oh my god.” He leaned back, shaking with laughter. “This is better than I could have ever imagined.”

He tried to scroll, but the account was locked, and you weren’t about to log in and let him dig through the archives of your cringe era.

“Let me read some tweets,” he begged, tugging at your sleeve like a child.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll buy you dinner every night forever.”

“You already do that anyway.”

“I’ll take you to the Maldives for a week.”

“You’re kidding.”

But his face remained unmoved, completely serious.

“Make it two weeks.”

He hesitated. “Ten days.”

“Twelve.”

“Deal.”

You unlocked the account with the kind of grim resolve one might have before jumping into shark-infested waters and handed it back.

He kept reading out tweets in dramatic fashion, doing voices, quoting your old replies to trolls, and fake-crying when he got to a heartfelt race reaction.

You just curled up smaller and smaller on the couch, your face buried in a pillow while Lando had the time of his life dragging you, groaning occasionally at particular posts you didn’t even remember making.

When he finally calmed down, he tossed the phone gently onto the coffee table and pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I think this might be my favourite thing about you.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “My terrible teenage Twitter?”

He smiled. “No. That you loved me then, even when I was just some kid in a fast car. And you love me now, even when I’m an idiot who makes fun of your old username.”

“You really can’t let that go, can you?”

“Angel baby,” he whispered, laughing again, and you groaned and buried your face into his chest as he wrapped his arms tighter around you.

DID U GUYS MISS ME (the only answer is yes) i missed writing so much im so happy i could put this out :DD enjoy! and im so sorry it’s so short i just am so drained with my first sem in college ! :(

#lando norris x you #lando norris requests #lando norris drabble #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fic #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #lando x y/n #f1 fluff #f1 requests #f1 x reader #f1 driver x you #f1 driver x reader

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sugugori · 1 day ago

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I MDNI 18+

Jason prides himself in knowing he managed to snag the heart of the sweetest girl in Gotham. You’re always so soft with him, so kind. When he sneaks into your place early in the morning and wakes you from your sleep, you don’t scold him for it. Instead, you blink away the sandstorm behind your eyes and tend to the new bruise forming alongside his jaw. You ask no questions, you never push him for answers- and you’ll never know how much he appreciates it. Appreciates you.

Before he found you, Jason rarely slept a full night if he could help it. Too anxious, too angry, he rarely woke feeling well rested anyway- so what was the point. But your hands, soft and understanding, handle him in a way that has his eyes fluttering against his will, and sleep finds his easily. You’ve been nothing but patient with him the entirety of your relationship. His sweet girl. So, in his own ways of many, he does what he can to return the favour.

You’ve learned early on that Jason has a scarily accurate way of knowing when you’re upset. Call it sixth sense, call it boyfriend intuition, maybe it’s his really good people-reading skills. You just don’t know how he does it. Some nights when you’re frustrated because you can’t sleep, you lay on your back and weep softly- careful to not disturb him. But it’s no use. When he awakes, he’ll take you in his arms, tuck your head under his chin and rock you gently. Back and forth, quieting your cries until you’re finally lulled to sleep. He just knows his baby. He knows what you need even before you do, he loves quietly like this.

But there are nights when you need to not think. Nights when your thoughts are little mean, telling you not so kind words. And maybe you start to believe them a little bit. So when you push through the front door of your apartment, he’s already there- standing big and strong in your kitchen. Waiting like he knew, because he did. In these moments, he doesn’t have to ask. To anyone else, you look like you just had a long day- but he knows you. He knows his sweet girl. So he takes one look at you and knows exactly what you need.

Which is how you find yourself like this, splayed out beneath this 6 foot brute of a man. Completely surrounded by him. Large hands moving up your hips to gently push you further into the mattress as he lays his full weight on top of you- he’s everywhere. Usually, you’d feel overwhelmed but this is exactly what you needed. And he begins to move, the slow drag of his cock already has you burying your face into the pillow, tears prickling your eyes. It’s so good, so so good. You’re so full and he’s panting in your ear, “yeah baby, I know.. I know- it’s good, huh?”

At some point, it becomes a bit too much. He can’t help it, just wants you feeling good again. He’s fucked you through your third orgasm before you’re reaching a hand back to push at his abdomen, silently pleading “too deep, please”. You need to catch your breath, but as much as he is soft and compliant for you, Jason knows you need this. And a selfish part of him needs you too. So he gets a bit mean when he’s whispering, “I know it’s deep, hun. Let me fuck you, just like that.” And “No, baby. You can take it.” You know it’s no use putting up a fight, once he sets his mind on something- he won’t stop until he’s satisfied. He gets this tunnel like vision in moments like these. All he can see is you, you, you. So instead, you reach back around to play with the soft wisps of hair at the back of his neck.

Fingers lightly scratching at his scalp, he buries his face in your neck and purrs. Cold nose pressed to the underside of your jaw- such a contrast to how he’s fucking you. But it’s all worth it when you turn your head and press a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. His sweet girl.

#eh #not really polished but I’m lazy #anyway #v rambles #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd #red hood x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #Jason Todd x reader smut #jason todd smut #jason todd dc #dc smut #dc x reader smut #red hood x fem!reader #red hood x reader smut #Jason Todd x fem!reader smut

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dark-night-hero · 12 hours ago

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Imagine being Sylus' non-mc fiance. Hidden Child au. part2

Imagine meeting you was never part of the plan.

Imagine he walked into that club on a whim. He hadn't stepped into a place like that in years. It wasn't his kind of scene anymore. But Mephisto had been running his mouth about something in Zone N109's underbelly, about a person worth watching. So Sylus went. Not because he cared. But because something about the way Mephisto kept talking made him want to shut him up.

Imagine seeing you. He didn't catch your name. Not at first. Just a blur of tired eyes, practiced laughter, that hollow sound people wore like armor. You looked like someone who had learned how to survive not to live, just survive.

Imagine he wasn't supposed to get involved. But then you looked at him. And he stopped. Completely.

Imagine he didn't know why he brought you home. He didn't know why he stayed after the first night when it had always been just one and done. But when the sun started to rise and you stirred under the sheets, Sylus found himself watching you breathe. And before he could stop himself, he said the words. "I need a lover."

Imagine you looked half asleep, confused. Still dreaming, maybe. But you said yes. And Sylus felt something tighten in his chest.

Imagine he didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand it. But something about the way you agreed so quietly, so unflinchingly felt like the beginning of something he couldn't name.

Imagine maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was fate. But he gave you his name. Left you his black card. Told you to quit your job and wait for him. And two nights later you did.

Imagine years passed. Sylus kept you close. You were at his side at galas, exhibitions, political dinners. You smiled when you had to, played your role to perfection. Wore everything he gave you. The diamonds, the silk, the title.

Imagine you never asked for more. But he saw it. In your silences. In the way your eyes lingered when he wasn't looking. You didn't just play the part. You were waiting. For something. For him. And Sylus, heartless, calculated Sylus didn't know how to give you what you wanted. So he gave you what he could. Everything but love.

Imagine the night it changed.

Imagine you were curled up on the couch in his office, asleep again. Waiting for him to finish work. The storm outside was relentless, thunder shaking the windows. But you were still. Peaceful. And something broke inside him.

Imagine he stood there for too long, staring. Realizing. If you ever left, he wouldn't survive it. So he walked over. Pressed a kiss to your forehead. Sat beside you and, for once, stayed until morning.

Imagine he always thought he'd know when it happened that falling in love would feel like lightning, or fire, or blood. Something violent. Something impossible to ignore. But it didn't.

Imagine it felt like this. You standing in his office, biting your lip, eyes lowered in guilt because you touched that painting. The one he told you not to. The only thing in the room he had once considered untouchable. "You touched it?" You flinched. "No- well yes..." He narrowed his eyes. "What did I tell you-?" "It was an accident! I didn't mean to-" You cut yourself off, lips pressing shut. As if you were swallowing more than just words. Something about the way your hands curled into fists. Like you were protecting someone. You always did that. Even when it wasn't smart.

Imagine in that moment, Sylus knew it wasn't just the painting. It was you covering for those goddamn twins, wasn't it? He should've been mad. He was mad, in a way. But not at the painting. Not at you.

Imagine he was angry at the part of him that hesitated. The part of him that looked at you. Wide eyed, apologetic, still standing in the same room with the same warmth you always carried and couldn't bring himself to yell. He didn't want to hurt you. Not even with words. And that scared the hell out of him.

"I see." You looked up. "Look, Sylus- I'm really sorry-" "Get out." You froze. "Don't come into my office for a while." Your shoulders dropped. And for the first time in years, Sylus regretted something immediately after saying it. Because he saw how it broke you a little. And that was when it hit him.

Imagine he loved you. Not because you were perfect. Not because you played your role flawlessly. But because you touched the one thing he thought he'd never let go of and instead of rage, all he felt was fear.

Imagine the fear that you might think he loved someone else more. Fear that he might lose you over it. Fear that the past might have the power to hurt you. He sat with that fear for days. For a week, exactly. And then he removed the painting.

Imagine a week later, you walk into the office again. He barely looked up from his desk, but he saw you pause. Saw your eyes search the wall. "Where's the painting?" You blurted, and then instantly winced. Sylus leaned back in his chair. Calm. Controlled. Heart beating faster anyway. "I had it removed." You looked at him like he just confessed to murder. "What? Why?"

"It doesn't fit the style of the room." He said smoothly, voice level. "Don't you think?" You blinked. "We- well yes..." His office was all deep wood and shadow, the kind of place people whispered about. The painting never matched. He just kept it because... Because it used to matter. But not more than you. "Shall we go look for a replacement?" You blinked again. "I'm sorry- what?" "The painting. Let's find another one."

Imagine he didn't tell you it was because of you. That he couldn't stand the idea of you walking into this room and being reminded you didn't come first. He just stood, adjusting his cufflinks. "Also, Luke and Kieran said there's a new restaurant nearby." "...Sylus, are you asking me out?" There was a pause. A long one. Then. "Aren't you my fiancée?" He asked, brow raised like it was the most natural thing in the world. "There's no need to state the obvious." Your jaw dropped. Again. Sylus almost smiled.

Imagine Sylus realizing quietly, fully that he would burn his past to the ground if it meant you stayed. That this wasn't about paintings, or power, or control. It was about you. He loved you. And for the first time in his life he wasn't afraid of it.

Imagine the way the past came back. MC. They said she was alive. Impossible. Sylus remembered the grave. The cold hand. The dirt beneath his nails. The silence that came after her death. The way it hollowed him out. So who the hell was this woman claiming to be her?

Imagine he didn't tell you. He couldn’t. Things between you had just started to shift. You smiled more. Laughed around him. Touched him without flinching. You were finally letting him in. And he was finally reaching back. He couldn't risk losing that. So he investigated alone.

Imagine letting MC in. He didn't believe her.

but Imagine if pretending to care meant uncovering the truth then so be it. He let her believe. Let her call him love again. Let her think she was winning.

Imagine all while keeping you in the dark. Because you were different. You were real. And if he could just end it cleanly, silently... He could return to you. He could fix what he hadn't even realized was broken.

Imagine she asked him to kill you. Just like that. Like it was nothing. His blood went cold. She said it sweetly. Too sweetly. Like a test. Like she already knew what he'd say. Sylus laughed. Told her it was already done. That it was handled. She believed him. But in his mind, he was already planning her death.

Imagine by the time he had taken care of it, it was too late. You found out. You ran. And Sylus had tore the city apart looking for you. Sent his men. Called in every favor. Burned connections he'd spent decades building. But you were gone. Gone like smoke. Gone like vengeance.

Imagine he would've traded everything just to see you again. Just to tell you it wasn't what it looked like. That he loved you. That it had always been you.

Imagine nearly dying changed nothing. There was a hit. A trap. A bullet in the spine. And then, nothing. Four years. Four fucking years in a coma. And when he woke up, everything had moved on. Except him.

and Imagine you were still gone.

Imagine being dragged to a gala. Some formal garbage he didn't want to be part of. The suit was old. The tie loose. The glass of wine untouched. He was halfway out the door when something small collided with his leg. A child. Crying. Hood pulled low. Tiny hands over his forehead.

Imagine Sylus didn't care for kids. Never had. But something made him stop. Made him kneel. Made him look. And when the boy looked up with wide red eyes. Sylus stopped breathing.

Imagine realizing the truth. His eyes. Your hair. His blood. His son.

Imagine you appeared. Frantic. Breathless. Alive. You called to the boy. Rushed to him. Knelt beside him and checked his hands, his face. Pulled down the hood. And Sylus couldn't move. You looked at him. Really looked. And didn't recognize him.

"Sorry." You said gently. "I hope he didn't give you trouble...?" He answered, voice cracked. "Sylus." You blinked. "Right. Sylus." Like it was nothing more than a name. "Then if you'll excuse us." You added, guiding the boy by the hand. And you walked away.

Imagine the way Sylus stood there for minutes. Hours. Maybe years.

Imagine he had murdered kings. Crushed empires. Ripped the heart out of anyone who dared touch what was his. But for the first time. He didn't know what the hell to do. Because he had just seen everything he had ever loved and you looked at him like he was already dead.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I deliver his pov.

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reallyromealone · 3 days ago

Text

Title: idol

Chapter: 4

Previous Current Next

Fandom: Kpop demon hunter

Genre: omegaverse

Warnings: omegaverse, male reader, angst, fluff, reader gets mad

Notes: ooooo first time committing to a tag list

Summary: things take a turn

Tag list: @robbin-g @heinzsqueezebottle @sooobiinn @sfxtiebee @kittenwerewolf @gh0stied3ath @strangebarbarianbarbarian @0eye0 @barrythestrawberry041

🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛

(name) didn't know what to expect, a big tiger sitting in his livingroom batting a bottle of water while a magpie with a little hat watched curiously "uhhh..." (Name) Was confused at the two demons before him and they turned to look at him and then returned to trying to keep the water bottle up and (name) gently lifted the bottle up and kept it standing "can... Can I help you two?"

The tiger stared at him before blinking one eye at a time before opening his mouth and revealing an envelope "uh... Thank you?" (Name) Tentatively took the wet envelope and opened it "for your protection?" What would be protecting him? The tiger and bird?

He doubted it honestly.

"You're too stinking cute to be a threat, aren't ya?" (Name) Smooched the demons forehead and rubbed his large cat ears and watched as the creature thumped his big hind leg "oh you're just so cute!"

"Kaw!"

(Name) Glanced at the bird and huffed a laugh, gently catching the back of its head and smiling at the bird puffing up happily "for demons, you two aren't all that spooky, you have a very cute hat by the way" he complimented the bird who seemed very proud of himself "I made it for the tiger but he kept stealing it" Jinu spoke from behind him and (name) straightened up "it's been a while" (name) mumbled and the demon smiled softly "I had things... I had to take care of"

"Like stealing souls" (name) mumbled, he looked outside and saw the red that slowly took over the Hommoon and glared back at him "I want to trust you Saja boys... But I can't forgive this..." (Name) Hissed out and stepped towards him "you promised me you would try and get your soul back! I-I don't understand why you keep hurting people!" (Name) Said with a tremble in his voice, stepping closer to the beautiful alpha whose eyes looked at him calculating "do you really think, a demon like me could get redemption for what I have done? What all of us have done?" Jinu hissed out and stepped towards (name), face growing a bit more demonic.

"Then explain to me, what is it that you did!"

"I ABANDONED MY FAMILY, I LEFT THEM TO STARVE! WE ALL DID HORRIBLE THINGS TO THOSE WE LOVE AND FRANKLY IT WAS FUCKING STUPID FOR YOU TO BELIEVE WE COULD GET OUR SOULS BACK!" he screamed at (name), voice bellowing through the apartment and his eyes glowed like a fire, staring at (name) who didn't back down.

"I believe you deserve redemption" (name) said seriously "you all do, my soulmate is the one who was made perfectly for me, you are all made to be the perfect match... You all have a chance to be better"

"Us be better? Or you go to our level" Jinu said methodically and (name) glared "I would never." He would never betray his sister and Jinu got very close to him, leaning close to look him in the eyes perfectly "but you already betrayed her the second you let us in your life, you are a traitor to your family"

"I'm not!" (Name) Yelled, eyes wet with tears and Jinu went to grab at his throat but was shocked to see a white arrow pressed against his Adams apple, (name) equally shocked to see himself holding a white spectral bow "what the.."

"So this is how it will be?" Jinu mumbled "I see..."

"Get out." (Name) Recovered quickly and kept the bow directed at him "I never want to see you or the Saja boys ever again" (name) mumbled with a wobbly voice, the scent of heartbreak and pure rage heavy in the room and Jinu just stared at him like he was nothing.

Like he never mattered at all.

"Oh well, you could have been so fun... Shame"

And with that, Jinu was gone.

(Name) Felt the bow and arrow vanish and quickly walked to his room and looked at the nest and the stupid saja boys clothes "fuck them! They are so fucking awful!" (Name) Tripped a bit as he fell down infront of it and began ripping out the pieces of clothing from the nest until the entire thing was destroyed.

Sitting there he breathed heavily and the reality of what he did set in.

He was going to that idol award ceremony...

And he was going to make those assholes regret fucking with HUNTR/X and (name).

He couldn't figure out how to get the spectral weapons to show up again and... He wasn't ready to tell his sister and the others everything...

He just needed to support the three as best as possible.

Even if it meant killing his soulmates.

But... He couldn't be selfish, he had to put his feelings aside and help save those around him...

God he was terrified.

"(Name)? Isn't it like the dead of night for you?" A young voice spoke through the speaker of his phone "Hey Jentry... Long time no speak" (name) said softly and the girl chuckled "yeah, it's been a year since I left... How's everything?"

"Could be better... Hey when you figured out your spectral powers, how did you like? Uh hone it?"

"Oh that? That was a nightmare! I kept setting things on fire! Why do you ask?"

"Uh, no reason... Just doing some shrine stuff"

"How is the shrine? Still keeping it prestine?"

"You know it, I gotta go brat... Behave at school yeah?"

"Oh shut up!"

When the call ended, (name) stared at the screen a bit longer before pocketing his phone and began walking to the Idol awards, ready to support his sister.

Even if it meant breaking his promise.

What was happening...?

(Name) Watched in horror as his sister and Zoey harassed Rumi, standing up to go figure out what was happening and when he saw it...

The marks.

"A demon?" (Name) Mumbled... Horror in his eyes and he rushed down, ignoring the fans and everything that was happening but froze when he heard Jinu speak over the intercom and saw it...

"He really did it..." (Name) Mumbled and shook...

"Did you really think you could change them? Make them better? When you can't even help yourself?" A voice spoke in his ear and (name) froze "you're a pathetic waste who leaches off his sister"

And with that... His world turned black.

#anime x reader #anime x male reader #x male reader #omega male reader #omegaverse #male reader #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x male reader #saja boys #saja boys x reader #saja boys x male reader

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windyremedy · 2 days ago

Text

playing matchmakers

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

scenario: class a was off on a retreat when they decided that there was no better time to play match makers than now, for their two friends who obviously like each other very much. too bad it only ended up being a colossal of failures.

"alright girls, listen up!"

"boys let's get down to business."

“we all know those two, ahem— heartgoboom. that’s their code name, both like each other correct?"

"our bakubro needs all the help he can get. now he might not say it but everyone with a pair of eyes can see that he has the hots for a certain someone right? everybody who can attest say I—“

“for our plan I was thinking of creating a romantic atmosphere. like getting them to sit next to each other during meal time.”

“my bright idea, heh get it? is to lock them inside the storage room— whose with me?!”

“see it’s all about building up the moment in those unprecedented times making a sure fire way to get them to smooch!“

“then they can totally fuck.”

“if we do this correctly they’ll confess to each other and it’s a mission success!!”

“remember the saying, fuck if we do, fuck if we don’t— let’s fuck!”

“kaminari I don’t think that’s even a saying—“

attempt one: bus ride

maybe you should’ve clocked that a plan was admist but you just didn’t know what it could be. because really for what reason do your classmates have to be cutting you off in the line constantly. mina, tsu, uraraka actually all the girls, heck even koda quietly shuffled infront of you.

honestly you were tethering the edge of snapping so when aoyama ever so dazzlingly went ahead of you, your patience had run thin. about to call him out before you heard shouting from a distance.

“WAIT!!! WAIT BAKUGOU MAN I NEED TO TELL YOU THAT—“ kaminari screamed clinging to the pissed off boy.

“DON’T CARE! DON’T GIVE A SINGLE SHIT! I’M GONNA BE FUCKING LATE SO GET OFF MY DAMN LEG!!”

“PLEASE I HAVE FAMILY!!!!” the electric user desperately yelps.

bakugou only looked at him with a fed up expression.

“WHAT IN THE HELL DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING!!???” he yelled before flinging kaminari into the air.

surprisingly he landed near the entrance of the bus and not the stratosphere so you guessed that was good. it would be too bad if someone funny dissapeared like that but then again another person did get ahead of you so maybe not.

turning around you looked at bakugou, sarcastically asking him if he was gonna cut you off too.

“the fuck? no. I’m not gonna get worked up about fucking seats on the bus.” he snaps getting you a little bit riled up because everything was just annoying you at this point.

“well you don’t have to imply that I’m being childish about it.”

“what? I’m not even saying that. why are you so—“

“what? bitchy?”

“no! when the hell did I even say that!!?”

“you were gonna!”

“that isn’t even tru—“

then a constant stream of arguments stemmed from you two as the perpetrators watched the scene. okay maybe they shouldn’t have annoyed you two too much to the point of getting mad at each other as well.

— MISSION FAILED

attempt two: cooking in pairs? no— cooking in despair

after setting up your things in the designated room you shared with hagakure, you quickly unpacked to head outside and help make lunch. everyone got a choice whether they wanted to help cook or clean afterwards and you of course chose the former, not wanting to deal with the messy tables and plates.

“also you’re paired with bakugou by the way!” she exclaimed from where she sat outside the closet.

“really?” you murmured but didn’t question any further since you did miss the role assigning due to needing to use the bathroom.

stepping outside to the bustling kitchen you neared the cutting area. seeing the mountain of vegetables left totally untouched. where was he?

you thought maybe he’d come a little later but he ended up never coming at all which made you extremely frustrated since he was assigned with you to do the task. to y’know help each other but nooo you had to cut every carrot, every tomato, every potato and damn it the onions are making you tear up.

“heya where’s bakugou?” jiro asked nervously looking around.

“I don’t know, maybe he had better things to do than stay here with me of all people.”

before she could reply a group of steps could be heard coming out of the forest. there, were a few of the boys carrying buckets of water that included the one and only bakugou ‘you’re by yourself’ katsuki.

“well, well, well, look whose here.” you uttered with disdain as they came closer.

the blonde looked at you in confusion and the audacity of it was unreal. since you zeroed in only him you didn’t notice the others with nervous grins and doomed expressions.

“what’s wrong now?” he asked firmly but never with his typical bark even when he’s yelling, not with you.

“nothing. just thought that it could’ve nice if you came and helped me cut some of these up.” you answered sarcastically, annoyance evident in your face.

“so you need help? you could’ve said so. didn’t need to be a brat about it.” he replied in a banterly manner, going to stand next to you but that honestly only made you angrier.

“the nerve of you pisses me of— ugh! you do the rest yourself!!” you yelled before stomping away.

“the fuck just happened.” he muttered staring at your disappearing figure.

the rest could only sigh in defeat while glaring at kaminari who failed to switch with bakugou.

— MISSION FAILED

attempt three: right— no wrong!

after the warm meal what better way to cool off than to take a dip in the nice and refreshing river. putting on your school approved swimsuit you joined the others who were gearing up to play chicken fight.

“oh— whose joining?” you asked after being pulled next to Hagakure near the water.

“all the girls and a couple of the boys! here pick a stick.”

staring at the few multi colored sticks inside the cup you glanced a little longer at the orange colored one. huffing at the fact that you still picked it despite being currently mad at him.

“HOLD ON!!” screamed momo from a few steps away.

“yes?” you wondered, surprised at her unusual outburst.

“I— well ah….so…the thing is….nevermind.” she whispered not wanting to blow their scheme.

right.

turning to look for your partner you saw the boys huddled up and separating, seeming to be done choosing. from what you could see the one with the same color as you was none other than ojiro which you guess wasn’t bad. just not what you were aiming for.

on the other hand the blonde you did want— not that you would admit, who surprisingly even joined was with cheeks as he so annoyingly calls. now that you’re thinking about it everyone gets a deprecating nickname and she gets something cute?! you get it, she really is but damn it didn’t help your growing envy.

even more so when he seemed hellbent on getting your team to lose. with everyone cheering as they won in the end with him looking so smug. as if he successfully achieved his mission.

probably to show off to uraraka.

fuck.

— MISSION FAILED

attempt four: whose your crush?

still upset with him you actively avoided being near him during the night’s bonfire. choosing to sit next to mina instead who brought up playing the ever so popular game of truth or dare.

“so who wants to go first?” she asked cheerfully, glancing at two targets in particular before excitedly announcing bakugou’s name.

“truth or dare?”

“truth.” he answered not even hesitating, probably cause it was the fastest to complete than some dare.

“describe your crush in one word.” she grinned evilly, palms excitedly holding each other.

he took one deep breath, leaning his head up towards the sky. drink a few inches away from his lips that uttered words in a tone different from what they usually hear.

“real fucking cute.”

well that just about sealed your hopes, subconsciously shutting down what’s happening around, not realizing it was your turn.

you really didn’t want to play any games right now but you’re not gonna let bakugou of all people dictate your ability to have fun.

“truth.” you decided, not wanting to do anymore kind of physical labor.

the pink hero hummed as of thinking of a question but immediately bites the bullet.

“who do you like?”

silence fell upon the chatters of your classmate, fire cracking ever so softly. each person on the edge of their seats at your reply.

“I don’t know anymore.” you replied solemnly, which didn’t go unnoticed by the red eyed boy who you made quick eye contact with before looking away.

“oh, well that’s okay! why don’t you ask someone else now?”

“no it’s alright, someone else can have my turn.” you nodded getting up from the log.

“I need to take a breather for a minute.”

with that you left with a certain blonde right at your tail.

“we totally fucked up.” kaminari spoke out loud, the girls looking at him in disagreement.

“we? you were supposed to get him to swap with you on time and they were supposed to be together during the meal preparation!!”

“oh don’t pin the blame on us! whose good idea was it to get them annoyed this morning?!”

“as if it wasn’t you that didn’t tell ojiro about the plan!”

“we didn’t know orange was also his favorite color!!!!”

“that’s no excuse—“

and so a long argument ensued between everybody involved. going back and forth for most of the starry night, leaving the desired pair to deal with the mess unknowingly caused by them.

man, were they shit matchmakers.

— MISSION FAILED

final attempt: the truth

on everything you held dear you tried your best to ignore him calling your name multiple times but you were just so over it all.

“what do you want?” you asked, voice devoid of any warmth.

“tell me what I did wrong.” he spoke honestly, tone holding no kind of anger but a semblance of fear and vulnerability.

but you didn’t reply, feet digging firmly to the soft blades of the grass underneath.

“is it because I like you?”

both of your hands that was wrapped around your shoulders as well as your heart dropped— instantly beating as fast as a bullet train.

“are you sure? cause you have a weird way of showing it.” you grimaced.

his face twisted to a confused look, stepping a little closer to where you were.

“can you tell me the times on how I made you feel that way?” he asked softly, patience almost a hundred percent not given to no one else.

“well first of all this morning you were annoyed at me.”

“I wasn’t. that damned pikachu just put me in a sour mood.”

“I guess he does that often to you. but you also left me to cut most of the vegetables when you were assigned to do it with me.” you reasoned warily.

“what?” he asked, stilling in his spot.

“oh don’t act like you weren’t— hagakure told me so!”

“well she was dead wrong because I was assigned on water duty.”

“what?”

“yeah but that trio of dumbasses kept bothering me to— they kept bothering me to switch with that zappy idiot.” he answered almost like he came to a revelation.

“then what about during the water fight? you were definitely targeting me!”

“only because I didn’t want you on tails’ shoulder as long as you already have.”

“well you described your crush just a couple minutes ago.”

“yeah.” he nodded looking at your pouty face, eyes wobbling near close to tears.

“you said they were cute.” you said sharply, eyes finally meeting his gaze that was fully set on you.

“you are.” he said as if it was a world known fact.

“what?”

“who did you think I was talking about?”

“It’s not uraraka?” you asked to confirm.

“no dumbass. it’s always been you.” he answered pulling you in his arms.

“you’re the dummy!” you yelled sinking further in his chest.

“we can be dumb together then.” he murmured as he rest his chin on top of your head.

the moment being serene and peaceful until a soft cheer could be heard from the bushes.

“woohoo.”

“shut up—“

“can you get new friends?” bakugou asked, eyes shut firmly with a familiar frown.

“I’m sure they mean well.” you muttered, smiling slightly.

“aren’t we your friends too bakubro?!”

“NOT AFTER THE BULLSHIT YOU ALL PULLED— ALMOST MADE ME LOSE MY DAMN GIRL!! FUCK OFF!” he scowled, turning to the culprits as he aimed with his hand burning a familiar glow.

“BAKUGOU NO— WE’RE SORRY!!”

boom.

— MISSION SUCCESS

@windyremedy

#if you’re tall he’s taller #dumbass used affectionately #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #remfics☁️

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sincerelyneo · 2 days ago

Text

“slut!” | l.jn

“everyone wants him that was my crime”

💿now playing: “slut!” by taylor swift

❯ summary: Jeno’s always been yours. You were the one too scared to be his, actually. But not anymore. Not tonight. Not now that you’ve decided being called a slut might be worth it, so long as it means they know he’s yours.

❯ pairings: idol!jeno x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut, idol!au

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, mentions of online hate, secret relationship, insecurities, mentions of alcohol, possessiveness, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, pull out method (unreliable!), dirty talk, reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, literally just jeno being a 'gentleman' in a world of boys.

No matter how many times Jeno tries to deny or convince himself otherwise, you can tell—he hates being in a secret relationship. He hates being your secret. And who could blame him? No one wants to feel like they’re being hidden by the one person who’s supposed to love, cherish and adore them completely.

But that’s just the thing. You’re not the only person who loves Lee Jeno.

Not when he’s up there on stage, night after night, basking in the roar of thousands who love him too. He’s adored by strangers, worshipped by fans, and wanted by everyone.

And yet—he chose you. He still chooses you.

He kisses you in elevator corners when it’s just the two of you, and pulls you into janitor closets like you’re back in high school. He makes little gestures on camera only you would catch—a tilt of his head, a thumb brushing his lip, a tap over his heart. As if to say still yours, still here, still love you. And you bask in it all.

You know—despite his options and his fame—he loves you. Only you. There’s never been a doubt. Not when you still remember the endless months he spent pining after you like a love-sick puppy. Back when you told him you couldn’t give him more. That he’d only be wasting his time by pursuing you.

He didn’t care.

Maybe that’s why he agreed to this mess in the first place. The secrecy. The ache. Because for him, having you—even as a secret—was enough. He’d take you in pieces if that’s all you could offer. He’d take you quietly, behind closed doors. Because all he ever really wanted, was you.

But you see the cracks now.

The way he deflates every time you say no to dinner in public. How his fingers twitch when you pull your hand away before anyone sees. How he stares a little too long at your unadorned ring finger after offering you a matching one. And the last one—the most recent wound—you saw it in his eyes when you turned down the invite to the award show.

He thought you’d come. Thought that maybe since Mark had started bringing his new girlfriend to events, you’d be ready too.

But you weren’t.

Truthfully, Mark’s girlfriend had only made things worse. Not her personally, but seeing the thousands of comments attacking her made you upset. You weren’t sure you were strong enough to survive that kind of hate if you were in her position.

What upset you more, though, was overhearing Jeno with Hyuck last week.

“I really wanted her there, man. But I know the cameras would freak her out. I just… I hate that she has to stay away. She deserves to be there with me, you know? Without feeling like everyone is going to tear her apart.”

Hyuck said something back but you can’t even remember what. Your heart was beating too loud to process everything properly. The only thing you remember is how tired Jeno sounded. How frustrated. And worse, hurt. Because of you. Because of this.

You hated that he had to hide those feelings.

And that’s why you’re sitting in front of your vanity on the night of the award show, debating which shade of red lipstick would look best with your outfit. The dress—long, silk, red—is the one you’ve avoided for months. Too bold. Too bright. Too seen. But you slipped into it anyway.

It’s a reckless plan. You know that. It could blow up in your face. Go viral in the worst way. But still—you made the decision. Tonight, you’re done hiding. Tonight, you’re done keeping him a secret. Tonight, you’ll step into the spotlight for him. Because you love him. And more importantly, because he deserves it.

“Baby… can you help me with my tie?”

Jeno’s voice filters in from the hallway, slightly distracted, but then he sees you.

His mouth parts, and his entire body goes still. His eyes drag over you quickly as if he doesn’t trust them. Then he starts blinking rapidly like he’s trying to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

“You—” he starts, but the word breaks in half. He clears his throat. “You look…”

You glance at his reflection in the mirror. He’s red and flustered. Completely undone. The tie he needed help with is now tangled between his fingers.

“Wow,” he finishes.

A slow smile touches your mouth. “Wow, huh?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Wow.”

He takes a hesitant step closer. Then another. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. And truthfully? You might. You’re still half a breath away from backing out, clinging to this idea by a thread.

But then he’s standing behind you. His gaze catches yours in the mirror as he runs a soothing hand up and down your arm.

“You look a little…overdressed for a night in, baby.”

You hold his eyes. “That’s because I’m not planning on staying in,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

“Wait—does this mean…?” His voice falters, and his hand stops on your skin the exact moment it hits him. The realisation softens the edges of his face, but it also brings something more cautious. “You’re—are you sure?”

You turn to face him.

He looks gorgeous, of course—hair perfectly tousled, dress shirt still half-buttoned, tie crumpled in one hand. But his eyes give him away. That’s his tell. He’s nervous. Not for himself. For you.

You nod, then you rise to your feet. Jeno doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around your waist, hands sliding down to your lower back, anchoring you there.

“I mean it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “If this is because of me, or because you think I need some kind of grand gesture—don’t. I don’t want you to do this unless you want to. I don’t want you walking into that room and regretting it five minutes later. I don’t want you overwhelmed or scared or…” He swallows, hard. “I don’t want you to end up resenting me.”

His voice cracks a little on that last part.

You could cry.

Because this is the boy you fell for. Not the one on stage. Just the boy who would’ve waited forever to be claimed if that’s what it took. Just your Jeno. The boy who compromises first, always. The boy who puts your wants before his own—every time.

“I’m not doing it for you,” you say. “Well, not just for you. I’m doing it because I want to. I’m tired of hiding. I love you. And I want to be seen with you.”

“Fuck,” he curses. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh—and it’s the kind of laugh that makes your eyes sting, because it feels like relief, like safety, like everything might actually be worth it if it means he’s the one standing beside you.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To really look at you.

“You’re sure, baby?” he asks again, but this time softer. Just to be certain. Just to make extra sure.

You nod again, firmer now. “I’m sure.”

And that’s it. The switch flips.

Because now that he knows—really knows—you’re in this with him, he changes. The nervousness melts away. The sweet, steady boyfriend evaporates and in his place is his other side. The menace. The flirt. The boy madly, stupidly in love.

His eyes drop to your dress. He whistles, low.

“You know, I’m not entirely sure I want anyone else seeing you like this,” he says, one hand trailing down the bare skin of your back. “I mean—fuck, baby. Look at you. You’re unreal.”

You snort. “I thought you wanted people to see me.”

“I do,” he hums. “But I think your first public outing as mine should involve an I love my boyfriend t-shirt. Preferably with my face on it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. “Right. Because I’m the one causing competition in this relationship.”

“You are.”

He grins and spins you slowly so you’re facing the mirror again. His chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands roam a little—just enough to make you squirm.

“I’m serious, babe. I’m gonna have to walk three steps behind you tonight,” he says, eyes fixed on your reflection. “Otherwise I’m gonna end up in a fight.”

“Jeno—”

“No, really. One guy breathes in your direction, I’ll knock him out.”

You shake your head and scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m very serious,” he doubles down. “You’re gonna break the internet. You’re gonna have guys in your comment section and DMs—fucking gross.” He winces, eyes squeezing shut like the thought physically pains him.

You laugh. “Welcome to my world.”

“Christ, baby, how do you do it?” he groans, head tipping back dramatically.

You glance at him in the mirror, raising a brow. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then behind your ear.

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs. “You’re worth the drama.”

And you know that he means it. Because that’s exactly how you feel about him. At least, you do tonight.

You’re still giggling when Jeno unlocks the door to your apartment, one arm curled tightly under your legs, the other around your back. The hallway spins slightly, or maybe that’s just you—hazy from all the champagne you and Mark’s girlfriend downed while your boyfriend and his bandmate were on stage accepting an award.

The night was good. Really fucking good. Jeno looked at you with so much pride—like having you there, dressed up and laughing beside him, was somehow better than any trophy he won that night. Claiming you in public had lit something in him that his career could never give him.

“I’m not drunk,” you whine into his neck, breath warm on his skin. “My feet just hurt.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, “That why you nearly fell face first getting into the cab?”

“No,” you huff, pouting. “You try walking in these heels and staying balanced all night.”

“I told you to wear the other shoes before we left,” he mutters, whilst grinning. “But nooo, someone was determined to look sexy tonight.”

He’s right, that was your goal, but still, you hum anyway. “You liked it.”

“Damn right I did.”

The door clicks shut behind him then, and he kicks his shoes off, still holding you like you weigh nothing. He sets you down gently on the edge of the couch, his hands lingering a second longer than necessary on your waist.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, brushing a kiss against your hairline. “And maybe some painkillers, yeah?”

You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. Sighing, you let your head fall back against the cushion. Your ears are still ringing faintly from the music and cheering. But you feel… lighter. Like something that had been pressing down on your chest finally cracked open and let you breathe. And it has. Because tonight, you were his—and it wasn’t a hidden secret.

You touched him. Kissed him. Supported him. Loved him. Out loud.

Your fingers itch on that thought. You reach for your phone, just to check. Are they talking about it? About you? About—

“Hey.”

Jeno’s voice.

You freeze, phone halfway unlocked.

“Put it down,” he says softly, stepping into view. He’s changed—his shirt half untucked. He’s undone the top few buttons, disregard his tie, and rolled up his sleeves to reveal the veins running along his forearm.

Your eyes meet his.

“Why?” you frown.

“You know why,” he says, walking over. “You were so fucking brave tonight, and I’m so proud of you, but I’m not letting those vultures who don’t even know your name upset this—upset you—not tonight.”

He plucks the phone from your hand and sets it down without looking away. Then he drops to his knees in front of you.

Rough palms skim up your thighs slowly. You’re still in that dress, red silk with the slit high enough to tempt his restraint. His hands slide higher, until he’s parting your legs with firm fingers, settling between them like he belongs there.

Because he does.

“We can check it tomorrow if you still want to, baby,” he offers, mouth ghosting over your knee. “But right now? Focus on me. Focus on us. Please?”

You chew your bottom lip, a full-body shiver following the path of his rough palms as they trace the length of your upper leg. God, you love looking at him like this—down on his knees, eyes wide and soft but still dark. That familiar, dangerous sweetness on his face—the kind that makes it impossible to say no to him.

So, you just nod a quiet: “Okay.”

“Good,” he grins, a little wicked now. “Because I just spent an entire night trying not to touch you,” he says hoarsely. “And I fucking love this dress on you, baby.”

“I picked it with you—”

“Take it off.”

Your lips part of their own accord because you don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice drop like that. It has your fingers fumbling to the clasp behind your back, trembling as you unhook it. Jeno watches like you’re putting on a show just for him. You don't think you’ve ever seen his eyes so heated before either.

The silk slips from your shoulders, pooling at your waist. And then he’s there—his big hands covering yours, helping you peel it the rest of the way down like he’s unwrapping a gift.

He looks at you in pure awe—like it’s the first time he’s seen every bare inch of your skin, even though it’s not.

“No fucking underwear, baby?” he asks, thumbs pressing into the soft dips of your waist. “You looked this fucking good all night with nothing on underneath?”

You blink, breath catching.

“I was irritated before,” his jaw tenses. “But now I think I’m mad.”

“Irritated?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs a breath, eyes flicking over your tits straight to your parted lips. “I had to sit there and watch you. Watch you laugh, drink, make every person in that room fall in love with you. And the whole time, you were like this wet and bare—and I didn’t even know.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks—and between your legs.

“I should’ve pulled you into a bathroom stall and made you cum on my fingers just so you’d stop smiling at everyone else.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. The heat between them is molten now.

“Well,” you whisper, eyes locked on his, “you don’t have to watch anymore.”

He kisses you then and it’s greedy. He’s been holding back for hours, but now, you’re his again—just his—so he doesn’t want to be gentle anymore. He doesn’t have to be.

He pulls you up from the couch, hands sliding down to grab your ass as he walks you backward toward the bedroom, lips styling looked onto yours like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You tug at his shirt, and he shrugs it off without a second thought.

“Lie down,” he commands softly once you reach the bed.

You obey, spine sinking into the mattress, hair fanning across the pillow as your chest rises and falls rapidly. Jeno climbs over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other slowly moving down the curve of your waist until he’s back to his favourite place—between your legs.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then your thigh. Then higher. All without breaking eye contact.

“You’ve been dripping like this all night?” he breathes, lips fanning the skin just above your pubic bone.

You nod as a whine escapes you because of how slowly he’s moving. He’s taking his time, and it’s excruciating considering how much you need him already.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you pant. “Been wet all night.”

He lets out a low whistle, then leans in closer, blowing soft air against your bare slit. It’s torturous. Delicious. Cruel.

“Fuck, baby,” he coos, eyes locked on your cunt. “This looks like it aches. What’s got you so worked up, hmm?”

“You, Jeno,” you whimper. “Always you. Please.”

He smirks then. A real, filthy grin. “Good.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches. Watches the way your thighs twitch. The way your chest rises faster. The way your lips part like you’re about to beg again.

He likes that. The anticipation. The way you’re already wrecked and he hasn’t even touched you properly. Then finally—finally—his mouth is on you.

It’s slow at first. A single, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, so gentle you barely feel it. Then he sucks. Hard. Tongue flicking over you in the most heavenly way because he knows your body better than you do.

You gasp, hips lifting—but his hands are already there, pinning you down to the mattress with a strength that makes your toes curl.

“Don’t run from me,” he hums against you. “Take it, pretty girl. You deserve it.”

You whimper his name, one hand fisting the sheets, the other reaching down to bury in his hair to tug at the ends whilst he devours you. And when he adds a finger—slips it inside without warning while his tongue flicks fast and precise against your clit—you arch off the bed completely, moaning so loudly it echoes.

“That’s it,” he groans, curling it just right. “So fucking hot.”

You clench around him, and he grins against your skin. Telling you—demanding you—to let go. Which you do, with a cry and a shudder. He doesn’t stop licking until you’re shaking, until you’re whining his name in that breathless, broken way that makes his cock throb behind his zipper.

You’re not even sure how long you’ve been moaning his name before he eventually pulls back and reaches for his belt. You reach for him and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as you help him free his cock from the layers of fabric.

Then he lines himself up, bare, and sinks into you with a groan that rips straight from his chest. The sound alone sends another shudder through you.

His head falls forward until his forehead rests against yours as he anchors your hip. His breath fans hot across your lips, leaving delicate pecks as he eases into you carefully.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the curse trembling. “You feel so good. So fucking good, baby.”

And then—he moves. He fucking moves. Deep and steady. Claiming.

His mouth hovers near yours. Catching each gasp, each moan, each quiet, desperate, whispered plea of his name from your lips. He wants everything. He wants it all.

He pulls out slow, just to taunt, and then thrusts back in harder and you groan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he says, gritting his teeth. “You like being full of me, don’t you?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes—fuck—yes, Jeno.”

“Been thinking about this all fucking night,” he breathes against your lips. “About getting that fucking dress off you. About making you squirm. Hearing you make all those pretty little noises for me. Taking everything I give you like such a good fucking girl.”

You clench again at his words, and he feels it.

“Fuck, baby—already close again?” he smirks, biting softly at your jaw. “You’re so fucking easy for me. So wet. So perfect.”

You moan, your legs tightening around his waist.

“Say it,” he growls, voice cracking now as his thrusts pick up pace. “Say who you’re perfect for. Who this sweet little body was made to take.”

“You,” you cry out, head falling back. “Fuck, it’s only ever you.”

“Damn right,” he grits, snapping his hips harder. “And now the whole world knows, don’t they? And now I get to show everyone who’s got me wrapped around her fucking finger.”

You whine, nails dragging down his back as your body starts to seize again, overwhelmed by the force of him, by his words. He hisses then, and you know he’s just as close as you.

“Be good for me, baby. Cum on my cock—show me how fucking mine you are.”

Your pussy pulses around him, mouth opening in a loud moan as pleasure rips through you and you can do nothing but clutch at his bare back. The lines of nail marks reddening.

“Fuck—there you go,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl.”

His own hips stutter, rhythm breaking to a languid pace as he chases his own orgasm. He buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping just enough to nip and suck and leave his favourite kind of purple marks.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he snarls against your skin. “Fuck—you feel too good—I can’t—”

He pulls out fast, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But your mind doesn’t have enough time to process that ache because your eyes lock with his—dilated and heavy-lidded—and you forget to breathe.

His hand wraps around his cock, pumping hard, fast. Just a few strokes before he’s spilling all over your stomach, jaw clenched, your name a growl on his tongue.

The sight alone makes your thighs tremble all over again—because he looks so fucking beautiful like this. Chest heaving, skin slick with sweat, eyes half-lidded and burning only for you. You don’t even care about the mess he’s made on your skin—because tonight, he wasn’t just your secret. He was yours. Publicly.

And you’re both okay with paying that price.

#nct smut #jeno smut #nct dream smut #nct x reader #jeno x reader #nct dream x reader #nct hard hours #nct one shot #kpop smut

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heavenlybodies333 · 2 days ago

Text

Professional Conduct My Ass -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

You should’ve stopped at the second orgasm.

Maybe the third.

But Spencer had been looking at you like that—rumpled curls, shirt half-buttoned, a smug little smirk on his stupidly handsome face—and you had gone full slut. Now it was 7:12 AM, and you were in your bathroom mirror trying to make concealer do what no government-issued forensic cover-up ever could.

Your throat looked ravaged.

You tilted your head and winced. A neat ring of bruises, Spencer’s fingers like little trophies circling your neck in deep plum and ink-blue. And then the hickeys—dear God, the hickeys. He looked like a vampire victim.

You turned back to the bedroom, horrified. “We cannot go to the office like this.”

He was shirtless, bent over tying his shoes, and it was just—unfair. All lean lines and lanky muscle and a constellation of bruises blooming like wildflowers across his neck and shoulders.

You whistled. “I really went to town on you.”

“You bit me,” he said, straightening and pointing to a crescent mark just below his collarbone. “You left dental evidence.”

You shrugged. “It was a compliment. In the moment.”

He stared at you. “We have to go to work. With Hotch. And Morgan. And JJ. And Garcia. And we have a case briefing,” he said, rubbing his face like it physically pained him to remember.

You were too busy dabbing concealer onto your neck like a madwoman to look back at him. “You’re literally the smartest person in the Bureau and you let this happen.”

“Excuse me?” he shot back, slipping on his button-up with a hiss. “You bit me like I was a chew toy!”

“Only because you said—” You stopped yourself. “Never mind.”

He raised a brow. “‘Only because I said…?’ What?”

You muttered something about having a latex allergy and being turned on by fucking raw and kept blending.

You arrived at Quantico seven minutes late, coffee in hand, silently daring the elevator to move faster as you and Spencer stood like statues inside.

You sit down two chairs away from Spencer. Not next to him. Never next to him. You learned that lesson last week when you accidentally let your knees touch under the table and Morgan nearly imploded from curiosity.

He’s wearing a scarf.

Spencer Reid is wearing a scarf. In July.

JJ arches a brow. Morgan outright snorts. “Pretty boy, what’s with the neckwear? You join a jazz band?”

You immediately shove a too-hot sip of coffee in your mouth to avoid making a noise. Spencer blinks at Morgan like a man choosing violence.

“Had a sore throat this morning,” he says too quickly. “Didn’t want it to get worse.”

Garcia, bless her meddling heart, swivels around in her chair. “Oh no! Are you sick? Do you need tea? I have lemon ginger in my desk—”

“No! No. I’m fine.” Spencer coughs, like he’s trying to make the lie more convincing. “Just… precautionary.”

Emily’s eyes flick from him to you, to the scarf, to your turtleneck, then down to your wrists, where you accidentally forgot to cover one of his bruises with foundation. A ring-shaped imprint from his hand still lingers faintly. Her brow arches. Her mouth twitches.

You pretend not to notice. You focus on the whiteboard.

Hotch walks in, files in hand.

“Morning,” he says. “Briefing’s starting now. Let’s keep it efficient.”

9:12am Post-Brief Coffee

You’re waiting for coffee when Emily walks in, holding a mug and a smug look.

“Nice neck,” she says casually.

You freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You and Reid are really subtle, you know that?”

You nearly spill your drink. “We’re not—”

She holds up her hand. “Relax. I don’t care. Just… maybe cool it with the murdery makeout sessions before team meetings.”

Your face burns. “Noted.”

“And FYI,” she adds, stepping past you, “you’ve got a bite mark on your shoulder. Left side. Might wanna rethink the tank top.” You glance down and swear under your breath.

Walking back to your desk, coffee in hand before you collapse into your chair. Spencer sent you a text from across the bullpen:

SPENCER: We are so bad at being secretive.

YOU: I told you not to leave a fingerprint on my neck.

SPENCER: You told me to choke you.

YOU: I was drunk on your nerd dick. That doesn’t count.

SPENCER: Fair. Still. We need a new plan.

YOU: New plan: no more fucking before briefings.

SPENCER: Counter-offer: we fuck gently next time.

You met his eyes across the room.

That smug little smile was back. You bit your lip.

God help you.

You were going to do it all over again.

a/n: hehehe

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thatonegrimm · 1 day ago

Note

Saja boys with soft reader 💕 I mean as in reader who always asks permission before initiating any kisses, hand holding etc even if it's been months into their relationship. These Bois autonomy alr taken by gwi ma for centuries and deserve to feel cherished 🥺

Thank you for the request! This is such a sweet ask, I was over here cooing at the boys as I wrote this. Here you go!💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Soft!Reader

-------------------------

🧿 Jinu

It happened in the middle of a crowded street.

You and Jinu were walking through a night market, shoulder to shoulder, the scent of roasted chestnuts and hot tteokbokki swirling in the warm air. He was explaining something about the lanterns overhead.

And you… weren’t listening.

Not really.

Because all you could think about was how close his hand was to yours.

You swallowed.

Then asked, softly, “Can I hold your hand?”

He blinked. Once. Twice. The words visibly knocked him off track.

“You’re… asking?” he murmured, glancing sideways.

You nodded, cheeks pink.

He looked down at your outstretched hand like it was a gift he hadn’t dared hope for. And then—slowly, reverently—he took it.

His fingers laced through yours like they were made to.

And he said, a little stunned, “You don’t have to ask.”

But when you looked up at him with a smile and said, “I want to,” his breath caught.

Because after centuries of being commanded, demanded, bound by oaths and markings—want was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

-------------------------

💪 Abby

It was late.

You and Abby had fallen asleep on the couch again, tangled in a mess of throw blankets and leftover popcorn. The credits of some old action movie were still rolling, soft light flickering across the room.

He stirred when you shifted beside him, blinking awake.

You smiled, brushing a crumb off his cheek. “Hi.”

He yawned, grinning sleepily. “Hey.”

Your heart fluttered. He looked so warm like this. So safe. So him.

And you wanted to kiss him.

But instead of just leaning in, you whispered, “Can I?”

He blinked again. “Huh?”

“Can I kiss you?” you said gently, thumb still brushing his cheek.

His expression crumbled in the most beautiful way. All that strength he carried in his shoulders—gone. Melted into something soft, vulnerable.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. You always ask.”

“I like asking,” you said. “I like knowing you want it too.”

He cupped your jaw then, pulling you in with a smile so full of emotion it nearly cracked you.

You kissed like that—sweet, slow, safe.

And Abby thought he might never stop thanking the universe for someone who gave him choice when the world hadn’t.

-------------------------

📚 Mystery

Mystery was on the rooftop again.

It had become his quiet place—the one spot where the shadows didn’t press so close, and he could feel the wind in his hair without needing to say a word.

You found him there one night, curled on the far edge with his knees tucked in and his hoodie pulled halfway over his face.

He didn’t look up when you approached.

So you stopped a few feet away and asked, soft and careful, “Can I sit beside you?”

He blinked.

Then glanced over.

You weren’t joking. You really were waiting for an answer.

Most people would’ve just sat. Or worse, filled the silence with questions.

But you… waited.

He gave the faintest nod.

And when you settled beside him, just close enough for your shoulders to nearly touch, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

After a while, your hand brushed the hem of his sleeve. “Can I… hold your hand?”

Another nod.

Another breath.

Your fingers slipped into his slowly, like easing into cold water.

And that was it.

No rush. No pressure.

Just permission, quietly given.

-------------------------

💋 Romance

Romance was used to touch.

To kisses thrown like confetti. To arms flung around him backstage. To being wanted, often and loudly.

But he wasn’t used to being asked.

Which is why, when you leaned into him one afternoon—sunlight pouring through the window, music humming low—and whispered, “Can I kiss you here?” with your fingers brushing his collarbone…

He forgot how to breathe.

You weren’t shy. Just gentle. You could’ve kissed him a hundred times by now. You had.

But still, every time, you asked.

And every time, it melted something inside him.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured, voice thick with awe.

You kissed the spot softly, right where his skin met the line of his shirt. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’ve been kissed a thousand ways,” he said, tilting his head so your lips could linger. “But never with this much care.”

You smiled into his skin. “Then let me keep ruining you.”

He laughed, but it was soft, shaky.

Like he wasn’t sure what to do with a love that waited.

-------------------------

🔥 Baby

Baby didn’t do well with surprises.

He needed control—of his space, of how the world touched him.

And you got that.

Which is why, even after months of being his partner, you still asked.

Even for a hug.

Especially for a hug.

One afternoon, you found him pacing in the training room, jaw tight, fists clenched. The air around him shimmered—like heat rising from asphalt.

He didn’t say anything when you entered.

Just kept pacing.

So you stood there, quietly, until the moment was right.

“Can I hug you?” you asked gently, not taking a step closer.

He stopped.

Turned slowly.

His eyes flickered gold, then back to dark.

You waited.

And after a long pause, he breathed out. “Yeah.”

You stepped forward, arms wrapping around his back, grounding him.

And as soon as he felt your touch—warm, chosen, safe—his forehead dropped to your shoulder with a shaky sigh.

“Thank you for asking,” he murmured.

You squeezed him tighter.

“Always.”

Because with Baby, love was never taken. It was always earned. And always, always offered.

-------------------------

M-List

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #abby x reader #mystery x reader #jinu x reader #baby x reader #romance x reader #kpdh #kpop demon hunters

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sugxto · 3 days ago

Text

fire hazard - eddie/volt/reader

⋆syn: There was a mishap while you were talking to Dante. But Eddie and Volt do not like the idea of someone else being so close to you. e/v masterlist.

⋆wc: 4.4k

⋆cw: m/m/ afab, g/n reader explicit sex, possessive, jealous sex, spitting, spit roasting, blowjobs, dirty talk and degradation. there are consensual, temporary marks that resemble burns made on reader's skin

⋆notes: reader insert uses g/n pronouns and is not described with feminine attributes. AFAB genitalia, terms used include hole, lips, entrance, cunt and clit.

⋆snippet:

“There’s something you may not know about us, live wire,” Eddie says, his breath against your ear making your knees buckle, but no matter - you’re still pinned in place. “Volt and I…” his other hand encircles your waist, his forearm over your belly, and pushes you back to his chest, “we don’t like to share what’s ours.”

“And we especially,” Volt pulls your jaw towards him as he leans down to you, his eyes flashing like a storm, “do not like others making their mark where it isn’t wanted.”

You were so, incredibly fucked.

fire hazard

You were fucked.

Literally fucked, you thought, if you weren’t careful tonight. The gauze around your hand was your skintone, you’d made sure to ask Fayra for it specifically, and honestly, it was barely anything. Just a little bit of redness, a little tenderness, that it would probably disappear tomorrow morning.

Dante hadn’t meant it, of course he hadn’t, and how could you have known? You touch Volt daily, and while his burns were intentional, they were never painful. But maybe, there was something different in how your skin reacted to fire incarnate versus electricity personified.

But there were two men you knew who may not see it so simply.

When you enter the Breaker Box, you’re greeted with a “live wire!” from behind the bar, and hurry over to them, Eddie throwing a shaker by his head. You give them both kisses on their cheeks, and settle next to Volt when he throws an arm over your shoulder.

“Whiskey sour?” Eddie asks, and when you say yes, he grabs three glasses and lines them up on the bar, filling each of them equally, with practiced ease.

God yes, you needed a drink, you think, as you reach out for it, but you realize your mistake s split second too late.

“Darling, what’s this?” Volt grabs your hand, gingerly touches the small bandage that Farya had wrapped around your palm, inspects the palm of your hand with curious white eyes.

You really were too hopeful, you know you were, thinking they wouldn’t notice, and maybe too stupid to think you could hide it from them.

“It’s nothing,” you try, quickly, to assure him, before looking up at Eddie, whose grey eyes are now locked on to where Volt’s fingers hold yours. “Literally, nothing. Just a mishap from earlier today.”

Eddie raises a brow. “A mishap?”

Shit. “Yeah. I,” you swallow, then let out a deep exhale. “I was talking with Dante, earlier, and he, I guess,” you shrug your shoulders, “runs hot.”

Two sets of brows fly up their faces, just, unfortunately, as you suspected might happen.

“He burnt you?!” “Dante hurt you?!” they say, overlapping in their incredulity and thinly veiled rage, and Volt’s fingers tighten around yours, sparks popping along your skin.

“Yes, but he really did not mean it!” You reach for Eddie, find his arm flexed as he grips the bar tightly. “We were role-playing -”

“Role playing!” both of them nearly scream, and you see Rainey, at a table not too far away, turn her head.

You huff, steel your face, and grab Eddie tighter, find Volt’s white eyes with what you hope is a look of confidence, no nonsense. “Both of you, listen to me. He’s been doing this thing where he wants to teach me the ways of how to make new relationships, and he wanted to act out a… scene. A silly scene of, just, finding mutual interests.” Eddie barks out a dry, hollow laugh. “And he grabbed my hand, and I guess, that he doesn’t have the same control over that sort of thing that you two do.” You flick your gaze between them, but neither of their faces have softened. “That’s it.”

And maybe, that would have been it.

If, at that very moment, the door to the Breaker Box hadn’t opened, and a warm, luminous figure walked through it.

Shit.

The fire that you see in Volt and Eddie’s eyes, you know for certain, has nothing to do with the glow that Dante emits, and everything to do with his mere presence. This is not good, very very not good, and without thinking, you run around the bar to meet him before he can get much further inside.

“Dante,” you say, your breath a little hurried, and the smile you put on your face is shaky, because you know you actually have no time to fix this situation. “Hey, um, wh-what are you doing here?”

Dante smiles, making his cheeks and chest brighter. “Hey, ember. Look,” he puts his hand on his neck, tilts his head, “I just wanted to apologize, again, I know you said it didn’t hurt, but still. I know you come here at nights, though, so I figured I could buy you a drink.”

You giggle, forced, and nervously. “That’s… really sweet, Dante, but I don’t know if now is a good -”

You feel him before you hear him, from the buzz on your skin and the way the hair on your neck stands at attention. You knew you wouldn’t be quick enough, but hey, at least you tried.

Volt’s hand finds your waist, and he presses you, hard, to his side, soldering you to him so there can be no misunderstanding, to anyone in the club. “Dante,” he says, and when you dare to look up at him, you see that hint of blue on his cheeks.

You were so fucked.

“It’s not often we see you at our little hole in the wall.” You can hear the anger being held back by what must be the thinnest wire imaginable. “Is there something we can help you with?”

Dante, you imagine, does not notice the fuse that is daring to blow at any moment, and smiles at Volt. “Yes! Well, I was wanting to buy this enigmatic ember here a drink, seeing as I accidentally got a little carried away earlier today.”

Volt smiles back - but it lacks any warmth, you know, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s mocking, almost, and you fight not to shudder when you feel his fingers singe your skin. “Yes, our spark was actually just regailing us. An accident, we’re sure, but still. We’d hate for it to happen again, so perhaps let’s be a bit more mindful next time, yes?”

Dante’s eyes narrow just the smallest bit, but he nods. “Right. And I can’t apologize enough.”

��Yes, quite right. And I’m terribly sorry, but we’re actually going to have to close up early - something has very suddenly come up, you understand, I’m sure. Perhaps our wire can indulge you another time.”

Yeah, not very likely.

You try to cast Dante a reassuring look, unsaid apologies in your eyes. “Thank you, Dante, but yeah, another time?”

He nods again, a soft look on his face, and a truly apologetic look in his fire-red eyes. “No worries, ember. No worries, at all.”

You hear Eddie yell out at the bar behind you, “We’re closing early! Everybody get out!”

There was a reason that Volt was the face of the club, but Eddie’s bluntness did come in handy when they needed it to.

Dante raises a hand to wave goodbye and takes a step back towards the door. “Till next time!”

You try to wave back, but a shock runs up your side and through your arm, and you shove your hand back down, just as Volt says, “Dante. For future reference, our spark is perfectly content with the relationship they’re in, so further lessons may not be warranted.”

Dante’s brows (at least, what you think are his brows) raise, his eyes now wide as he casts a glance behind you at the bar, where you know Eddie is watching. “I - of course. It was just, two friends having a conversation.”

He, and the rest of the guests leave, mutters of confusion and discontent passing by you and Volt as they exit, his grip on you never loosening. When he finally lets go, it’s only to lock the door, but you can practically hear the buzz of electricity emanating off his body even as he steps away. The ends of his hair are sparking so rapidly, you think that if he was standing by a curtain, they’d go up in flames.

You know you at least have to try, so you take a deep breath. “Volt -”

A lightning flash. Volt’s hand clutches your jaw, his silver fingers pressing deep into your cheeks. It was so fast you couldn’t even gasp, and now you let out a small sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between pleading, and relief. His skin is hot, and you feel the charge of his skin send a current through your own. And his eyes…

They were going to burn you from the inside out.

“Our sweet, darling little spark.” His voice is taunting, it’s dripping with mock sweetness, it’s mean - and you hate how much you love it. “I think we’ve heard all we need to hear, yes?”

“V -” you can’t even finish his name before two of his thick, long fingers are forced inside your mouth, and you cry out as he pushes down on your tongue, holds your jaw still, and he chuckles at how wide your eyes are, filled with pleas you are simply unable to voice. Because of him.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your neck, but it’s a different grip, one that’s humming with power, and the coils of wired hair brush your neck.

“And we especially,” Volt pulls your jaw towards him as he leans down to you, his eyes flashing like a storm, “do not like others making their mark where it isn’t wanted.”

You were so, incredibly fucked.

“So we think,” he says, as you feel Eddie bite down on your neck, “we’re going to have a reminder of our place, hm?” He makes a fake pout when your brows furrow, tsks his tongue at a plea that you’re prevented from voicing. “Oh, we know, little spark.”

Eddie’s teeth find your ear, his voice level, but you know too well the danger that lurks underneath it. “I thought that we should take you right on that stage, just to make the message clear.” When your knees buckle again, his arm pulls you back up, immobilizes you against him. “But neither of us thought anyone in the house deserved that sight.”

“Because you’re just for us, aren’t you?” He forces your jaw up, down, a pitiful little nod, and his voice is so warm, but it burns like a shot of whiskey in your throat. “And we’ll just have to ensure you aren’t likely to forget that.”

Volt’s fingers are gone, and you sputter and gasp, but then you’re being lifted, Eddie hoisting you up by your torso, and Volt bending to grab your legs, holding your ankles in his hands like they’re nothing. You’re suspended, held, between them, as they make their way towards the stairs. You try their names, you try pleas, you try apologies, as you are carried like a crate of whiskey up to their room.

“Volt, Eddie, I swear I -” now you’re airborne, for only the briefest flash, before your body hits the bed with a small bounce. As quickly as you can, you sit up, try to right yourself before them to plead your case, though you know the verdict has already been brought down. They are your judges, your jury, and you know, soon, your executioners.

You crawl to the end of the bed where they stand, look up at them with eyes you know they’ll ignore. “You two have to know it meant nothing, literally nothing, Dante is a friend -”

“A friend who has marked your skin,” Volt says, in a voice that an untrained ear might classify as unbothered. He’s unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, carefully, but his white eyes are locked onto your face.

It’s Eddie who moves at you first, his hand back at your throat when he bends down over you, his thumb teasing at your pulse. His titanium eyes are dark, that same storm in them that you saw brewing in Volt’s, and he turns your gaze so that they’re the only things you can focus on.

“Ya know, live wire,” he says, pulling your neck up to him, his lips ghosting over your own, “sometimes, you are just like Volt.” He flicks his tongue across your lips, and you moan his name, anguished. “No matter how much I fuck him, it’s like he’s never satisfied.” He pulls back an inch, searches your face with arched lightning brows. “Is that what we’re looking at here? You’re just not satisfied with what we’re giving you?”

“No,” your voice is rough, like it’s fighting to leave your mouth, and you shake your head as much as Eddie’s grip allows for. “Never, never, Eddie. You two are the only ones I want, I swear.”

“Hm,” he muses, and you know from that sparkle in his eye that he’s enjoying this, your pleas, your begs, how willingly you give yourself to them. “Volt, baby, what do you think?”

You feel sparks at your hips, and you’re pulled back, out of Eddie’s grasp, pinned to the burning chest of one of your partners for the second time tonight. One of Volt’s hands deftly undoes your pants, the other slides under your shirt, and you feel the sparks of his hair kiss your shoulders, your neck. His voice, soft and smooth as silk, makes you gasp when he presses his lips to your ear. “Hm, I think, much as they say they’re ours,” his fingers send a zap to your nipple, and you curse through your teeth, “that we need to remind them.” He shocks you again, and you feel Eddie tug at the waistband of your pants. “Don’t you want that, darling? You want to be shown your place, don’t you?”

It was here, between them, always - you knew this. Lived it and breathed it and cherished it every time they touched you.

And amps sake, you never wanted to forget it.

So, feebly, tentatively, you nod, and you find Eddie’s eyes, waiting like a tiger for your answer.

“Show me, please.”

Like a doll, like you’re nothing, they turn you over, your clothes gone so fast you don’t realize you’re naked until you feel their skin on yours (you wonder, in the back of your mind, if they somehow burned them off). Volt pulls your arms, drags you up the bed, and Eddie takes your ankles, manipulating your limbs until you’re on all fours for them. Volt holds your chin again, not so harshly as before, but enough to hinder any movements you may wish to make, as he levels your face to where his cock is standing to attention, tinged the same shade of blue as his cheeks.

You lick your lips at the sight, and when you feel Eddie swipe a finger over your folds, you groan, your arms already trembling. It’s not often you feel sparks from his fingers, but you’re certain they’re there now, buzzing and vibrating at your entrance.

He huffs out a chuckle, a sound like he’s found exactly what he was looking for. “You are fucking dripping, spark.” The tip of his finger teases its way inside, crooking it just a touch before he pulls it out with a hiss. “So fucking tight. It’s like you’re begging for us already.”

Volt’s eyes are so bright, staring down at your desperate face, and his grin shows a flash of his canines. “Oh, darling. You’re just a little slut for it, aren’t you?” When you moan his name in response, he presses harder on your jaw, and you relish the thought of the ache you’ll wake up to. “You want to be filled up, don’t you? Tell us. Tell us what you want.”

Your nails grip at the sheets beneath you, and when you speak, your words are stifled by Volt’s fingers. “Please, I need you - Eddie, Volt, fuck me. Please fuck me, pl-”

Volt’s cock forces its way inside your mouth at the exact moment Eddie’s enters your cunt, and you’re sure you know now how it feels to be struck by lightning.

They make you burn, these men who will surely be the death of you one day, who make you feel like you’re going to burst at your seams, and you make a strangled sound of joy, pleasure, at the back of your throat where Volt hits you. Because it’s perfect, it’s home, it’s all you never even knew you wanted, this feeling of wholeness between these two men. This, this was certainly your place.

Eddie’s hands are white hot on your hips as he pounds into you, your back arching to deepen the angle, every thrust shoving you forward to take more of Volt’s cock. No matter how you moved, how you tried, futilely, to adjust yourself, it only led to one of them bullying their way deeper inside you, giving you no room to run.

Volt holds your face in his hands, hardly having to rut his lips at all, relying on Eddie’s rhythm to move your mouth along his cock. “That’s it, our good little wire. Eddie’s right, you are just like me,” he strokes your cheeks, biting his lip when he feels your teeth, “so greedy for us, oh I know, I know. Two cocks inside you and it’s still not enough, is it?”

You try to make some sort of sound in your defense, but it comes out strangled, entirely fucked, and you feel a strand of drool fall at the corner of your lips. You make a sound of surprise, though, when you feel a zap at your clit, Eddie’s rough fingers giving you a teasing rub, and your arms ache.

“You want more, spark?” you hear Eddie say, his voice husky and warm and hitting you right in your heart. His fingers make small circles around your clit, and you worry you won’t have the strength to hold yourself up much longer. “You gonna cum for me I give you more, like a good whore?”

Yes, you wish you could say, wish you could nod and plead at his feet, yes, give me everything.

But instead, you can only moan, can only drool around Volt’s cock with your slack jaw, watched by white eyes with rapt attention. You feel it, almost immediately, building inside you, no inch of your body left untouched, and the warmth and tension builds up inside you like a copper coil. And then Eddie hits a new angle and oh, fuck, it’s perfect -

White dots cloud your vision, and your arms give out, your orgasm causing your whole body to spasm and shake, and you see bolts of lightning when you close your eyes. Volt falls out of your mouth, and you scream their names, your cunt tightening around Eddie like a vice.

When you come back to your body a minute, you take a shaky breath and release your death grip on the sheets. When you blink your eyes open, you realize you’re empty, the loss striking, but you don’t remember either of them cumming, so you lift yourself back up, your arms still unstable, and -

It’s steel eyes that greet you now, and you feel familiar, buzzing hands on your thighs.

Eddie sits back on his legs, and his hand comes to cup your chin, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey, live wire,” he says, brushing his thumb over your swollen lip, “didn’t think you were done so soon, did you?”

Surely, one day, you would not survive them.

“Eddie,” you whisper, not trusting your voice any louder, “my arms, I can’t -”

“Oh, you don’t need your arms, baby.”

He pulls as Volt pushes, and you’re on your back, your head between Eddie’s thighs, one of his hands on your cheeks, the other giving slow, unbothered strokes to his cock. Volt’s hands run up, up your inner thighs, and you shiver as the current from his touch warms your entire body.

“Darling,” Volt says, coming to lean over you, his hair glowing softly, “Eddie and I want to see our marks on your skin. They’re the only ones that belong there, aren’t they?”

You’re entranced by his voice - Volt is a siren, a silvertongue, and you’d do anything if it meant you could hear more of it. So you nod, agreeing, of course agreeing, though to what, you’re not exactly sure.

Eddie continues to stroke your cheek, and he hums. “You trust us, spark?”

With your life.

“Yes, of course,” you respond, flitting your gaze back and forth between them.

“Good. It shouldn’t hurt, but -”

“But you know what to say if it does, right?” Volt finishes, and again, you nod, pulling the word “fuse” forward, just in case, and he grins, softer than before. “Perfect.”

Before you can ask or say anything more, Eddie is guiding his cock inside your mouth, and you close your eyes as he fills you, tasting yourself on his skin. Volt hikes up your thighs, and then, in one quick thrust, he’s inside you too, slick with your climax and still sensitive to the touch. They feel so perfect, so in sync, knowing exactly how to fuck your body to benefit you, and the other. Two halves, completing each other, but completing you between them.

You feel Eddie shift, feel Volt lean forward and balance his arms at your sides, and you open your eyes to see them kissing above you, their tongues swiping at each other’s mouths, and you moan around Eddie’s cock.

White and steel eyes look down at you, up to each other, and back down to you again, twin smiles on their lips. It’s Eddie that speaks. “You want some, baby?”

You nod, as best as you can around Eddie’s cock, and you reach up a hand to hold it while you open your mouth below them, offering your tongue. Two strings of spit fall down, down to your waiting mouth, and you arch your back when they hit, swallowing it down like whiskey.

Volt laughs in a way that goes straight to your clit, and he looks back up at Eddie, the two of them sharing one more kiss before separating, and Eddie’s cock is back in your mouth where it belongs, Volt rocking his hips inside you with a fervor. “So fucking good,” Volt groans as he pulls your hips up, “Doing so fucking good, little spark, just for us.”

You already feel another orgasm building, winding itself in your belly, and both of them grow more erratic, more volatile in their movements. Eddie’s hand grips your bicep, and Volt finds your waist, and you are warm, so warm and charged and electric and full -

You groan, cry around Eddie’s cock as you cum, but it’s different this time, it doesn’t stop, it only builds, and the white hot current of their skin is in every cell of your body, burning you from the inside out and blinding your vision with white - and you are floating, outside of your body, in a white, warm haze between their bodies. Somewhere, somehow, you feel them reach their own peaks, filling you at both ends and grasping at your body for purchase.

Two sets of lips on your cheek are what eventually pulls you back, soft, loving kisses that keep you floating even as you return to your body, and you hum in contentment, a smile forming unconsciously on your lips.

“There they are,” you hear Volt say, feel his breath on your cheek.

“You back with us?” Eddie asks, and when you do finally open your eyes, it's his you see first.

You nod, though it takes a great amount of effort, and you stretch your arms, feeling sorer than usual. You catch a look between them, that silent thing they tend to do, and you hum again to get their attention back to you.

“Live wire,” Eddie says, and you notice a glint in his eyes, and when you turn your head to see Volt, you see its twin. “Can we show you something?”

You raise your brows, and try to respond, but find you have to clear your throat first. “Do I have to get up?”

Volt makes an amused sound. “I’ll carry you.”

And so he does, easily, and you press your face into his neck, if only for the moment it takes for them to bring you to their bathroom. Eddie’s fingers run over your calf, and he whispers, “Look in the mirror, baby.”

You turn, blink your tired eyes open, and gasp when you meet your reflection.

On your hip, and on your bicep, are two red, unmistakable handprints.

“Eddie,” you breathe, stuck staring at them. “Volt. I - put me down, please.” When he does, you get as close as you can to the mirror, admiring the different sizes that Volt and Eddie’s hands have left on you. They nearly blend into your skin, but are distinct in how raised, how obvious they are. You tentatively touch one, and are surprised when it doesn’t hurt, only the faintest tenderness that doesn’t feel unlike the shocks from their fingers.

They’re perfect. They’re yours.

You feel a lump form in your throat, feel tears start to brim at the corners of your eyes, and you find their reflections in the mirror, both of them beaming with pride, devotion, love. You can only hope your own face shows the face.

“We think they’ll last a week or so,” Eddie offers, leaning against the vanity towards you. “We’re… not really sure how different your skin is to ours, but.”

You shake your head, not caring if they last one more minute, or one more year. “They’re perfect. They’re - Eddie,” you sigh, not even sure how to describe it, and you turn around to find Volt. “Volt. I - I love you so much, I’m…” you trail off, not able to stop a few tears as they fall, and they are on you in a flash, carrying you back to bed, tucking you between them under the sheets.

They whisper their love for you in your ears as you drift off, your body pressed between them, Volt’s hand resting on Eddie’s handprint, and Eddie’s resting on Volt’s.

This. This was certainly your place.

#date everything #date everything smut #eddie and volt #volt date everything #eddie date everything #date everything x reader #eddie and volt x reader #eddie x volt #eddie x volt x reader #breaker box boys

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