#circuit // in creatures and time

[malwarechips]

isat dialogue box generator am i right

^ plus just the portraits by themself hi welcome to under the cut

[elevatourism]

I do not think I can possibly even blorbo post enough

[lov3lycosmos]

𝑆𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝐾𝑖𝑑𝑠 𝑆𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑁𝑜𝑛-𝑆𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑇𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑂𝑛𝑠 𐙚

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut MDNI

𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: where we talk about the sexual and non-sexual things that turn the stray kids members on (fem!reader)

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: praise, teasing, begging, oral, soft domination, brat taming, edging, overstimulation, corruption, innocence kink, thigh/voice/name fixations, control, messy kisses, pet names, and light degradation.

𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑦!

Bang Chan's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Black lace lingerie — Something about delicate, see-through black lace clinging to your curves makes his brain short-circuit. He loves how sinful you look while trying to act innocent. Bonus points if you wear thigh-highs with garters. He’ll grip your waist and whisper, "You're really doing this to me right now?"

• Being called Daddy in a soft voice — He doesn’t always ask for it, but when you drop it in your breathy moans, he loses it. Especially when you’re being a good girl and looking up at him with those eyes. Yes, those eyes — you know the ones.

• When you’re already soaking before he even touches you — There’s a moment of stunned silence when he feels it. Then comes the low chuckle and the, "You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you, baby?"

• You riding him in a skirt with nothing underneath — He gets feral when you take control, especially if you lean in and whisper exactly how good he feels. Bonus: when you bounce and the little skirt keeps flipping up? Game over.

• Waking him up with head — It’s not even fair. He’s half-asleep, barely aware, and then your mouth is on him? Yeah, he’s moaning your name in under a minute. Will absolutely return the favor tenfold.

Bangchan's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• You in his oversized hoodie, hair messy, no pants — It’s not sexual... until it is. Something about that domestic image makes him want to ruin you on the kitchen counter.

• Watching you take care of yourself — Skin care, journaling, eating your vitamins — he’s genuinely turned on by how soft and healthy you are. Says it makes him want to protect you, then proceeds to pin you against the wall.

• When you defend him in arguments — He's used to defending you. But when you flip the script? Oh, he’s obsessed. Low-key looks at you like you just proposed.

• You humming while doing chores — He walks by, hears you humming, and suddenly he’s watching your every move like you’re the most fascinating creature alive.

• You resting your head on his lap — Soft touches to his thigh, a quiet little yawn, and your lips brushing his skin? He’ll be hard in 30 seconds and trying to hide it like a gentleman. Key word: trying.

Minho's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Breathless whimpers — Especially when you try to hide them. That quiet gasp when he fingers you just right? He leans in close, grinning like the smug menace he is, and whispers, "Don’t hold back. Let them hear."

• Overstimulation — There’s nothing he loves more than seeing your legs trembling and hearing you say "I can’t" — only for him to keep going until you cum again anyway. "One more," he says, every time. "For me."

• Bondage — He doesn’t even need fancy ropes. Just your hands tied with a scarf and that helpless look in your eyes. He lives for control.

• Calling him sir in public subtly — It’s a dangerous game, but when you pull it off in a whisper while keeping your face all innocent? His grip on your thigh tightens. That’s your only warning.

• Cockwarming — He doesn’t even care if you finish. He just wants you sitting on him, needy and stuffed full while he makes you wait. Like the teasing sadist he is.

Minho's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Playing with his cats — The way you baby Soonie, Doongie, and Dori? You’re basically proposing. He’s already imagining you living together.

• When you don’t take his sass and throw it right back — He’s a menace, but when you sass him back with a smirk? He short-circuits and considers proposing on the spot.

• Your back when you’re putting your hair up — That stretch. That sliver of skin. Every damn time. It’s like you do it on purpose.

• When you laugh at his dumb jokes even when they’re bad — He pretends to hate it. But he secretly thinks you're the only person who gets him.

• Your hands in his hair — Pet him. Scratch his scalp. Stroke the back of his neck. Just know you’re not getting up again until he's done using you as a pillow...or something else.

Changbin's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Praise kink — Call him a good boy and watch him melt. Say it while you're moaning, and he might cum on the spot.

• Thigh riding — He loves watching you grind against his thick thighs like you can’t help yourself. Bonus if you end up leaving a wet patch — he’ll tease you for it while looking so damn proud.

• Public teasing — Whisper something dirty in his ear at a restaurant and watch his face go red. He’ll get his revenge later — expect to be face-down in the sheets the moment you get home.

• Mirror sex — He’s obsessed with watching you watch yourselves. Especially when he’s got a hand around your throat and you’re whimpering his name. “Look how pretty you are when I ruin you.”

• Your mouth — Doesn’t matter where. Kisses, oral, whispering filthy things — if your mouth’s involved, he’s obsessed.

Changbin's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• When you get excited about your hobbies — He loves seeing you geek out about your passions. Will sit and listen with the dopiest grin like you’re the most interesting person on Earth.

• Wearing his gym shirts — They’re huge on you and smell like him, and the sight makes him feral. Don’t be surprised if you get pulled into his lap.

• When you compliment his body without being shy — You grabbing his arms like, “Damn, baby”? Instant ego boost. Instant hard-on.

• Cooking together — You’re just chopping veggies and he’s behind you grabbing your waist like, “God, I’m so in love with you.”

• Snuggling into his chest while he’s sweaty — He’ll pretend to complain but secretly loves that you find him comforting even when he’s all gross from a workout.

Hyunjin's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Slow, sensual makeouts that turn filthy — He loves building tension. Tongues, teeth, gasps — he’ll pin you against the wall mid-kiss just to see you breathless.

• Body worship — He wants to kiss and touch every inch of you, praising every curve and scar. "So pretty, baby. Mine. All mine."

• Choking kink (light) — He doesn’t do it too rough, but when he places a hand on your neck and you moan? It flips a switch.

• Being teased until he begs — Yes, he will beg. Tease him slow, whisper how desperate he is, and he’ll be whining your name like a prayer.

• Spit play — It’s filthy, it’s messy, and he loves it. You spitting into his mouth? Immediate collapse.

Hyunjin's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• You letting him paint or sketch you — You're lying there, bare or not, and he’s staring at you like you’re a masterpiece.

• Dancing for/with him — It could be goofy or seductive. Either way, he’s got heart eyes.

• When you touch his face gently — Stroking his cheek? Fixing his hair? Babying him? He melts.

• Back hugs while he’s lost in thought — Sneak up and wrap your arms around him. He’ll lean back into you with the softest smile.

• Wearing his jewelry — His rings, his chain — it makes him feel like you’re marked by him. You know what that leads to.

Jisung's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Dirty talk — from you — Whisper something filthy and watch him glitch. He tries to match your energy but usually ends up whimpering.

• Desperate kisses — The kind where your hands are in his hair and it feels like you’ll die if you don’t touch him. He gets off on the intensity.

• Messy blowjobs — The wetter the better. Tears, spit, your hands gripping his thighs — he might lose it before you even finish.

• Calling him your pretty boy — Stroke his ego while you ride him and he’ll literally cry.

• Your hands down his pants while cuddling — He loves sneaky touches. Gets flustered but never stops you.

Jisung's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Sharing food with him — Especially when you feed him bites from your fork. Boyfriend behavior.

• Laughing at his jokes — Whether they’re hilarious or awful, he thrives on your laughter.

• Playing with his hair — Scratch his scalp and he’ll purr. Literally.

• Matching pajamas — He acts like it’s silly but takes secret photos of you and stares at them when he’s stressed.

• When you fall asleep on his chest — He won’t move for hours. Claims he doesn’t care but will tweet “someone loves me fr” an hour later.

Felix's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Praise kink (giving) — “That’s it, sunshine. Just like that.” Felix lives to see you glow under his words. You moan louder when he praises you, and he absolutely takes advantage.

• Eye contact while you’re on your knees — His voice drops when he sees you looking up at him. “You’re so pretty down there,” he breathes, brushing your hair back to get a clearer view.

• Temperature play — He loves dragging an ice cube down your skin or warming his hands and resting them between your thighs just to see you squirm.

• Mutual teasing until someone snaps — He’ll flirt, you’ll flirt back, and the moment turns into a game of who can break first. Spoiler: it's usually him.

• When you moan his name — Something about you purring out “Lixie” in that soft voice? He goes feral. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you know it.

Felix's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• You calling him pet names in your sleepy voice — Baby, love, sweetheart — if you say it half-asleep while snuggled into him? He’s yours forever.

• When you bake for him and let him lick the spoon — Domestic Felix is activated. Bonus: if you let him smear chocolate on your lips just so he can kiss it off.

• You clinging to him when you’re scared or nervous — He puffs up like a protective guard dog. And afterward? He holds you tighter than usual.

• Soft humming while you do your skincare — It’s calming, cozy, and Felix will watch from the bed like he’s witnessing an angel.

• Cuddling with your legs tangled under a blanket — He rubs little circles into your calf and whispers about how much he loves your warmth.

Seungmin's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Power play (him being in control) — He looks soft, but the way he grabs your chin and says, “Use your words, or I’ll stop,” proves he’s anything but.

• When you whimper while trying to stay quiet — He’ll smirk and lean in, voice low: “Don’t hide from me, baby. Let me hear you.”

• You getting bratty — He loves a little challenge. You roll your eyes? He’ll have you begging in five minutes.

• Dry humping while fully clothed — There’s something about the friction, the teasing, the way you grind on him with all your clothes still on. Torture — delicious torture.

• Your hands clutching at him — His hair, his back, his shirt — any desperate grab is rewarded with a deeper thrust and a dark chuckle.

Seungmin's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Matching socks — You didn’t even do it on purpose, but when he notices? He files it under “reasons we should live together forever.”

• You roasting him back — He teases. You tease back. He gets fake-offended, but secretly he’s thrilled you can keep up.

• Your sleepy voice when you first wake up — It’s all raspy and soft and makes his heart clench and pants tighten.

• When you instinctively reach for his hand in public — He won’t say anything, but his thumb will rub slow circles over your knuckles for the rest of the walk.

• The way you fold his laundry without being asked — Domestic acts of love? They hit him right in the chest. And yeah, he absolutely rewards you later.

Jeongin's Sexual Turn-Ons:

• Innocent-looking lingerie — White lace, pastel sets, anything that looks soft and sweet? He’s drooling. The contrast between how you look and how filthy you get wrecks him.

• Topping from the bottom — You whine, “Please, Inn-ie,” while guiding his hands exactly where you want them? He shudders. Thinks about it for days.

• Being called “baby boy” during soft dom moments — It flips a switch in him. His eyes go wide, ears go red, and his hips start stuttering.

• When you gasp his name during foreplay — Not loud, not forced — just a soft, needy “Innie…” and he’s already tugging his shirt off.

• Your thighs wrapped around his waist — He holds on tighter, thrusts deeper, and kisses you like he’s starved.

Jeongin's Non-Sexual Turn-Ons:

• You being confident in yourself — Whether it’s how you dress, speak, or carry yourself, he looks at you like you hung the moon. “Damn. That’s my girl.”

• Cuddling while watching cartoons together — You fall asleep on his chest mid-episode? He’s not moving for hours.

• The way you baby him when he’s stressed — You stroke his hair, call him sweet names, kiss his forehead. He won’t admit it, but it makes him feel safe.

• You sharing your hoodie with him — Bonus if it smells like you. Double bonus if it’s oversized and he drowns in it.

• When you compliment his voice — Whether he’s singing or talking, your compliments make him shy — but they also make him want to sing you to sleep that night.

𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @heechwe @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc

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[tinydefector]

Do you think cybertronians ever get a bit freaked out on how tough we are? Yes they can break us like toothpicks but humans seem to be able to take a good beating as well with adrenaline helping. Even our own body and oxygen trys kills us and yet we stick around like roaches. We're fragile in some reasonable and dumb ways and then resilient in the most dumbest ways.

Oh definitely, alot of the bots are very off put by how fragile humans are just in general and tend to avoid them.

But then there's the moments like Ratchet working a late shift and a small knock on the door alerts him someone's there, he turns around expecting it to be Rodimus or Whirl who he's about to scold but instead it's one of the humans and they look worse for wear. After fussing over them for a moment, detailed scans relay fractured ribs, a broken collar bone, and a heap of bruises and yet the humans just like. "Can I have some Panadol, Nurophen, and a glass of water?" Because they don't know what else to do its what they would get. Most of the times they ended up in the hospital. Ratchet is losing his God dawn mind as he rushes around looking for the best painkillers he can find for orgaincs in the smallest dosage he can give, hoping to primus it doesn't shut their heart down. In the end, they end up on a medication that makes them extremely drowsy, almost like the green whistle/ Weed.

Ratchet ends up doing alot of study on the human body and realises just how fucked up little monsters we are. We literally need oxygen to survive but he we have to much pure oxygen it will kill us. Water, we need a certain amount of it, if we don't have enough we will get dehydrated and die, if we have to much we will get water poisoning, intoxication, or a disruption of brain function. This happens when there's too much water in our cells, such as the brain and blood cells, causing them to swell. When the cells in the brain swell, they cause pressure in the brain, resulting in death. The issue is that it can become an addiction to drinking too much water for the effect it has on the body. Same with nearly everything we consume, it can kill us, but we need a lot of it in moderation.

Human: "I just need some basic pain killers and a nap"

Bot: "No, you need full surgery, sedations, and 3 weeks of recovery!"

Human: "nah she'll be fine!"

Bot: "Absolutely Not, bed now before I cuff you"

____________

Following that imagine a first contact AU where Cybertronians and humans are just slowly getting to know how the other works and next thing a human is kneeling over in horrific pain and it send the bots all into panic mode trying to help them, wondering what's happening and thinking they are dying. And the human after about ten minutes some pain killers still looking rather pale and unhealthy just go. "Sorry about that fuck I hate, Cramps/palpitations/ phantom pains/ and such" and the bots are just looking at them horrified like.

Bot: NOT NORMAL!!!"

Human: what you talking about?

Bot: everything that just happened you literally just short circuited!

Human: nah that's causal wait till you see the really funky shit.

______________

Human pet AU

Cybertronian's keeping humans as pets is like humans keeping hamsters. Humans are some of the most homicidal, suicidal and just deranged creatures that Cybertronian's could keep as pets. It's gotten to the point that they are a luxury/ exotic pet because if you do not feed them the right stuff, give them the right amount of light and socialising, and they will just die. There are so many Cybertronian's who take their human into clinics worried as and its just the human being a little bustard because they didn't get the treat they wanted 2 weeks ago and are still holding that grudge. Not to mention, we are prone to causing as much trouble and issue. We are like cats.

But we are also very easily sick and primus forbid a human gets sick because to a bot they think it's a death sentence for their sweet little spitfire of a human who they have had now for ages. And the human looks ready to die, and the next day, they are up and about like nothing ever happened.

Human: if you don't feed me the meals I want I'm going to pretend to die. If you do feed me what I want I might actually die because I shouldn't be eating it.

Panicked bot: "MY HUMAN HAS GOTTEN SICK. HELP!?!"

Human: totally worth it.

_________

In conclusion, the cybertronians are rather wary/ concerned about how resilient humans really are.

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[abyssyby]

I could imagine luke and kieran getting (chronic) cuteness aggression towards the little twins... But sylus though?

sylus absolutely has no fight. a goner. helpless and doomed to the cuteness of his babies. ❤️‍🩹

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, cuteness aggression, draconic traits & instincts coming out, some1 help him he might eat them (endearing, he wont!!!)

the little twins are friend shaped. they’re love shaped. they’re cute-cuddly-squishy.

everyone in the family can’t help but press their noses against their cheeks and squeeze their pudgy little arms until they get bapped away.

during infancy, when the babies were barely even two, they’d almost always waddle into the trap of someone’s arms, get engulfed and bombarded with kissies and sniffs.

“eugh, why do you smell so nice?” kieran would grumble, nose in a little lucian’s tousle of hair. “you just pooped.”

lucian blinks in confusion, reading the expression on kieran’s face. wondering why his brows were drawn tight, why his nostrils were flared and why his mouth was downturned. beyond his comprehension, he is once again sniffed. reduced to a piece of meat to a bloodhound, and kieran grumbles again.

“this is bad.” he frowns at his little addiction. baby powder, fresh milk, flowers and citrus. sniff, sniff, sniff. and a hint of heaven.

“does this count as a squeezy-squeeze?” wonders luke, his fingers gently pinching and stretching kyros’s cheeks. kyros, unbothered, flashes his charming four-toothed smile at him. luke is weak, immediately blowing raspberries in his little face. Eyes watery, no idea why he was so moved by a gurgle and an imperfect grin. the urge to protect, nurture and nuzzle flows through his veins and he does not know what to do with himself except cuddle the baby a little closer.

the big twins are powerless to them, but none of them compare to their father.

the infamous, looming, all-powerful, ever ominous, consuming, devouring monarch of Onychinus. whose simple shadow is enough to rule the entire N109 zone.

diminished, demolished and deprecated by two fat little infants in his arms.

sylus is a good bluffer. honed and practiced; his impulses are mere mosquitoes he swats away. until these two came along.

suddenly, he is a cat to a laser pointer. a moth to a flame. a helpless father pressing his clueless son’s cheek to his, cooing and awing at the mirror at the adorable sight.

he’ll deny it when you point it out, but when sylus is around the children, he turns just that little bit beast. his brain short circuits that tiny bit, his pupils melt into docile buttons and he is curling around his children like he would a hoard of gold.

on your shared bed would be a long, curled pillow, nesting the two for some tummy time with mama and papa. sylus would be an additional safe-guard— the length of his body curled around them, his arm outstretched for more reach as he crowds them close to his chest.

he loves their scent, and sort of “marks” them with his as well as he nuzzles their cheeks and their hair with his nose. peppering kisses all over their distressed little faces when he gets a little too much.

“mm’wah! m’wah!” echoes off the walls. the sound of crisp smooches glazed over jingling giggles— a song of record scratches and bells sung by a father and his sons.

“sy.” you’d warn gently when you hear a gasped squeak. he’d grumble, just short of a growl, then huff through his nose before starting again. this time gentler. the crying is soothed before it starts; the joyous symphony continues its melody.

it’s especially comical for you to watch him go through the motions of restraint when the littles do something novelly adorable.

“that’s… not fair.” sylus grins, fingers fidgeting as he watches kyros’s face stretch, his mouth forming a small oblong as he yawns. a happy chuckle rumbles his chest— both out of amusement and the shameless audacity of this little creature to be this cute. this little creature. his little creature.

“you can’t bite him.” you’d tell him. he rolls his eyes and tells you it’s a silly thing to think he’d do such a thing. but in the same instant, he turns and bites your arm instead.

“sylus!” you gasp.

he laughs, pure and endearing. “what? it wasn’t him.”

lucian is perpetually stuck to his chest. his single, large hand enough to be a makeshift baby carrier. lucian’s head protected at all times beneath the awning of his father’s chin. tucked preciously beneath his jaw which he tenses in restraint. his head is a broken record loop of he’s so cute he’s so cute he’s so cute and he can never find it in himself to just put him down.

“sweetie,” he says one day, voice raw and tender as he walks into your bedroom with a sleepy lucian. steam-bun cheeks like putty against his forearm.

you rise, thinking he’d want you to take the baby, but instead he turns. movement so minuscule you almost miss it; it was just a shift of weight, a half inch to the right, but visibly away from your reaching arms. your brows raise at the growl that emits in his chest. “sylus?”

he blinks, snapping back into now. “i’m sorry. no, that wasn’t for you.”

concern tinges your beautiful features and his heartstrings twist and tangle even more. you frown, “are you alright, my love?”

stressed, he exhales through his nose. a powerless slump in his shoulders as he nods towards his little treasure. “he’s… impossibly adorable.”

the concern grows, but your lips curl into a smirk. teasing, assuming it is a compliment, you say, “thank you?”

but he’s serious.

“yes— thank you.” he’s sweeping you up by the waist with his other arm, guiding you into bed to lay beside him and your child on his belly. his lips find purchase on your cheeks, your brow and then your lips. he repeats, words dear and true, “thank you.”

because without you, then none of this would be his. the cuddles, squishes, hugs and kisses. he is still in disbelief that he gets to have this, still in disbelief that they are his and he can. that he can shower them in affection, embrace them in his arms, bathe them with all the attention and love they deserve. and that is all because of you.

you curl up to him, lean your head on his shoulder as he pokes at lucian’s cheek. you both watch it dip and bounce back up like pudding and you get it. overwhelmed, maybe by instincts— maternal or draconic as well, you don’t know— but now you want to bite him too.

“hey.” sylus chuckles when he feels the sting of your teeth sinking into his shoulder.

“sorry.” you blush, brows knit together in a sheepish doe-eyed look. “it wasn’t him.”

his troubled heart melts at the sight of you. he laughs, a feat of strength not to do so too much as to not jostle the slumbering angel on him. it is clear to him now, who the twins got it from.

forgiveness comes in the form of a pinch to your cheek and a kiss— because if he can’t eat them, he will eat you.

he’ll look forward to the day when the twins will bite him back. he’ll allow them as much noms and nibbles as they desire. but now, papa is simply getting a head start.

[puddingbrainscientist]

it feels like this season, doctor who is dealing with the fundamental rules changing. it was strictly sci-fi, you could always logic your way out of any problem with technobabble and a clever plan.

but it feels like so much of the plot is wrapped around poking at the medium of being a television show, of being a story. we have multiple characters looking at the viewers, we have the maestro playing the theme tune, we have such clear parallels to season 1 (2005) that it feels like a universal coincidence. like the whoniverse itself is recognizing its a medium and playing with its tropes.

the genre is changing too - we are leaning more and more into fantasy, rules like you would see in stories about fae, not sci-fi. musical numbers out of nowhere that no one seems to question, with rain inside and musical sidewalks. the vocabulary of rope and power in coincidences. hell, even the way that time travel works is changing! suddenly stepping on a butterfly (specifically a trope in scifi that has been mocked/debunked previously) has consequences. the doctor swiping away the translation circuit's effects with the wave of a hand and breathing life back into a creature without breaking a sweat.

not to mention the way that space babies foreshadows to a universe that creates a story with all the ingredients it knows are supposed to be there (re: bogeyman - there's supposed to be a villain so it made one)

something IS going on. there is a bigger player - bigger than tecteun, bigger than the toymaker. could it be rtd just having a grand ole time using canon as is playground? maybe. but i hope it's something cool.

[kxsagi]

hear me out bllk characters with an “innocent” s/o who doesn’t understand pickup lines/takes them too literally 😭 with my freaky kings shidou, kaiser, aiku, karasu and otoya, pretty please

“𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐳? 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭?”

a/n: omg nah this is peak 🙏

(ac: miiuu1103 on tik tok)

ft. shidou ryusei, kaiser michael, aiku oliver, karasu tabito, otoya eita

shidou ryusei

shidou, being the menace he is, cannot resist dropping the dirtiest, most unhinged pickup lines on you. 

he corners you one day, eyes gleaming, and purrs, “you wanna ride me like a skateboard, baby?” 

you blink up at him with those wide, innocent eyes and a soft gasp. 

“but ryu... i don't know how to skateboard.” 

and you sound so genuinely distressed about it too, like you just failed a pop quiz. 

he stares at you for a second. just stares. like a man witnessing the purest creature alive. 

his brain actually short-circuits. 

“nah, nah, princess, you don’t gotta know how to ride. i’ll teach ya, easy.” 

you perk up immediately. “really?! i've always wanted to learn!” 

shidou goes through it. 

next thing you know this man is out here dragging a skateboard out of the garage, fully committed to giving you lessons like he didn’t mean it in the filthiest way possible. 

he falls in love every time you wibble-wobble on the board and giggle when he catches you. 

thinks you're the best thing since violence and energy drinks. 

kaiser michael

kaiser is OBSESSED with you. 

he thinks your innocence is a gift from the gods, handcrafted to make his life more entertaining. 

one afternoon, he leans back lazily against the wall outside, smirking, and says, “are you a magician? because whenever i look at you, everyone else disappears.” 

your eyes go HUGE. like a cartoon character. you start whipping your head around, frantically looking around the room. 

“wait, where is everyone? what did you do?!” 

you’re actually worried. you start listing people: “wasn’t ness just here? and that man selling pretzels?” 

kaiser nearly slides down the wall laughing. 

he’s gripping his stomach like he's about to ascend. 

when he finally manages to breathe, he cups your cheeks and plants a kiss right on your forehead. 

“relax, schatz. it’s just me being stupidly in love with you.” 

you still make him check if ness is okay, though. (he texts ness “u alive?” ness replies “unfortunately.”) 

aiku oliver

oliver has no shame. 

if he sees you in cute shorts or a dress, he will immediately pull out the worst pickup lines he knows. 

lounging on the couch one day, he winks at you and says, “your body’s 70% water... and i’m thirsty.” 

you stare at him, so genuinely confused, like, “you can just drink from the kitchen? i refilled the brita.” 

realizing how sassy that might have sounded, you legitimately run to get him a bottle of water and come back looking so proud of yourself. 

“here, stay hydrated.” 

oliver’s just sitting there with a hand over his face, sobbing internally from how precious you are. 

he accepts the water, kisses your hand dramatically, and mutters, “god gave you to me because he knew i couldn’t handle anyone else.” 

karasu tabito

karasu thinks he’s the king of smooth. 

he leans over your shoulder while you're cooking, breath warm against your ear, and says, “are you from tennessee? ‘cause you’re the only ten i see.” 

you immediately turn around and frown very seriously. 

“tabi... i’ve never even been to tennessee.” 

you sound so sad about it too, like you’re worried you disappointed him somehow. 

karasu has to physically restrain himself from collapsing into giggles. 

he straightens up, clearing his throat dramatically. 

“nah, babe, it’s just a cheesy way of saying you’re insanely hot.” 

you light up like a christmas tree. “oh! thank you!!” 

and then you very earnestly offer, “i can go to tennessee if you want!” 

karasu almost proposes on the spot. 

from that day on he makes it his mission to hit you with a ridiculous pickup line at least once a day just to see your confused little face. 

otoya eita

otoya thinks he’s the smoothest operator in the universe. 

he slides up to you while you're minding your business and purrs, “do you have a map? ‘cause i just got lost in your eyes.” 

immediately, you gasp and start rummaging through your bag like your life depends on it. 

“i don’t have a paper map on me, but i have the maps app in my phone! wait, wait, don’t panic, i’ll find it!” 

otoya watches you absolutely spiral over helping him and he has to cover his mouth to hide the fact that he’s losing his mind. 

when you look up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, holding your phone out like a lifeline, he just melts. 

“no need, princess,” he croons, tucking your hair behind your ear. “i’m exactly where i wanna be.” 

you: "yay! so you’re not lost anymore?" 

otoya internally: somebody please call an ambulance, i’m in love. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[blanchetteminxia]

the stadium roared. the crowd was a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and the rhythmic thumping of drums. sae itoshi, ever the consummate professional, remained focused. his. senses. were. fine-tuned.

he could hear the precise click of his cleats on the manicured grass, the whistle of the wind as the ball soared through the air, the synchronized chants of the ultras. what he did not expect to hear was you.

you were supposed to be the epitome of meekness. shy. reserved. the kind of girl who spoke in whispers and blushed at a strong breeze. you were, in his estimation, a calming presence in his otherwise chaotic world. a quiet harbor in the storm of his existence.

and then he heard it.

it started subtly enough. a slightly louder cheer than usual. he almost dismissed it as the general excitement of the game. but then it escalated.

"SAE! DO YOU SEE THIS?!"

Sae's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the crowd. Was that...? No, it couldn't be.

"YOUR PASSING IS DIVINE INTERVENTION!"

his eyebrow twitched. he was starting to recognize the... timbre.

"THAT’S THE FATHER OF MY UNBORN CHILDREN!"

okay, there was no mistaking it now. that was your voice.

sae's gaze landed on your section of the stands. you were... transformed. gone was the quiet, demure girl he was courting. in her place was a woman possessed.

you were standing, jumping, waving your arms with the ferocity of a conductor leading a heavy metal orchestra. your face was flushed, your eyes blazing with an intensity he'd never seen before. and you were... screaming.

sae's mind, usually a well-organized database of football strategies and opponent weaknesses, short-circuited. he saw you sandwiched between two equally... enthusiastic women. one was holding up a sign that read "SAE, OUR CHILDREN MISS YOU," and the other was yelling something about the structural integrity of her lower extremities.

and you were right there with them, a tiny, ferocious general in this army of passionate (and slightly unhinged) fans.

he watched, dumbfounded, as you launched into a detailed critique of the opposing team's defense, your voice surprisingly loud and carrying across the stadium with alarming clarity.

"WHO ARE THESE EXTRAS AND WHY ARE THEY BLOCKING MY GLORIOUS KING!"

sae stumbled, nearly losing possession of the ball. his teammates stared at him, concern etched on their faces. the opposing team looked equally bewildered, their concentration broken by the sheer... force of your cheering.

for the rest of the game, sae was... distracted. he kept glancing at you, his mind struggling to reconcile the image of the quiet girl he knew with the banshee-like creature in the stands. he made several uncharacteristic mistakes, his passes going astray, his tackles mistimed.

the opposing team scored. their captain pointed in your general direction and gave you a thumbs up. sae wanted to disappear.

by the time the final whistle blew, sae was a broken man. he trudged off the field, the cheers of the crowd fading into a distant buzz. he spotted you waiting for him near the players' tunnel, your face glowing with triumph.

"hey,…”  he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "what... what was that?"

you beamed at him, your usual shyness returning as quickly as it had vanished. "oh, sae! did you see me? i was really getting into it! those girls were amazing! i think i made some new friends!"

sae stared at you, his brain refusing to process the words. he opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, "yeah.. that was… new”

you tilted your head, confused. "oh yea.. when you're on the field, i just... i get a little passionate."

a little passionate.

sae replayed the events of the last ninety minutes in his head. the screaming, the yelling, the detailed anatomical commentary from your fellow fans...

somehow, he finds this new side of you amusing. so much so that now, four years later, he finds himself smiling as he hears your screams from the bleachers.

he has never felt so lucky to have such a devoted cheerleader.

[killerplink]

OVERTIME

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: Jason ignores you for hours, so you get on your knees and make him pay for it. With your mouth, your hands, and a smile he should've known meant trouble.

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted Jason try to gather intel while the reader is busy being cheeky and giving him head under the desk 🏃🏻‍♀️

Jason's in the living room, hunched ever so slightly over the big ass desk he set up in the far corner like some kind of broody Batcave satellite station. It started as just a place for him to "do some light recon", but you both knew that he was full of shit.

Fast forward two years and the man's basically turned it into a full blown command center—monitors glowing low in the dim light, shelves stacked with case files and scattered ammo boxes, that drawer he swears is "organized" but you're pretty sure is just where he dumps all the flash drives and burner phones.

And the desk? It's massive. Solid oak. You had to help him carry it in—well, he actually carried it, you mostly complained about the splinters—but the thing is perfect for him. Tall enough for him to sit comfortably and big enough to fit those thick ass thighs when he's planted in that expensive ergonomic chair he won't admit is actually from a gaming store.

You, on the other hand? You're draped across the couch like human roadkill, legs tossed over one armrest, head dangling off from the middle of the couch. There's a bad movie playing on the screen, some half melted latex creature growling at a screaming woman, but you're not really paying attention.

You thought he'd be done two hours ago—shit, you even brought him coffee and snacks to help speed it along—but it's pushing four now and he hasn't moved except to mutter "motherfucker" under his breath at whatever asshole he's currently after. And yeah, you get it. Intel, crime, important shit.

But you're also horny. And the way he's sitting there all focused, forearms flexing, tapping away at that keyboard with his pretty mouth pursed in concentration? He's really not helping himself.

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically, even. He grunts, but doesn't even flinch. So you do it again, dragging out the exhale like some dying Victorian ghost hoping to be asked what's wrong. This time it's louder, with more flair. Nothing.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, and peek over the backrest of the couch like a nosy cat. Just to check. Just to see. And the second your eyes land on him, all annoyance flies out the window, replaced by a sudden throb between your thighs that makes you swallow a soft sound.

When did he take his shirt off? Because now you're just staring at him—his broad, sculpted back flexing with every precise move, every tap of his fingers against the keyboard. The muscles in his shoulders bunch when he leans in to squint at something on the monitor, that thick line of his spine dipping down to the soft slope of his waist before it vanishes into the waistband of his gray sweats.

Your brain short circuits for a second. Just a second. You blink, trying to remember why you were mad. Oh, right. Four hours of being ignored.

God, you love this man. You really do. With your whole fucking heart. You love the way he brings you snacks in bed without being asked, how he buys fluffy socks because you're always cold, how he kisses your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

Yeah, sure, you also love his stupid jokes and the way he buys you chocolate when you're mad at him, and how he talks about you like you hung the damn moon. You love the way he always insists on walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, the way he holds your hand without thinking, the way he says your name like it means something.

You love how his scary ass reputation melts into soft eyes and dry humor around you. But let's be real, you also love his stupidly hot body. Those muscles he barely even acknowledges like he's just naturally this stacked and still thinks he's "average". The V-line, the thighs, that back. It's actually a hate crime at this point.

You pout like a little brat, voice all whiny and needy, "Jay, when are you gonna finish there?"

At first, you think he's ignoring you. But then, after a beat, long enough to make you think he might not answer at all, you hear him murmur, "Just a few more minutes, doll."

Oh, hell no. You know that tone. That was a delayed response. The kind of half assed "don't bother me" answer you've heard way too many times when he's elbows deep in intel. That man's not getting up anytime soon, and you know it.

You flop back onto the couch with a groan, legs still hanging off one armrest like a bratty display of boredom, staring at the ceiling like it just personally offended you. Your brain starts working overtime, trying to figure out how to unglue your very sexy, very distracted boyfriend from that goddamn desk.

You consider stripping. Just walking over there, butt booty naked, maybe doing a little stretch in the doorway to "relieve tension". But honestly, you could stand there doing jumping jacks with your tits out and he'd probably just glance up, nod, and say "lookin' good, baby" before going back to his files.

Sitting in his lap and playing with his hair? Been there, didn't work. He just kissed your forehead and kept working.

You even think about searching for a bad porno, maybe cranking the volume, hoping the awful moaning would lure him away from his screens. He'd probably laugh and ask if the acting has improved.

Or maybe you should just outright watch it and make sure he hears every fucking second. But even then, you're not sure that'd snap him out of his recon tunnel vision. Stupid sexy vigilante and his stupid crime obsession.

And that's when it hits you. No, not the regular route. Not teasing, not stripping, not throwing yourself at him. Something better. Something cheeky. You sit up slowly, a smile creeping over your lips. The kind of smile he never sees coming until it's too late. Maybe it's time to make him feel the consequences of ignoring you.

You move quietly, your steps light as you pad across the room, and Jason doesn't even look up when you come behind him. He's too wrapped up in whatever mission file he's neck deep in. But the second you drape yourself over his back—arms wrapped around his shoulders, chest flush to him, cheek smushed against the side of his neck—he softens just a little.

His hand comes up, fingers grazing along your forearm in a slow, absentminded rub like muscle memory.

"You okay, baby?"

You hum, lips brushing the warm skin at his neck. "Mhmm."

You start slow, lazy, like you're just being clingy and sweet. But your mouth is on his skin, lips parting slightly to kiss just below his jaw, and you lick a slow line up to his ear before catching his earlobe between your teeth and biting down, a little amused huff slipping from his chest.

"Don't be a little brat. I'll be done in a bit."

Another "Mhmm" is all he gets, this one a little more smug. Because your hands are already trailing down his chest, slipping over the broad stretch of his pecs, brushing lower—slow and teasing—until your fingers graze over his abs and down to where his sweatpants are slung low on his hips.

And yep, he's already half hard. The twitch of his dick beneath your palm is proof enough that all this patience you've been clinging to is not one sided.

You palm his cock through the fabric, just enough pressure to make him grunt, and God, that sound alone makes your thighs squeeze together. You rub him slow, almost affectionate, like you're not trying to be the worst kind of distraction imaginable.

He groans, hips shifting slightly, but then his hand wraps around your wrist, gently stopping you. "C'mon, baby," he says, voice strained. "Be a little patient for me."

You pout into his neck. Full on, lip jutting, pathetic pout. "I've been patient for the past few hours."

Jason snorts, "So you can wait another few minutes, pretty girl."

That tone? Casual, teasing, a little condescending, even. And it seals his fucking fate. You huff, and he hears it, but doesn't really register it for what it really is.

For a second, Jason thinks you're going to pull away. Maybe stomp back to the couch or go sulk in bed with the passive aggressive energy of the chaos gremlin he's so stupidly in love with. He's so deep into his recon shit that it doesn't even occur to him that you've never been exactly good at taking no for an answer.

But he should've known better. That huff? That tiny, dramatic sound? That was a warning shot. And the moment he hears the soft shuffle of movement, feels your body slipping down and out of his hold, it clicks too late. Because now you're dropping to your knees, sliding under the desk, and his brain short circuits like a system override.

Jason snorts. "Baby, what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft huff, "Nothing," you murmur, way too casual for what you're about to do. "Just do your thing, Jay."

And before he can argue, your hands are on him, smoothing up his thighs, trailing closer and closer to the thick bulge straining under the soft grey fabric of his sweats.

You lean in, pressing soft, warm kisses along the outline of his cock. Up the length of it, over the head, nuzzling your cheek against the bulge like you missed it since last night. His head drops back against the chair with a quiet thunk, hand twitching on the mouse like he's still trying to work, but he already knows where this is going and he's powerless to stop it.

"Jesus..." he mutters, voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" you hum innocently against his cock, mouthing over the head again before pressing your kisses down to the base just to tease him through the fabric, feeling him jerk slightly in response.

You smile against his dick as you press another kiss, then another, slow, teasing, trailing up along the heavy ridge until your nose brushes the waistband of his sweats before your fingers hook under it.

He lifts his hips when you tug, obedient without even realizing it, and lets you peel both the sweats and his boxers down to his thighs. His cock springs free—thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip—and your mouth waters at the sight.

"God, you're so hard, baby," you whisper, grinning up at him.

Your hand wraps around the base of his dick, warm and firm, just the way he likes, and you start with a kiss right against the thick vein along the underside of his shaft. Then another at the tip. Your tongue darts out, licking a little drop of precum, and when you look up at him, he's watching you. Eyes half lidded, lips parted, chest heaving.

You lick a slow, wet circle around the swollen head of his cock, tongue flicking just under the ridge, then gliding over the top again, warm and soft and teasing. He's already so sensitive there, and you know it, which is why you take your sweet fucking time. Then you do it again, this time slower, messier.

You keep your eyes on him as your tongue circles the head of his cock, teasing him in slow, lazy swirls like you're just tasting him, like you're enjoying this more than anything on earth. And you kind of are.

He's flushed and leaking, thick drops of precum painting your tongue, and you lap it up with small licks, moaning a little just from the taste, but then you get mean with it.

You press the very tip of your tongue right into the slit—soft, deliberate pressure—and he chokes on a groan above you, hips jerking as his hand shoots down and tangles in your hair. Not tugging, not even guiding, just holding, fist curling tight like if he lets go, he'll fucking lose it.

"Shit—fuck, baby, you're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice rough and so deep you feel it in your clit.

And when you finally wrap your lips around the tip slow and teasing, being a just little mean about it, Jason lets out a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest. His cock twitches in your hand, already pulsing like he can't decide between fucking your throat or falling apart right there.

You moan around him—soft, needy—and the vibrations make him hiss through his teeth. Your spit slicks him up easy, sliding down past your knuckles as your lips glide further, taking him deeper inch by inch. Your throat stretches around the thickness, your jaw aching in that good way, hand stroking the base in messy, desperate pumps.

You suck harder, cheeks hollowing with wet slurps, loud and unashamed. You want him to hear it, want him to feel it, and fuck, he does.

His hips twitch, the muscles in his thighs flex, and he grits out, "God, baby—your fuckin' mouth—"

You don't stop. Just sink down slow, then pull back with a little pop of your lips, only to sink again, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Your chin is soaked, spit webbing between your fingers and his shaft, dribbling down your wrist, your throat working every time he hits the back of it.

He's panting above you, trying to keep still, but that hand in your hair? He's got a death grip on it. His fingers are tangled in your soft strands, his thumb pressing just behind your ear like he's grounding himself, like he might lose it if you go any deeper.

But you want him to. You want to ruin him with your mouth. So you look up at him through your lashes, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around his cock, and suck him down harder, deeper.

He lets out a broken noise, hips bucking, and groans, "Fuck—fuck, I'm not gonna last, baby—"

And you just hum around him like that's exactly what you want. Because it is. You don't ease up, not even close. You fuck him with your mouth like you've got something to prove, like you need to make a point with every wet glide of your tongue and every sharp suck around the head.

But you are still annoyed with him, after all. He thinks he can get away with pissing you off and then sitting pretty like this? Not a chance. Not without you using that dick like it's yours to play with. And it fucking is.

You grip the base tighter, letting your spit drip down because it doesn't matter how messy you get. Your jaw works, mouth hot and greedy, bobbing up and down as you take him again and again. A twist of your wrist, a roll of your tongue just underneath the head, right on that sensitive spot that makes him twitch. He jerks, breath stuttering, and you moan around him with a smile.

God, you love this. Love how this big, scary, brutal man—Red Hood himself—melts under your mouth like this. He's all muscle and grit, scars and guns and growls, but right now? Right now he's fucking trembling. His thighs are tight, his abs clenching, one hand fisted in your hair like he's praying you don't stop, the other digging into the edge of the desk like he knows better than to touch you without permission.

And his head is spinning. Jason's trying to hold it together, but fuck, it's hard. You know exactly how to suck his dick. You're not just sucking it, you're devouring him. Tongue flicking under the crown, lips wrapped tight, cheek hollowing just enough for that perfect pressure. Every time he thinks he's about to get a breath, you take him deeper, sloppier, wetter.

His thoughts are scrambled as hell. He can't even form a full sentence in his head anymore, not with the way your throat clenches around him like you want him to lose it. And God, he is losing it. Fast.

He grunts, rough and ragged, his voice raw. "Baby—fuck, I'm close, I'm—"

And that's exactly when you stop. You pull off with a wet pop, spit glistening on your chin, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Your hand stays on his dick, stroking just enough to keep him there, but not enough to push him over.

"Ah-ah," you hum, licking the corner of your mouth. "You don't get to cum yet."

Jason makes this wrecked noise—half growl, half desperate moan—and his cock twitches in your fist, so painfully hard and so fucking close. His chest is rising fast, muscles taut, eyes blown wide as he stares down at you like he doesn't know whether to beg or curse you out.

You blink up at him from under the desk, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes, like you're sweet and innocent. Like you didn't just edge him to the brink and snatch it away like it was nothing. Like your mouth isn't still glistening with spit and precum, lips shiny and swollen from how deep you took him.

And Jason? Jason's stunned. He's got that shell shocked look, like you just short circuited the last few working brain cells he had left. His mouth is slightly open, breathing shallow, brow drawn tight. His dick is still throbbing in your grip, soaked in spit and precum, and your hand—fuck, your hand just keeps moving. Slow, deliberate strokes that make squelching noises in the silence, slick and lewd because you want him to hear every wet slide of your palm over his shaft.

He's not used to this. He's used to being the one in control, used to having you begging, whining, melting under his touch while he teases you until you're crying for it.

His brain is a mess. Fuck—she's never like this—what the fuck—what did I—Jesus, she's so hot like this—look at her—holy fuck, I'm not gonna survive this shit. What did I do? What the hell did I—

You lean in closer, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, lips curled into the tiniest smirk as your fist strokes him—tight at the base, twisting when you reach the slick, sensitive tip.

"You ignored me for four hours, Jay."

Your voice is sweet, pouty, dangerous and he flinches like the words physically hit him.

He stumbles for an excuse, lashes fluttering, "I didn't—baby, I wasn't—"

But then you twist your wrist right at the head, and his hips jerk forward with a grunt. The sound he makes is raw, desperate, and he chokes on whatever half assed excuse he was about to offer and swallows it back down with a harsh breath.

You tilt your head, all faux sweetness. "No?"

He shakes his head immediately, eyes wide, lips parted like he wants to speak but can't. He's quiet for once, but not by choice, more like every word has been knocked out of him, replaced by nothing but the ache between his legs and the way your hand keeps pumping him slow and steady.

And you—God, you grin like you've already won. Without warning, you lean in again and take all of him in one smooth motion, your lips parting, your throat stretching, your jaw flexing around his dick until your nose nearly brushes his skin. He lets out this choked sound, one hand flying to the underside of the desk for balance, the other trembling where it's still tangled in your hair.

You slide off just as slowly, letting your tongue drag the whole way, spit connecting your mouth to his skin until it breaks with a wet string when you pull off.

You tilt your head just a little, voice all sweet and syrupy like you're not holding him by the fucking balls right now.

"You wanna cum, baby?"

His breath hitches, chest rising and falling fast as he nods, eyes glassy, completely at your mercy. "Y-yeah."

You hum like you're thinking about it, hand still working him slow and mean as your thumb brushes right over the slick head, teasing the slit. He twitches in your fist, and his abs clench like he's trying to keep himself from bucking up again.

"Yeah?" you repeat, all fake sympathy and sugar. "Why would I make you cum, huh?"

And fuck, the look on his face is priceless.

Jason stares at you like you just asked him to solve a riddle in a language he doesn't speak. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, just another choked little sound as your thumb circles the head again, catching on the mess of precum that's already smeared everywhere.

He's got no idea what the fuck to even say. Because this? This is new. You never tease like this. Never leave him speechless like some desperate, trembling mess. That's usually his job.

You can't help but grin. Because seeing him like this—so fucked out, so helpless—is better than any orgasm you could've given him right now. Usually, even half awake after a long patrol, hair a mess, still in his suit, he's got that smug little smirk and some bullshit line ready to go. He always has a comeback. But right now? He's fucking silent. And God, you live for it.

Your panties are sticking to your soaked cunt, clinging to your folds like a second skin. You don't even know if it's the taste of him on your tongue or the sight of him—Jason Todd, Red Hood, this big, grunting, gun slinging menace—reduced to this that's got you dripping. Probably both. Definitely both.

You don't even let him think too hard about it. You lean right back in like you've made your decision, but really, you're just not done ruining him.

You take him deep, no hesitation. Your lips seal tight around his cock, and you slide down all the way until your nose brushes the base, throat stretched wide, swallowing around him like your only mission in life is to make him lose it. Your hand drops to cup his balls, rolling them gently as your mouth works him, wet and sloppy, drool sliding down your chin.

Loud, slick squelches fill the room, his dick gliding in and out of your mouth, your tongue working every inch you can reach, humming low just to feel him twitch.

Jason chokes on a moan, hips jerking forward like he needs more, like he's gonna fuck your mouth if you don't give it to him, so you stop. Again. You slide off with another wet pop, spit trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock as he gasps, completely wrecked.

He looks ruined, and you haven't even let him cum, but he already looks like he has.

You lean in close, so close your breath ghosts over the flushed head of his cock and you press a single, featherlight kiss right to the tip. Just a little peck, all sweet and innocent, like you're not the reason he's trembling in that chair right now, leaking and desperate.

He lets out this strangled noise from the back of his throat, his head falling back against the chair with a soft thump, eyes fluttering shut. His thighs are twitching, muscles flexing like he's trying to hold still, trying not to fuck up into your hand. But his cock throbs helplessly in your grip, and you know—oh, you know—he's suffering.

And you love it.

Your hand keeps pumping him slow, slick sounds filling the quiet space between you. His dick is soaked—your spit, his precum, it's all smeared over your fingers, dripping down your wrist, sticky and warm. Every stroke is just enough to keep him on the edge, just enough to make his legs shake.

Then you lean in again and lick that fat bead of precum right from his slit, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip like it's your favorite treat. You do it again, lapping at him with slow, teasing licks, until you feel him start to tremble under your touch.

"Beg, baby," you murmur, voice low and smug.

His head snaps up so fast it's almost dizzying. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing what's left of that pretty blue, and he stares at you like he can't fucking believe what you just said. Like he's not sure if you're serious or if this is some cruel joke.

"Doll—" he says it like a warning, but there's nothing sharp about it.

It comes out broken. Wrecked. Like a man on the edge, like a man barely holding on. His voice cracks halfway through, and you feel his cock twitch again in your hand.

You smile. So innocent. So fucking mean.

"You've been so mean, Jay," you coo, placing another soft kiss on the underside of his tip, just to watch him shiver. "Ignored me for hours. I mean, the least you can do is beg for me to make you cum."

And your hand doesn't stop, not even close.

Your strokes stay slow, mean, teasing, obscene with how wet his dick is. It squelches under your palm, your thumb smearing the precum over the flushed skin as you drag it back down.

He makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a grunt—and his hips twitch again like he's right at the edge, body taut, straining for release that you refuse to give. He's panting, jaw clenched, veins in his neck standing out as he tries so fucking hard not to just break.

"Please."

It's soft, almost inaudible, murmured like it physically hurts him to say it. His eyes flutter shut like if he doesn't look at you, it'll be easier. Like it won't strip every last ounce of pride from his bones.

But you're not letting him off that easy.

Your grip stays steady, tight and slow around the base of his cock, thumb pressing into the underside every time you stroke upward.

He's leaking, throbbing in your hand, so hard it has to ache, but you just smile and coo, "What was that, baby?"

He lets out a shaky breath, head falling back against the chair again. "Please," he rasps. "Please let me cum."

"Hmmm," you murmur like you're thinking real hard about it. Your hand never stops moving. You just switch up the rhythm—faster for a second, then dragging your palm down just slow enough to knock the edge out from under him again. "Didn't hear that, Jay."

He grunts, biting back a groan, and then he laughs. A short, breathless thing that's more frustration than humor. "Jesus Christ, you're a fuckin' menace, aren't you?"

You hum sweetly, unbothered, still jerking him off in that same torturous rhythm. His thighs are flexed so hard they're shaking, abs tight like he's doing everything he can not to lose it.

Then, quieter this time, full of rough desperation: "Please, pretty girl. Let me cum. I'll do anything you want."

That makes you giggle, sweet and dangerous. You slow your strokes just enough to let your thumb drag across the head again, watching his breath catch in his throat.

"Anything, Jay?"

He nods instantly, like the word yes is the only thing left in his vocabulary. "Yeah. Please," he pants, hips twitching uselessly into your hand. "Just—just let me cum."

“Will you fuck me after?” you murmur, voice low, breathy, filthy, like the words themselves are enough to make him burst.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to taste him again, just a soft, slow lick right across the tip because you know how sensitive he is right now. You swirl your tongue lazily, then pull back just enough for your breath to tease him again, warm and cruel.

Jason groans loud. His hand flies to the desk, like he needs something to hold onto or he's gonna break. He looks down at you, eyes half lidded, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black, and that cheeky fucking smile you're giving him?

He hates how much he loves it. He fucking hates it. But deep down? You both know it fucks him up.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck—anything you want, baby. Just lemme cum."

"Good boy," you murmur, soft and syrupy, the praise sliding off your tongue like sin.

And then you're on him again, no warning, no teasing, just your lips parting, mouth stretching around the flushed, aching head of his cock like you've been starving for it.

You take him deep, your throat working around the thick length of him like you need it, greedy and unrelenting, spit already bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you sink down, swallowing more and more. Your hand wraps tight at the base, guiding what your throat can't handle yet—slick, obscene, absolutely fucking devoted.

Jason loses it. His hips jerk up with a ragged curse, and you let him, his dick sliding deeper into your throat as you choke around it, eyes watering, nose brushing the base. He growls, the sound scraping low from his chest like it was dragged out of him, raw and ruined.

You're not even mad. You knew this was coming. You keep sucking him with that same hungry little desperation, tongue swirling when you pull back, cheeks hollowing when you go down again, throat stretching every time he thrusts up into you like he can't help himself. You're gagging a little, drool dripping down your chin, clinging to your fingers where you still stroke what you can't take, but you don't care.

You like it messy. Because nothing compares to the way Jason sounds when he's right there, when he's got no snark, no self control, just that tight, needy edge in his voice as he pants your name like a prayer.

"Fuck, baby—fuck, fuck, your mouth—"

His grip in your hair tightens, not rough, not painful, just possessive. Desperate. Like he's two seconds from completely falling apart and you're the only thing holding him together. And really, he's not wrong.

You moan around him and the vibration makes his hips stutter, his thighs trembling. His dick is a mess, broken gasps and little shaky groans leaving him as he keeps fucking into your mouth, deeper, harder, chasing the edge.

And yeah, okay, you're definitely gonna regret teasing him this long. But fuck, isn't it worth it? Because God, you're fucking soaked.

Not just wet, you're dripping. Your panties are clinging to your cunt, hot and slick, the mess between your thighs getting worse every time he groans, every time his cock hits the back of your throat. You shift your hips against the floor without even meaning to, chasing the tiniest bit of friction, but it's useless. Nothing compares to this.

Your nipples ache where they press against the thin fabric of your tank top, hard and swollen, rubbing against it with every breath you take. You're flushed all over, body buzzing, and the taste of him—the weight of his dick on your tongue, the heat and stretch in your mouth—has you right there, right on the fucking edge. You could probably cum just from this. Just from sucking his cock like this.

Jason's a fucking mess. You feel the change first, the way his thigh tenses beneath your hand, the way his breathing shortens into ragged, panting little shudders. The way his hips twitch, losing rhythm, like he's barely holding on.

"F-fuck, I'm—baby, I'm gonna—"

And then he does. His whole body jerks, head tipping back as a low, broken moan punches out of him, chest heaving like he's been holding it in for hours. His cock throbs on your tongue, thick and hot, and then he cums. Hard.

Floods your mouth with it—thick, salty spurts that coat your tongue, fill your throat. You don't pull back. You take it, swallowing fast, lips still wrapped around him as your hand slows, stroking his base while your mouth does the rest.

You suck him through it, gentler, with slow, rhythmic pulls, tongue cradling the head as he trembles under you. His hand is shaking in your hair, fingers flexing like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and he's moaning, soft and breathless, a constant little stream of praise tumbling out between gasps.

"Fuck, doll—God, that mouth—s'good, you're so good, shit—"

You don't stop until you're sure you've got every drop. You lick him clean, spit slick and still twitching in your mouth as your tongue runs slow over the head, careful, delicate. Your eyes water from how deep you'd taken him, lashes damp as you blink up at him, still sucking, soft and sweet.

And Jason? His mind is wrecked. You're so fucking beautiful like this. On your knees, eyes glossy, mouth wrapped around his dick like you own him—because you do. You really, truly do.

No one's ever done this to him before. No one's ever ruined him so gently. So thoroughly. You tease, you torment, you push him to the edge, but you know how far to take it. You know how to bring him back.

He's had flings, hookups, girls who wanted the Red Hood for the story. But this? You?

You're it. And God, he never thought he'd get this. Never thought he'd deserve it. But looking down at you—lips still wrapped around his cock, cheeks flushed, hair messy from where he's been holding you—he's never been more sure of anything in his life.

You finally—finally—give him a break. You know he's way too sensitive, dick still twitching in your mouth, so you ease off with a soft little pop and kiss the flushed, swollen head, all slow and sweet.

Jason twitches. "Fuuuck—" he groans like the sound was dragged out of him.

And then he's moving, his chair rolling back just enough before you can even blink, and his hands are on you before you can breathe.

"Baby—" you yelp as he hauls you out from under the desk and right into his lap, landing with a little bounce, your thighs straddling him, the thick press of his dick snug right up against your soaked pussy.

Your tank top is a mess, your panties are ruined, and you're breathless from the sudden shift, but you don't get another word out. One hand settles rough and sure on your ass, the other tangling in the back of your hair, and he doesn't even bother saying anything before he kisses you.

And fuck, he kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's hungry. Wet and messy, all tongue and teeth and desperate moans swallowed between gasps. He kisses you like he's trying to make up for the four hours he left you wanting with just his mouth alone, tongue pushing into your mouth without hesitation, licking into you like he needs to taste himself on your tongue. And it's there, the sharp, salty taste of his cum still clinging to your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and he moans into it like he's losing his fucking mind.

It's all greed and spit and the kind of desperate, breathless kisses that feel more like gasps than anything else. He breaks away for a second, groaning into your mouth, just to dive right back in, tilting your head with a rough hand in your hair, licking deeper, slower.

You whimper into him, hips rocking down against his, instinctive and needy, and his hand squeezes your ass in response. His other one doesn't let go of your hair, holding you close, still tasting himself off your tongue like he doesn't care how filthy it is—no, he likes it. Loves it. Wants it all.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice wrecked and low,

"Fuckin' knew you'd ruin me, pretty girl."

You lick into his mouth one more time, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling back with a breathy little gasp, smirking as you murmur, "Your turn, Jay."

And oh, that fucking gets him. He hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide with heat, the grip on your ass tightening for a second before his hand slides lower—fingers trailing between your thighs from behind, right over that embarrassingly wet patch of your panties.

"Fuck," he mutters, lips brushing your jaw as he grins against your skin. "You're soaked, baby. You this wet just from suckin' my dick?"

You whimper, breath hitching when he pushes your panties aside with two thick fingers, brushing the bare, sticky heat of your cunt. His fingers slide through the mess and God, you're dripping for him.

His hands slip under your thighs, lifting them effortlessly as he spreads your legs wide over the arms of his chair. Pinned open, soaked, squirming—he's got you just how he wants you, and he knows it. You grab his shoulders instinctively, nails digging in for some kind of grounding because you already know what's coming.

"Jay—"

He slaps your ass. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan, and the sound of it echoes filthy and perfect in the quiet room.

"You want me to fuck you, huh?" he growls, cocky and breathless, dragging the head of his dick through your slippery folds, teasing you just enough to make your hips twitch.

You nod fast, needy, thoughtless. "Yes—yes, please, just—fuck me, Jay, I want it—"

He scoots just a little, lining himself up, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press right against your hole before he pushes in.

Fuck. You shudder, mouth falling open, nails pressing into his shoulders as he slides in so easily. Your walls stretch around him without resistance, just soaked and swollen and ready to take every inch. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your shoulder as he sinks deeper until his hips are flush with yours and you can feel him throb inside you.

"You're so fuckin' wet," he murmurs, voice wrecked already. "Took me like you've been waitin' for this all evening."

And you have. God, you fucking have. You barely have time to adjust to how deep he is, your body still fluttering around the stretch when Jason yanks your tank top down in one quick, rough motion. The fabric strains before it slips beneath your tits, baring them to the air—and to him. His mouth is on you in seconds, hot and hungry, groaning as he buries his face right between your tits.

You let out a breathless little moan, your hands braced on his broad shoulders as you start to move. The position is perfect—you're spread open over the chair, anchored by his grip and the way his thighs are planted beneath yours, and it gives you leverage.

You roll your hips first, then start to bounce, each slick slide down making you gasp. His cock fills you just right, hard and pulsing, stretching you perfectly as you fuck yourself on him.

He groans against your skin, cupping both your tits with those big, rough hands, squeezing just hard enough to make your back arch. "Goddamn, baby, these fuckin' tits..."

And then he's licking you. Everywhere. His tongue drags between your nipples, slow and wet, before he sucks one into his mouth, lips wrapping tight around it as his tongue flicks and rolls. You whine, hips stuttering, and he doesn't stop—switches to the other nipple like he can't pick a favorite, sucking it hard enough to make you gasp again.

"You ride me so good," he mutters, voice all fucked out, his hands kneading your tits like he owns them. "Bouncin' on my dick like a good fuckin' girl."

Your breath catches as he pulls back, his mouth slick with spit, and you don't even get a second to adjust before his hands are on your ass. One rough grip on each cheek, and he slams you down, holding you there, pinning you as he starts fucking up into you.

Your head falls back with a whimper, the wet sounds between your legs growing louder every time he slams into you. Your arousal coats him, slick and messy and everywhere, and you can feel it. The way it clings to his skin and your folds, shiny and sticky. And Jason? He's watching all of it. Losing it.

"Look at this pussy," he groans, hips snapping up fast and hard. "Look at how you take me—fuckin' swallowin' my dick."

He fucks you like he means it. No holding back, no teasing. Just deep, hungry thrusts that stretch your soaked pussy wide every time he buries himself inside you. Your thighs twitch, muscles straining as he slams up into you with enough force to make the chair creak underneath you both, and all you can do is hold on.

You feel full, stuffed to the hilt, every inch of him hitting so deep, like he's fucking your pleasure into the deepest part of your pussy. Your tits bounce with every snap of his hips, heavy and slick from his spit, and he watches them like a man obsessed.

"Touch your pretty little clit," he pants, voice wrecked with how hard he's breathing, how tight your pussy is squeezing him. "C'mon, baby, rub that messy little thing for me."

And you obey without thinking, how could you fucking not? You slide one trembling hand between your thighs and find your swollen clit instantly, already throbbing and slippery with your arousal. You rub it in fast, messy circles, breath stuttering from the pleasure overload of it all—your soaked cunt getting pounded, your clit aching from how worked up you are, his dick splitting you open so perfectly.

"That's it," Jason growls, his hands gripping your ass. "Look at you—ridin' my dick, rubbin' that sweet little clit like a good girl. You're fuckin' perfect, baby."

And you fucking break. Your body shudders once, then again, your voice catching in your throat before a moan punches out of you, high and desperate. Your fingers never stop moving, and neither does he, fucking you through it, even as your legs seize up and your back arches.

And then it happens. You squirt, just like that. Your orgasm crashes through you in wet, pulsing waves, hot and intense, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock as fluid gushes out of you. It soaks your fingers, his dick, his lap—everything—your slick arousal spraying out with each deep, perfect thrust. Your hand is drenched, your thighs are dripping, and Jason moans so loud, head falling back as he watches you come completely undone.

"Holy fuck," he hisses, fucking up into you harder, rougher. "So goddamn pretty when you make a mess, baby."

You tremble, panting, overwhelmed and wrecked, barely able to moan out a soft, broken "Don't stop, Jay—please—" even as your walls keep pulsing from aftershocks.

You lean in, still trembling from your orgasm, thighs quivering on either side of him, and Jason doesn't even wait. His hand flies up to the back of your neck, rough and greedy, and he pulls you down into a kiss like he needs your mouth just as much as your pussy.

It's messy, all spit and panting breaths, tongues sliding together in a wet tangle. He groans into your mouth like he's starving for you, and you swallow the sound greedily, hips rolling as his dick keeps driving up into your soaked cunt.

You moan into him, the slick drag of his cock inside you still hitting every swollen, overstimulated nerve, your pussy fluttering around him. You're still so fucking wet, everything between your legs an absolute mess, your arousal smeared all over his cock and clinging to your thighs, pooling under your ass with every grind of your hips.

His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, like he can't fucking help himself, and you kiss him back just as hungrily, both of you panting into each other's mouths as your bodies slap together, wet and obscene. You can feel the way his hips jerk every time your walls clench down, hear the little grunts he makes when your nails dig into his skin.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, helpless pants, and Jason's eyes are blown wide when he looks at you—wet mouth, flushed face, tits bouncing every time he drives into you.

"Fuck," he grits, hips stuttering just for a second. "You kiss me like that while I'm inside this pussy, I'm not gonna last."

But that doesn't stop him. He licks into your mouth again, sloppy and hot, like he can't get enough, and he doesn't stop fucking you even for a second, your cunt sucking him back in again and again.

But then he stops. Just fucking stops, cock buried deep and throbbing, and your whole body twitches when he stills, when that perfect stretch suddenly halts, and all you can do is let out this desperate, broken little whimper against his mouth.

Jason grins. That smug, shit eating, cocky little smirk that makes you want to slap him and fuck him harder all at once.

"Oh, you didn't think I'd let you finish me off like that, did you?"

Before you can even beg, his hands are under your thighs, and he fucking stands with you still on his dick. You gasp, clinging to him as he lifts you, and then, with a little thud, your ass hits the cool surface of his desk.

"Jason—"

Papers scatter. A pen clatters to the floor. His cock slips out for the briefest, aching second, but he's already lining up again, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift your leg, the other grabbing your neck.

You moan sharp and high, head falling back as his dick drags in deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot again and again, every thrust brutal and wet and perfect. Your pussy squeezes him tight—too tight—and he groans, deep and ragged, his hips stuttering just a little.

"Shit—yeah. Just like that. Fuckin' stranglin' my dick—"

His hand around your neck squeezes just enough to make your pussy clench hard, and that makes him pause just a second as your walls squeeze his dick like a fucking vice.

"Jesus—fuckin'—Christ," he groans, eyes flicking down to where he's buried in you.

And God, it's filthy. Your pussy is drooling around him, soaking his dick and his desk and your thighs, the slick wet sounds echoing with every thrust as he rails you, fast and deep, making the desk creak. You cry out when his thumb suddenly slides down between your legs, rubbing tight little circles over your clit—slippery and fast, making your thighs tremble where they hang off the desk. Your whole body twitches, hips rocking forward instinctively, chasing that pressure even as he fucks you.

"Yeah?" he pants, circling it hard and fast, smirking at the way you squirm. "That what you needed, baby?"

You nod, frantic, breathless, clutching at his biceps while he ruins you, rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles as he keeps fucking you, every thrust sending wet heat sparking down your spine.

"Sound so fuckin' pretty when I touch you," he grits, watching how your face crumples with every swipe of his thumb. "Wanna see you cum again. Wanna feel this little pussy soak my dick."

And the way he says it? Low and wrecked and hungry? You know you're not gonna last long.

"J-Jay," you whine, voice high and ragged, words tumbling between shaky breaths, "T-too much, baby, I can't—"

But he shuts you up with a kiss, rough and hot and wet, mouths mashing together like he's trying to taste every moan you're too wrecked to hold back. His tongue licks into your mouth, greedy and slow, and it's all spit and gasps and his quiet groan when your lips cling to his like you're starved. Which, you are. You always are.

"Yeah, you can, doll," he murmurs between kisses, words rumbling against your tongue. "C'mon, give it to me."

And you try—God, you try—but your thoughts are fucking gone. Just a mess of heat and Jay and the stretch of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt, over and over again. You haven't even cum more than once, but you're already seeing stars. Truth is, you were pent up before you even dropped to your knees under his desk—fuming, needy, aching.

So now, with his dick hitting just right, his hand tightening a little more around your throat, his thumb still teasing your soaked, swollen clit? You fucking shatter.

Your mouth drops open, a choked little moan spilling out as your pussy clamps down hard, gushing around his dick in a hot, wet rush. You tremble against him, thighs shaking where they're pinned open, and all you can do is feel—your cunt clenching, fluttering around his cock, your soaked skin sticking to the desk, the way his thumb never lets up.

"Fuuuck—that's it, baby," he groans, watching it all, voice all heat and adoration, worshiping the way your cunt flutters around him, "Jesus, look at you. So perfect. So good for me."

He slows down just a little—not stopping, no—but just enough to feel every squeeze of your pussy, every twitch. Jason doesn't even say anything, just presses one last kiss to your lips before he straightens up and gently pushes you down onto your back. Files and papers scatter everywhere as he clears the space with a sweep of his arm, but he doesn't give a fuck.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, drunk on the sight of you laid out for him, pussy wet and glistening and taking him so fucking good.

And when he starts moving again? It's deep. Deep enough that your toes curl and your hands claw at the edge of the desk. Deep enough that you gasp his name like a prayer, like you've already forgotten how to breathe.

Jason's thoughts are fried. All he can think about is this. You, flat on your back, eyes all glassy, tits bouncing with every hard thrust, that tiny little bulge low in your belly when he bottoms out. He's obsessed. Addicted, even. No one's ever looked this good on his cock. No one's ever taken him like you do, like your pussy was made for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, leaning over you, bracing his forearm beside your head. "You feel so good, baby. So fuckin' good."

His mouth is back on your tits like he missed them, like he can't stand being away for more than a second. He licks up the slick curve of one, all heat and filthy little groans like he's getting drunk off the taste of your skin. And he kind of is. He sucks your nipple into his mouth with this greedy little noise in the back of his throat—deep, wet, messy—while his cock keeps fucking into you.

Your back arches off the desk the second his teeth so much as graze you, and he fucking smirks against your skin, the asshole. He switches to the other, tongue flicking lazy little circles before he sucks hard. One of his hands slides up to hold your breast, big and warm and possessive, while the other stays locked on your thigh, pinning you down so he can keep pounding into you.

Your fingers slide into his hair without even thinking, tangling tight at the roots because you need him right there, mouth locked around your nipple while he fucks you deep enough to make your toes curl. And he doesn't complain. He groans when you tug, hips stuttering for half a second like it gets him off, like he likes being kept there, held in place with your hand in his hair and your thighs starting to shake around his waist.

His hands drag down your sides slow, palms hot and possessive like he's trying to feel all of you, like he wants to memorize the way your body trembles under his. Jason grabs under your thighs and lifts, just enough to tilt your hips, to fold you open a little more for him, and then he's fucking into you harder.

Like full body, desk rattling, brain melting hard. You gasp—loud, messy—arms wrapping around his neck as the desk underneath you starts to groan with every deep, punishing thrust. It's all slick skin and filthy moans, your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, one of them still wet from his mouth. You can feel him grinding deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, his breath hot against your chest, jaw tight, barely holding himself back.

And that's how you know he's close, when he gets like this. When his rhythm goes from slow and controlled to desperate, deep, rough enough to shake the furniture.

Every thrust punches a whimper out of you, every grind of his hips drags a broken moan from your throat, and all you can do is babble—slurred, fucked out praise spilling from your lips without a single filter.

"Just like that, Jay," you breathe, voice all high and wrecked, like it's getting fucked right out of you. Your nails are digging into his shoulders now, legs trembling where they're hooked over his arms, and your head falls back with a broken little cry as his dick slams into you hard. "Fuck—fuck, you feel so good, baby—don't stop—don't stop, please—"

You're barely making sense, the praise through mixing with every breathless moan because your brain has gone fuzzy from how deep he's hitting. And it works—God, it always works. You know exactly what it does to him when you talk like that, when you gasp his name and whimper about how good he fills you up like you need it to breathe.

"Fuck, baby—God, you sound so pretty when I fuck you like this—"

Then he loses it. His rhythm stutters, gets all rough and desperate, and then he's muttering something low under his breath as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"Shit—gonna cum—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

He slams his dick into you deep, so deep it punches the air out of your lungs, and then he's there, hips jerking as he cums hard, cock pulsing deep inside you while he moans against your skin, low and wrecked and so goddamn gone.

You feel the heat of it the second he lets go, thick and hot, spilling into you in long, desperate pulses that make your whole body jolt. He's buried as deep as he can go, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up, and fuck, it's so much—you can feel it flooding you, pooling deep in your cunt, so warm it makes your toes curl.

It's messy and raw, the way it leaks out around the base of his cock with every little grind of his hips, like your pussy is too full to take all of it, but you want to. You're clutching at him like you need to be filled, like you ache for it, moaning brokenly into the side of his neck as your walls clamp down, greedy and pulsing, your pussy desperately trying to drag every last drop out of him.

And that's it. That's what sends you over. Your back arches off the desk with a cry, eyes fluttering shut as your orgasm crashes over you—hot and blinding, slick and overwhelming. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight and messy you feel him groan deep in his chest, his hips giving one more slow, grinding thrust just to fuck it deeper. You're gushing around him, wet and desperate, your whole body shaking as you cum so hard it almost hurts, like every nerve has been set on fire.

And all the while, you can feel him still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around his cock and dripping down onto the desk under you, warm and slippery and so much it makes you whimper. He stays there, buried deep, panting into your neck, and you both just hold onto each other, sweaty and shaking and so fucked out you can barely remember your own name.

Your walls are still twitching around him, little aftershocks rolling through your belly while his cock stays buried deep, keeping all that warmth right where he left it. You're both still breathing hard, your legs loose around his waist, one of your hands threaded in his hair while the other just rests over his heart like you're trying to steady the way it's still pounding.

And then he starts kissing you.

Soft, slow, sweet, like he's making up for every hard thrust with something gentle. His lips drag over your throat first, right where he'd been moaning your name seconds ago. Then your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone—he presses messy little kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, warm and lazy and full of affection, even as your pussy still flutters faintly around his dick.

By the time he reaches your lips, you're already tilting your chin up for him, mouth parting instinctively like it's muscle memory, like you're wired to kiss him the second he gets close.

And God, when he kisses you? It's everything. It's hot and deep and messy, more tongue than precision, like neither of you care about finesse, just the feel of it. His lips press to yours with this greedy, aching sweetness, like he missed your mouth even though he's been wrecking you for the past half an hour.

His tongue licks into your mouth slow, lazy and possessive, tasting every moan you don't even mean to let out. You whimper into it, walls tightening again with oversensitive need, and he feels that too—groans into your mouth and presses his hips a little deeper, just to feel your pussy squeeze down around him.

You kiss him back wet and open and hungry, lips parting wider, tongue sliding against his in a way that says please don't stop. And he doesn't. He kisses you until you're breathless, until your thighs twitch around his waist, until he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dick still pulsing faintly inside your soaked, aching cunt.

Jason chuckles against your lips, breath still ragged, chest rising and falling like he's just barely gotten it under control again. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, still not soft, still hot and hard and so deep, and it's got you grinning already, even before he speaks.

"Jesus, doll," he mutters, voice rough and warm and fucked out. "You're such a fuckin'—"

You squeeze around him. On purpose.

"You little—" he huffs, trying to sound pissed.

But then you giggle. That soft, sweet little sound you make when you know exactly what you're doing, when you're all pleased with yourself and looking up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.

And he can't even be fucking mad at you. He wants to be. He should be. But your eyes are sparkling and your smile is too damn pretty and your skin is still flushed and glowing and sticky with sweat and sex, and all he can think is fuck, I love my girl.

You smile up at him, all smug and satisfied, knowing exactly what you just did. You know he won't say it—he won't admit it out loud—but you know. You know he's ruined for you, and you wear it like a crown.

You sigh, soft and happy, still full of him, still stretched wide around his cock and completely fucked out.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head like he's exasperated, but his mouth is curved just a little too much to sell it. "Happy now, you gremlin?"

You brush your nose against his, still smiling like you just won the damn lottery. "So happy, Jay."

He just looks at you for a second like he's trying to memorize the stupid, blissed out little smile on your face. Then his lips are back on yours, and it's slow this time. Lazy. Tender. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl even though you're already fucked out and cock drunk and full of him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you moan into it without meaning to—soft and breathy—because fuck, he's still inside you. Still warm and thick and deep, and every tiny shift of his hips just rubs the right way, dragging over that raw, overstimulated spot that makes your whole body jolt.

He groans into the kiss like he feels it too, like your moan goes straight to his cock. And maybe it does, because it twitches inside you again, and your hips shift instinctively, chasing the friction even if it makes you whimper from how sensitive you are.

By the time he pulls back, you're dazed all over again, lips swollen and slick, eyes fluttering open like you're trying to remember where the hell you even are.

Then he kisses your nose. Just a quick, sweet little peck right on the tip of it, and you giggle like an actual, honest to God giggle. Completely, helplessly dick drunk.

He grins, because he knows exactly what kind of mess you are right now, and then his big hands slide under your ass and he lifts you off the desk.

You squeak, arms flying up to wrap around his neck, your legs instinctively tightening around his waist to keep him close, cock still buried deep inside you and dragging deliciously against your walls with the motion. Your head falls to his shoulder with a breathless little moan, and you feel him chuckle like he loves every second of it. Because he does.

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, voice low and still a little hoarse. "Let's get you cleaned up, doll."

You sigh, all dreamy and content, arms still looped around his neck like you've got no intention of letting go anytime soon. He carries you through the apartment with that same casual strength he always has—like you weigh nothing, like he wants you in his arms. And you just bury your face in his neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to his skin as you go. Right under his jaw, just beneath his ear. He smells like sweat and sex and a little bit of cologne, and it makes your head spin.

By the time he steps into the bathroom, the warm light hits your skin and you start to come back to yourself a little right up until he pulls out.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, thighs twitching as his cum starts to leak out of you in a slow, sticky trickle. Jason curses under his breath, eyes flicking down between your legs, watching the mess drip down your thighs, and his grip on you tightens instinctively.

"Fuckin' hell, baby..."

He presses you against his chest again like he knows your legs won't hold up and yeah, he's right. You're limp as a ragdoll, legs jelly, brain soup, and you don't even pretend to argue. You just lean into him, face pressed to his chest, nose brushing over his skin while his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

He reaches into the shower with one hand to turn the water on, testing the temperature like he's done it a hundred times before, and you just stay where you are, warm and safe and so thoroughly used you feel like you're floating.

Once the water is going, he shifts his grip, easing you down to your feet—barely, just enough to start tugging at your soaked panties. They cling to your thighs, damp with sweat and slick and the mess he left inside you, and he peels them down slow, steady, not saying a word.

Then comes your tank top, and he helps you out of that too, his fingers brushing your sides as he eases it over your head, careful not to jostle you too much. Both pieces of clothing go straight into the washing machine with zero hesitation. You hear the soft thunk of the lid closing while he checks the shower one more time, then turns back to you.

Naked, warm, and still kind of wrecked, standing in the soft light with your thighs sticky and your chest rising and falling—his girl. And you just look up at him, dazed and smiling, because you'd let him do it all over again if he asked.

The shower is warm, steam curling around both your bodies as he pulls you in with him, keeping you close, keeping you safe. You sigh into it, forehead resting against his chest, arms draped around his waist.

He grabs the body wash and works up a slow, soapy lather between his palms, then starts to run his hands over your skin, so gentle even though those hands were gripping your hips and fucking you into the desk not even fifteen minutes ago. He washes you carefully, like you're fragile, like he's undoing every rough touch with something soft and slow now.

His fingers slide down your back, over your thighs, across your belly, lingering just a little between your legs, wiping away what's still dripping out of you with careful swipes.

You moan softly at the touch, even if there's no heat behind it, just sensitivity and love and the way his hands feel like home.

He presses kisses wherever he can reach while he works—your shoulder, the side of your neck, that spot right under your ear that always makes you sigh. You tilt your head up to meet his mouth when he leans in, and the kiss he gives you is slow and sweet and deep. Just tongues brushing lazily, mouths open and soft because you're both too blissed out to care about anything but the taste of each other.

When you pull back, you're both smiling. Dumbly. Lovingly. Pure adoration in his eyes. Like he's still a little wrecked from the way you clung to him back on the desk, like he can't believe he gets to touch you like this, kiss you like this, love you like this.

By the time you're rinsed off and clean and completely melted into him, he shuts off the water and helps you out, holding your hand like you might tip over on the bath mat if he doesn't. You probably would.

He wraps a huge, fluffy towel around your body first, tucking it tight under your arms, and you can’t help the little shiver that runs through you when his knuckles graze your skin. Then he grabs another for himself, slinging it low around his waist and raking a hand through his wet hair before turning back to you.

"Don't move, doll," he says, soft and amused.

And you don't. You just stand there in your towel, still warm and a little pink from the water, watching him disappear into the bedroom like some kind of domestic dream.

He's back less than a minute later with exactly what you knew he’d bring. A clean pair of panties and one of his t-shirts, big and soft and worn thin in all the right places. You snort a little when you see it.

"Didn't even bother with my clothes, huh?"

Jason just smirks, holding them out for you. "Why waste the effort when I know you're just gonna end up in this anyway?"

You roll your eyes but your heart melts, and he looks so smug about it you almost want to kiss him again.

He tugs on a pair of boxers, grabs some soft drawstring shorts from the dresser, and slips them on low on his hips, still damp, hair messy, towel slung over one shoulder as he moves around like a man with a mission. The second those towels are tossed in the bin, he turns back to you with that warm, post shower glow and holds out a hand.

"C'mon, gremlin."

You giggle as he helps you back out to the living room, and yeah, you are kinda shuffling like a little creature in his oversized shirt, clean and soft and half asleep on your feet. He settles you on the couch with way too much care, like you're some fragile thing that might tip over if he lets go for too long, tucks a blanket around your legs even though it's not cold.

Then he leans down, kisses your forehead and says, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

You hum, content, watching him as he turns and walks off and, naturally, the moment he's out of reach, you flop over and twist to rest your chin on the backrest just in time to see him stomping toward his desk. Like full blown damage control mode.

You watch as he shuts the monitors with a bit more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath, probably about how the fuck am I supposed to get work done when you keep doing shit like that, and then starts stacking the files you so rudely distracted him from. You can't even pretend to feel bad.

Especially not when he looks down at the mess on the surface—your handprint, the faint fog of sweat, and probably a little bit of cum—and lets out this put upon little sigh like he's not absolutely delighted with himself.

He wipes it down quick, grabs his phone, and you hear the soft beep of him opening his food app. Because yeah, no one's cooking after that. Dinner shows up faster than you expect, and Jason's already halfway through pretending he's not gonna baby you tonight.

"You could've gotten up to get the door," he grumbles, grabbing the bags and carrying them into the living room like he didn't just tuck you into the couch ten minutes ago. "Y'got legs."

"Jelly legs," you remind him sweetly, stretching like a cat under his shirt, bare thighs peeking out. "Your fault."

He shoots you a look but it's useless. His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and before he can stop himself, he's nudging your legs apart and pulling them into his lap as he sits beside you.

"You little shit," he mutters under his breath.

But then he's opening the containers, poking around for your favorites, and feeding you bites between kisses to the top of your head. Like fucking clockwork. You hum after every one, leaning into him, basking in the warmth of his lap, and he gives up the fake grumpiness entirely once you nuzzle against his chest like the clingy little menace you are.

Eventually, dinner's forgotten somewhere on the coffee table, TV flickering in the background while you’re curled up half on, half under him, both of you pretending to watch.

It starts small, your fingers absently toying with the hem of his shorts, his hand smoothing down your spine in slow, lazy strokes. Then your nose brushes his jaw. Then your lips do. And then he turns toward you, and it just happens. Slow. Drowsy. Addictive.

His lips press to yours, soft and easy, and it's like you both breathe out at the same time, sinking into each other without thinking. Your mouths move together like you've done this a thousand times before, wet and slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with this teasing little flick that makes you whine into his mouth.

Jason groans low in his throat, one hand slipping under his shirt, palm warm and rough on your bare waist. You gasp into the next kiss, thighs shifting on either side of him, and that sound—that needy little noise you make—has him chasing your mouth like he can't get enough.

There's no rush. No angle. Just the quiet slide of lips and tongues and soft gasps between kisses that get deeper, longer, messier. You tug at his hair and he huffs a laugh against your mouth, pulling you tighter to him, completely wrecked by how much he wants you even now.

But eventually, your mouths slow down. Kisses taper off into soft little pecks. Your breathing evens out. His fingers stroke along your thigh, and your eyes flutter shut, head tucked under his chin like you've found your home and you're not leaving it.

Jason exhales like he's never been more relaxed in his life. "Needy little gremlin," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it, just affection, worn in and real.

You smile sleepily against his chest. "I love you too, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, like he's pretending to be over it but his arms tighten around you all the same.

You don't say anything back, too far gone already. Your breathing has gone slow and even, face squished into his chest, lashes fluttering against his skin. And then it happens, that first soft snore.

Barely there, just a tiny little puff of air through your nose, but Jason hears it. He always does. And he can't help it—his chest shakes with the little laugh he tries to smother.

Because you swear you don't snore. Every time he brings it up you're like "no I don't, Jay, you're lying, I sleep like a princess", and maybe you do. But you're also snoring like a baby animal, and it's the fucking cutest thing he's ever heard.

He looks down at you, completely dead asleep on him in his shirt, wrapped up in his arms like you belong there, and honestly, those files on the desk can rot. He knows he's not done, knows he should've closed out those reports or replied to that one message before knocking off for the night. But all that can wait.

Because right now, you're laying on top of him, breathing slow and even, little snores puffing against his chest, and he's got one hand tangled in your hair and the other cradling the soft curve of your thigh, and he couldn't give a single shit about anything else.

There's always tomorrow.

[ducksido]

I LOVE YOUR WORKS Practically going to tumblr to see it, I wanna request a houswardens having s/o who has unreal beauty? And has soft melodic laugh, I am just liking the trend of unreal beauty AHHHH I wanted to do myself the fic but you will do it better[sry just love you fics they look like canon]

(thank yew ❣️❣️)

Riddle Rosehearts Riddle was raised on rules, not daydreams. But when he looks at you? Logic flies out the window. You don’t just look beautiful—you’re unreal, like a fairytale vision spun from silk and moonlight. The first time he hears your laugh—soft, chiming, and full of genuine warmth—he forgets his entire sentence mid-way.

“I-I… you’re… no, I mean—ahem! You shouldn’t laugh like that in public—it’s… distracting…” His ears are as red as his hair. He gets flustered trying to enforce rules around you, but deep down? He loves that he’s powerless to your smile.

Leona Kingscholar Leona’s seen plenty of beautiful people, but you? You're on a whole other level. He calls you “Herbivore”, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some mythical creature who wandered into his den—is pure reverence.

“Tch. With a face like that, you’ll give the sun a complex.” He pretends to nap through your laughter, but his tail always flicks toward you when you laugh—like it’s trying to chase the sound. You're the only one who can make him willingly move from his nap spot… just to hear you laugh again.

Azul Ashengrotto You’re his Achilles’ heel. Azul, ever-calculated, tries to maintain composure around you—but when you walk in, glowing like ocean pearls with that melodic laugh that ripples like waves? He short-circuits.

“W-Would you mind… not laughing like that during meetings? It’s hard to think straight when you sound like a lullaby.” He fantasizes about bottling your laugh like a potion—something precious only he can hold. No business deal could ever compare to the way you smile just for him.

Kalim Al-Asim Kalim adores you. He's stunned every time he sees you—like he forgets you're real. Your laugh? It’s his favorite song. He claps, spins, and cheers when he hears it.

“You're like a genie’s wish come true!! Even your laugh sparkles!!” He shows you off like a precious jewel—not out of pride, but pure awe. He throws lavish parties just so others can see what he sees: someone too beautiful for words, with a voice soft enough to tame storms.

Vil Schoenheit Vil is the standard of beauty. And yet—even he can’t help but pause when you walk into a room. He studies you with a critical eye at first… but soon finds himself breathless.

“You’re… quite literally dazzling. And that laugh? It’s like perfume for the ears. How am I supposed to stay composed?” You’re the only one who could make the Queen himself stumble over words. Vil admires your grace, your softness, and the way your beauty is effortless. He won't admit it out loud, but you make him feel insecure—in the best way.

Idia Shroud He thought ethereal beauty only existed in RPGs. But then you appeared—with that glowy, surreal aura and a laugh so gentle it makes his chest ache.

“You… you’re not like a ghost or a simulation, right? B-Because you look like you phased in from another dimension or something…” His hair flares hot pink whenever you laugh. He replays your voice in his head like a cherished OST. He’s convinced you're some kind of mythical NPC that accidentally wandered into his world—and he's not letting you glitch away.

Malleus Draconia To Malleus, who has wandered centuries alone, you are a vision he never thought he’d witness outside a dream. Your beauty transcends mortal standards. He doesn't just admire you—he worships you.

“Your laughter… it soothes the thorns in my heart. You must be a forest spirit, come to enchant me.” He finds himself smiling whenever you’re near, your presence brighter than even his beloved gargoyles. You’re his lullaby. His light. His reason to want the company of others—for once.

[ydsurluvhsm]

i’m so serious when i say nalu is the goofiest ship in fairy tail and also the one that makes me lose my mind the most. like look at them. look at these screenshots. they are so chronically unserious it’s actually romantic. why are they always matching each other’s chaotic energy??? like they weren’t just meant for each other, they were engineered in a lab to be the two most ridiculous people in the guild and then fall in love about it. the synchronized screaming. the dramatic hand-holding like someone just proposed. the way natsu sparkles while lucy looks five seconds away from homicide. they are so stupid. they are SO STUPID. and yet so in sync it makes my brain short-circuit.

they’re soulmates in the most obnoxious way possible. not in a soft “we complete each other” kind of way but in a “we got kicked out of a restaurant for sword fighting with breadsticks” way. and they’d be laughing the whole time. they match each other’s every step, every tone, every over-the-top facial expression like they’re one shared creature split into two hot idiots. i love them so much it physically pains me. like this isn’t even about romance anymore. this is about divine comedy. this is about two people being so chaotic together that the universe just gave up and said “fine. fine. you win. be together forever.” and they will. they will be so annoying and dramatic and in love until the end of time. and i’ll be right there cheering them on

[malwarechips]

guys i think that there's something wrong with my copy of in stars and time ???

^^ the sprites on their own (and bigger) /silly

[cosai-void]

Isn't it interesting that Stan never boasts about the things he actually did? He lies about how great he is with women or how he tried to save the pig in an epic battle against the pterodactyl (the first time). But when he actually fought the flying beast, or protected the kids from an army of zombies or managed to escape from the special agents while floating around with zero gravity he never mentioned it again. Save to say, unless the kids told Ford about it, he doesn't know what Stan is capable of. Of course he trusts his brother after Weirdmageddon and goes on adventures with him but I believe Ford still sees himself as the protector and fighter between them two. After all, he has a lot of experience and kept his body at peak health while Stan loves his Ice cream dinner and watching TV.

Imagine Ford trying to protect Stan from a mystical sea creature that attacks the boat but Stan just jumps in and obliterates the thing within a second, because why wouldn't he? It threatened his brother! Maybe not as efficient and clean as Ford would have done it but nevertheless. And the only thing he does afterwards is complain about his back, telling Ford he should clean up the mess, and goes back to whatever he was doing before. Leaving Ford on the deck, who tries very hard not to short circuit.

[leighsartworks216]

Yeah, 'Cause Maybe Then You'd Want Me Just As Much

Sylus x Mephisto!Reader

In the actual Nightplumes memory, Mephisto actually gets along with the dove but um fuck that, we want it to hurt. Also wanna say the "I'm busy right now" line is from the actual game, which inspired this tbh

Title from "Girl Crush" by Little Big Town

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues, body dysphoria, shapeshifting, biting, fear of water, storms, pet names, crying, possibly ooc

Word Count: 3,699

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Ugh, doves. They think they're sooo perfect just because they're so round and cute and everyone loves them. Those pathetic little coos. A bird should make real noise, not just those dumb sounds.

So why is Sylus - a man whom you were led to believe had good tastes in avian creatures - giving it so much attention?

You bite his earlobe. His head jerks away on reflex, a soft hiss escaping through his teeth. "Behave," he chides. Doesn't even look at you.

You glare down at the pathetic dove again. Somehow it hurt its wing. And for some godforsaken reason Miss Hunter brought it to Sylus to look after. You know for a fact she has a doctor friend, why not foist it on him until she gets back from her trip? Yeah, Sylus is great with animals, but that's beside the point.

You bite his ear again. He sighs. "Do I have to send you on a mission?" You bristle at the question, feathers standing on end. His brow is furrowed as he gets back to examining the dove's wing. It's not even a bad break; it'll recover in no time.

So why can't he spare a second on you?

You try a different approach. With a more delicate touch, you preen the ends of his hair. He still doesn't glance your way. "I'm busy right now. Go entertain yourself for a bit."

Oh...

You step awkwardly on his shoulder, feeling suddenly too out of place there. Your wing almost clips his head as you take off for your perch. Even here, the wood just feels wrong under your feet. Your feathers are ruffled. They can't seem to relax. A chasm opens in your heart. Synthetic as it may be, you can still feel it. Like a black hole, sucking in all the light.

The dove coos. You can't stay in here. You slip out of an open window and fly off. Where to, you have no idea. Anywhere but here.

"Anywhere" lands you outside the window of a fourth floor hotel room. The light is still on, just a small lamp by the bed, but it's enough to see a familiar figure sitting against the headboard reading a mission brief. You tap on the glass.

Miss Hunter looks up with a start. The surprise quickly turns to a frown. She gets up in a huff and jerks the curtains closed.

You can hear a phone ringing inside a second later.

"Sylus! What have I told you about sending your bird to spy on me?!"

The faint crackle of Sylus's voice answers with a sharp scoff. "I haven't told Mephisto to do anything," he retorts.

"Then why is it outside my window right now, huh?!"

"Why don't you ask?" he teases dryly. "Maybe they missed picking fights with you."

"You-!"

"Goodnight, kitten."

The beep of an ended call. You tap on the glass again, softer this time.

Miss Hunter huffs inside. Moments pass, but the curtains remain drawn shut. You can't tell if the lamp has been turned off; you can't even hear her moving around. Maybe she's decided to take the "out of sight, out of mind" approach. Unsurprising, really. If she isn't ignoring you, she's shouting abuse at you.

A large crack of thunder rumbles through your circuits, stirring the air with electricity. You hadn't even noticed the weather - the clouds are dark, covering every sliver of sky for miles.

You tap on the glass more urgently.

The first droplets of rain begin to fall. Slow, random. And then more and more, all at once in a barrage of water. You press yourself tighter to the window and tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap-

The curtains are thrown open. The window lifts from its sill. Before she can angrily ask why you won't leave her alone, you fly in as quick as you can. Just in the nick of time, it seems, as the rain turns into a proper storm, lightning firing through the sky in a burst of light. You tumble onto the end of the bed, feathers ruffled.

She huffs as she slides the window shut, ready to tease you or yell at you, but another loud boom of thunder makes her flinch and close the curtains quickly, words stolen. "Fine! I guess you can... stay the night," she relents. She rounds the bed to sit back down where she was before. She picks up the tablet with her mission data and holds it up, pointing at you accusingly. "And no telling Sylus about anything you see here, got it?"

You caw back at her. You don't wanna tell Sylus anything right now. It might distract him from his sweet, precious dove...

Knees bent, she sets the tablet on her thighs and starts reading again. Rain hits against the window, picked up by a growing wind that slams it into the hotel building. Another shock of thunder. She curls slightly more into herself.

You preen your feathers. Align them all once more, clean them from the long flight here, soothe your nerves. All the while watching Miss Hunter's reactions to the storm. With every boom of thunder, she's startled from her reading. She does well trying to hide it. You can see the twitch in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders and hands as she holds tighter to the tablet, the way her knees pull in slightly more. It doesn't take a genius to see what's happening. The real question is why she's not doing anything to deal with it. Is it because she's trying to play it cool with you around? Not giving anything away so you'd have less to report back with?

You look around the room. It's nothing special. Certainly nothing as luxurious as the suites Sylus stays in. A suitcase is on the floor by the tv stand. A work bag is set on the desk. The perfect amount of stuff for a week-long work trip, you suppose.

You fly over to the desk, nails ticking against the wood.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

You poke your beak into a few of the pockets on the bag.

"Leave that alone! Don't go through my stuff!"

You wonder for a moment how soundproof these walls are, and just how confused someone listening in would be when she's answered by the caw of a crow.

You finally find what you're looking for in a side pocket and pull it out. It doesn't really fit well in your beak, but you make do. She's just tossed her tablet aside to jump up and bolt over to you, but she stops when you fly back over to the bed.

She blinks at you, confused. "What are you...?" You hop across the cheap bedding and hold out the item to her. She hesitantly accepts your offering, and you drop the earphone case in her hand. Understanding dawns on her. "Oh... thanks."

You walk to the other side of the bed, going around the tablet to roost on top of the untouched pillow. It's kinda hard and lumpy, but at least you're not outside. With that much water, you'd certainly shut down. You have no idea how Sylus would retrieve you if you had, way up here. A bitter part of you wonders if he would.

Miss Hunter watches as you tuck your beak under your wing. You don't really sleep during the night, but you'll manage. She slips the earphones in her ears and plays some music on her phone. The storm outside, the faint pulse of music, and her tapping on the tablet are the only sounds.

She opens the window for you in the morning, when the storm has passed. With one last warning not to follow her or report back to Sylus, she heads out for her mission and you take your time flying back home. She asked about the dove only once during your stay. A bandaid around her finger reminds her not to ask again.

-

"What time did you get back, pretty bird?" Sylus crosses the room from the doorway, fully dressed for the night and reaching out to scratch you under your chin.

You scoot away, further down your perch, glaring at the pretty white thing on his shoulder. He doesn't try to reach you. He lets you step away, hand dropping and eyebrow raised. "Are you going to be this feisty all week?"

You caw indignantly. Of course you are! That should be you perched up on his shoulder! You should be the one preening under his attention! Instead, Miss Hunter brings along a new, cute little thing, pestering him to take care of it "for her", and now it's the only bird around here he cares about.

He tsks. "You don't have to be jealous, sweetie. It's only for a week. As soon as she gets back, you'll never have to see it again."

The dove flies down from his shoulder to the perch. Your perch! You caw obscenities as you take its place on Sylus's shoulder - your rightful place. He winces at how loud you are directly in his ear, wings spread to give you a larger appearance as you speak your mind to the little dove that seems to only stare up blankly at you.

He smoothes a hand down your back. For a moment you forget how angry you are with him, too, for indulging Miss Hunter with this stupid task. For pushing you away in favor of caring for the pretty little dove. For not saying more when she called him about you. For just that moment, the firing synapses of your circuitry tingle pleasantly where his fingers brush over your feathers and seeing the dove on your perch becomes bearable as you stand on his shoulder, your favorite perch of all.

"Easy, pretty bird. It knows this is your territory," he assures. "It's still young, that's all."

And then you remember that none of this would be happening if this damn bird wasn't here.

You caw one last time at the dove, nibble harshly at Sylus's ear, and retreat through the living room door. You follow the familiar twists and turns up into the tallest heights of the base, into an alcove full of your treasures and soft bedding. You don't come up here often anymore, but it feels safe. The one spot of the house that really is just yours; no matter what Sylus says, this is his territory, you're just given more allowances than other people. And thanks to the times in the past when the twins would try to toss things up as a competition, tossing pebbles and jewels and even bullets, you have the privilege of pulling shut a little door, fully isolating yourself in your sanctuary.

Small lights turn on at the flip of a switch that makes a pleasant click. They shine and shimmer against your piles of trinkets. Coins, jewels, jewelry, a shell casing or two - all in their respective piles.

You hop over to your nest: the finest twigs woven together into a bowl shape, with strips of soft fabric lining the inside. Laying in it is like resting in cupped hands. You imagine they're Sylus's hands, clean from ever having held any other bird in his lifetime. His thumbs smoothing down your sides until your feathers are fluffed and eyes are relaxed shut. Pressing soft kisses to your head as he talks to you. You want to be cared for like that. Is the dove getting that same attention?

You get up from your nest. You can't think about it. Can't allow yourself to linger on the thought for any longer than you already have. So you sort through your things. You begin dividing them up into new piles with a different organization system. One by one, everything is shifted over. You're not sure how long it takes. You don't care.

But once you've finished, it feels wrong. Settles uneasily in your gut. Everything is out of place, even though it's all organized. Everything isn't where it should be. You spend even longer sorting it all back.

-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Tighten your hands into fists. Dig your nails into your palm as you will your shape to change. Grit your teeth as metal panels try to shift in unusual ways. Synthetic feathers standing up along your head, neck, back and arms, shuttering with the strain.

You release a breath and everything comes back together; metal in place, feathers laying flat, body un-tensed. You pant softly. Inhale deeply, and try again.

It feels wrong. It's like trying to squeeze into a too-small shirt. It won't happen, and the more you try to force it, the more it hurts, the more uncomfortable you are, and the more the fabric strains at the seams.

You gasp deeply. You're lightheaded. You wobble where you sit on the roof, supporting yourself unsteadily against the snow-laden tiles. It takes a minute to pass. Your skin feels misaligned, like a twisted sock. You try to ignore it; it just means you're a little bit closer to succeeding.

"I thought I might find you up here."

You turn away from the voice. From the sound of Sylus's shoes against the roofing. He sits down a few feet away, eyes never giving up their gaze on you. You hate it. For all the time you've known him, his attention on you has never made you uncomfortable or unsettled. Now, you wish he'd just look anywhere else. Go anywhere else.

Secretly, deep down, you're glad he's finally looking at you again.

He tilts his head. Frowns at the strange way your feathers stick up, and the odd shift of the synthetic skin on your back. "The dove is gone," he says.

You nod. "I know."

Quiet.

"Do you want me to apologize?" he asks.

You shrug. "Doesn't matter. It's gone."

"But you're still upset."

You pull your knees to your chest, but you can't pull them up as far as you'd like to. It's like there's too much strain. A rubber band drawn too far out and waiting to snap or break under the tension. You try to ignore it. Play it off. Pretend everything is normal and that this is intentional.

He doesn't buy it for a second. It's the curse of growing up with him. Of being by his side most of your lives. Of course he knows something is wrong.

You listen to the shifting of fabric behind you. Nearly jump at the feeling of cloth placed on your shoulders. His heavy black coat, long and still warm from his body. You don't feel the falling snow. Yet you can't stop yourself from pulling the front closed around you.

His fingers skillfully brush along your feathers, soothing them down with ease. And yet they keep standing back up a moment after, revealing the distress of your thoughts. Before he can say anything, you do.

"Do you wish I was a dove?"

His hand stops, pausing mid pet. He reaches out to turn you toward him. One hand on your knee to face you to him, the other on your shoulder. You wince as he does. And he notices - of course he notices. He's frowning, brow furrowed, as he pulls aside his coat to expose your legs further. You don't meet his eyes, but you feel them.

"Is that what you've been trying to do up here?" he questions, voice tight with concern and gravity. "You can't force yourself into changing-"

"But if I could, would that make you happier?"

You meet his gaze. Imploring, begging him to tell you. Tell you that he's been distant this week because he realized just how much better doves are. Because he realized how much trouble you are, mechanized and synthetic and fake. Because you aren't enough now that you can't be anything more than you are.

His large hands rise to your face, holding your cheeks, keeping your attention on him. He leans forward slightly, foreheads not quite touching. "If you could change again, I would be happy to see you become anything you wanted. Whether that means becoming a dove, or a hawk, or a hummingbird. The shape you take doesn't matter to me, because I fell in love with you. Crow, or dove, or human. Just you."

You search his eyes. Those pretty garnet eyes. Searching for any hint of a lie. But you already know he means it. "You were so dismissive of me..."

He frowns, brow pinched, but he nods. He doesn't deny it. "I know. I'm sorry."

Emotion chokes up in your throat. "You didn't even ask Miss Hunter about me. Or- Or keep that dove from getting up on your shoulder." You hate that you can feel your face crumpling as tears bite your waterline. See the pain in his face as he diligently wipes away the ones that slip free. You hate that you're so emotional over this - over a stupid bird, but- "I don't want to be replaceable. I don't want to be just a pet to you."

"You're not-"

"Then act like it!" His eyes widen, shocked by your outburst. "Just stop pushing me away for Miss Hunter. Stop... stop waving me off and ignoring me. You're all I have, Sylus. I can't- I don't want to be replaced."

A sob tears its way out of you. Sylus can't recall a time he ever saw you crying - before or after the experiments. You were always happy, or curious, or angry. But never had you cried. Synthetic tears wash down your face, and it's his fault. An ache clenches his heart like a closed fist. He did this. He pushed you away, he made you feel unworthy, unimportant. Let a dove take liberties in your territory.

He draws you into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around you. You don't resist, even as he feels your feathers standing on end. They shudder with your cries. He smoothes his palms over them. Brushes them down, scratches the nape of your neck as he gently shushes you. You press your face into his collar. Your fingers curl tightly into his shirt. You hold on. Cling to him like he'll disappear if you loosen up for even a second.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs against your head. He means it. Deeply. "I should have acted differently. You are my closest friend. My beloved. And I ignored you."

He rubs your back overtop his coat, slowly. Feeling along your spine, your shoulder blades. It's still misaligned. Shifted out of place. You're in pain - because of him.

He's careful as he gathers you into his arms. He scoops you up, cradles you against him while doing his best not to hurt you further; he can't bear the thought of making things worse than he already has. Snow crunches beneath his feet as he stands on the tiles. He turns and begins carrying you inside.

"Let's take care of you now, pretty bird."

-

Just like trying to squeeze into a too-tight shirt, the removal can be tricky. Sylus makes it seem easy.

He rotates your legs until they pop back into the ball-joint, never lingering any longer than he has to. You lay on your stomach, quietly sniffling, while he seems to massage your back, slowly easing the metal into place. Each fix releases the strain. Each soft click eases your feathers back into a resting position.

When he's finished, he helps you sit up. Your legs overhang the table, dangling in the air. He doesn't look at you at first. Busies himself with grabbing a cloth. But then he looks you in the eye as he wipes away the watery formula of your tears. His brow is tight. Lips pulled down into a frown. His eyes, filled with remorse. You can almost see the plan formulating: all the auctions he could go to to buy the shiniest, most interesting things you love to cheer you up; of all the jewels in his treasuries, which would you like the most, if he doesn't just give them all to you; where will Miss Hunter be and when to give you the perfect opportunity to play tricks on her.

You don't want any of them right now. After a week of being pushed aside, of being distant, all you want is right here in front of you.

You nudge his hand away. He obeys without hesitation, dropping the cloth to the table and holding it there, restraining himself. He watches, slightly bewildered, as you reach out for him. You wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him down to your height, and hold him there.

He stands still. Doesn't do anything.

You squeeze him around his shoulders and he finally moves. Arms circle your waist, hands resting open against your back. You breathe him in, soak in his warmth. Your feathers finally relax. You finally relax.

"I don't hate you," you whisper beside his ear.

He releases a long breath, shoulders sagging under your arms. He's still tentative, still careful as he brushes his nose against your temple. "How can I make it up to you?"

A thousand diamonds. A million. No amount is too much. Nothing too far for him to reach. He would bake in the sun for a week if you said. Fly across the globe in search of the perfect pebble. Give you a whole new set of feathers, darker than midnight and softer than a kiss. He's prepared to give it all - what lengths will you have him go to absolve himself? What would it take for you to forgive him? How can he fix the damage he caused?

"Stay with me."

"You can ask for anything."

You shake your head. Turn your head to bury your face solidly in his neck. "I just want you again."

'Again' tears his heart to shreds. He scoops you up once more, trading places so he sits on the edge of the table with you in his lap. Your territory. "You'll always have me," he swears. "And I will spend lifetimes making sure you never doubt that ever again."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @perla-drg @17chuuya @slovesyouuu @leiakitty @lemonn015

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Zayne x Reader x Yandere!Caleb

Arts cre to artist

Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world overrun by monstrous creatures known as Wanderers, you are one of the last remaining scientists, dedicating your life to preserving humanity. Using cutting-edge biotechnology, you create Caleb and Zayne—two highly advanced humanoid beings designed to assist you in fighting the Wanderer threat. You implant them with memories of being your childhood friends to ensure they feel loyalty, trust, and camaraderie toward you. Caleb is the reliable and determined pilot, wielding gravity-based powers, while Zayne is the calm and resourceful medic, capable of manipulating ice.

The morning sun streamed through the reinforced windows of your lab as the smell of something savory wafted in, pulling you out of your deep focus. You looked up from the maze of wires and circuits sprawled across your workstation just in time to see Caleb entering, balancing a steaming plate in one hand. His dark hair was slightly damp, probably from his morning workout, and his signature confident grin was firmly in place.

“You didn’t eat again, did you?” he said, setting the plate down in front of you.

You blinked at the food—a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs, toast, and even a small bowl of fresh-cut fruit. “Wait… when did you have time to make this?”

“Right after fixing that mess of a ventilation system in the south wing” he replied, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You gave him a wry smile. “You know, you’re starting to sound more like a housekeeper than a pilot.”

“And you’re starting to sound like someone who’s about to faint from hunger” Caleb shot back, gesturing toward the food. “Now eat before I make it a command.”

Reluctantly, you put down your tools and took a bite. It was annoyingly good. You mumbled between mouthfuls, “You’re too good at this. What kind of pilot cooks this well?”

“The kind that has to make up for the genius who forgets to eat.” he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

Before you could retort, Zayne walked in, clipboard in hand, his icy-blue eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of Caleb and his cooking.

“What’s this?” Zayne asked, gesturing to the plate. “Breakfast in bed? How domestic of you, Caleb.”

“Jealous, Doc?” Caleb quipped without missing a beat.

Zayne’s gaze shifted to you. “You really let him boss you around like this?”

“I didn’t let him,” you said, gesturing to the food with your fork. “But I’m not complaining. He’s saving me time.”

Zayne sighed, placing his clipboard on the counter. “You know, if you actually managed your schedule better, you wouldn’t need someone to babysit you.”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “And if you lightened up, maybe people wouldn’t freeze the second you walk into a room.”

“Caleb. Zayne.” You set your fork down and gave them both a pointed look. “Can we not do this every time we’re in the same room?”

Caleb smirked but didn’t push further, and Zayne gave a small huff before grabbing a tablet to check mission reports. Despite their constant bickering, there was an undeniable ease to their presence, like two opposing forces that somehow balanced each other out.

You looked between them, a small smile tugging at your lips. No matter how chaotic they were, they were your family—the people you could always count on, even in the darkest of times. ----- The mission had gone horribly wrong. Wanderers ambushed you in the dead of night, forcing Caleb and Zayne into combat. Caleb slammed one creature into the ground with a gravitational pulse, his jaw tight as he yelled “Get behind me!”

Zayne’s breath misted in the air as frost spread from his fingertips, freezing a group of Wanderers in place. “How about you stop barking orders and actually focus on not dying?” he snapped, his voice sharper than usual.

“I am focusing!” Caleb retorted, his gravitational barrier flickering as the strain mounted.

Realizing they couldn’t hold out much longer, you made a split-second decision. Pulling out a remote device, you activated the override. Both Caleb and Zayne froze mid-action, their bodies locking up as their systems shut down.

“I’m sorry” you whispered, dragging them to safety before finishing off the remaining Wanderers yourself.

When they woke up in your lab hours later, the tension was palpable. Caleb sat up first, rubbing his temples. “What… happened? Why couldn’t I move?”

“You shut us down” Zayne said flatly, his tone icy. His sharp gaze pinned you in place. “That override… what else have you been hiding from us?”

You sighed, turning away from their accusing stares. “I had no choice. You both would have died.”

Caleb stood, his expression unreadable. “We’re not just tools, are we? We’re…” His voice faltered, and his hand clenched into a fist. “What are we?”

Zayne crossed his arms, his voice low. “Answer him.”

Taking a deep breath, you faced them. “You’re not tools. You’re not experiments. You’re my creations. I built you to help me save humanity. And I gave you memories—false ones... because I didn’t want you to feel like you were nothing more than machines.”

The silence was deafening. Caleb stared at you, a storm brewing in his eyes. “So… we’re not even human?”

“No.” you admitted softly. “But that doesn’t change what you mean to me. You’re more than just creations. You’re my family.”

Zayne’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained cold. “Family? Is that why you lied to us?”

“I lied to protect you.” you said, your voice firm. “I didn’t want you to feel like you were just tools. You’re not. You’re everything to me.”

In the days that followed, Caleb and Zayne’s behavior shifted. Caleb became more protective, shadowing you during missions and watching you with a guarded intensity. Zayne, meanwhile, grew more reserved, throwing himself into his work but keeping a careful eye on you.

One evening, as you worked late in the lab, Caleb sat nearby, idly fiddling with a gadget. “You should let me help you more.” he said suddenly.

“You already help plenty.” you replied without looking up.

“Not enough.” he muttered. “If something happened to you…”

You looked up, surprised at the vulnerability in his voice. “Caleb, nothing’s going to happen to me. I have you and Zayne, remember?”

He nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Yeah. You have us.”

Later that night, Zayne entered the lab, finding you asleep at your desk. Shaking his head, he draped a blanket over your shoulders and adjusted the room’s temperature to keep you comfortable. “She pushes herself too hard” he murmured, his icy tone melting for just a moment.

“Don’t we all?” Caleb’s voice came from the doorway.

Zayne glanced at him but didn’t respond. Instead, he sighed. “As much as I hate to admit it… she needs both of us.”

Caleb crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “Yeah. She does.”

The city was under siege, and the Wanderer threat was greater than ever. Caleb, Zayne, and you stood side by side, ready to face the horde.

“Stay close to me” Caleb said, his gravitational field already forming.

Zayne rolled his eyes but smirked. “Protect her all you want, but don’t get in my way.”

You placed a hand on both their shoulders, your voice steady. “No fighting. Not now. We do this together.”

For the first time, they exchanged a glance of mutual understanding.

As the battle raged, the three of you worked in perfect sync. Caleb’s gravity crushed waves of Wanderers, while Zayne froze others in their tracks. You enhanced their powers, amplifying Caleb’s field to cover the entire city and super charging Zayne’s ice to create massive barriers.

When the last Wanderer fell, the three of you stood together, battered but victorious. Caleb offered you a tired smile. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

Zayne chuckled, his breath misting in the cold air. “For once, I agree with him.”

You smiled, tears in your eyes. “We always have.”

As the world began to heal, so did your bond with Caleb and Zayne. They accepted their origins and found solace in their roles—not as tools, but as your partners and family. Though their playful rivalry remained, it was no longer tinged with bitterness.

----- Life had been peaceful in the months following the defeat of the Wanderers. The lab had transformed into a hub of innovation, with Caleb and Zayne lending their unique talents to assist you in rebuilding technology for humanity. Despite the occasional bickering between them, a quiet harmony had settled over the three of you.

That peace, however, was shattered the day an unexpected visitor appeared at your doorstep.

You were calibrating a new piece of equipment when the lab’s security system chimed, signaling an incoming guest. Caleb, who had been fixing a damaged drone nearby, frowned and stood immediately.

“Expecting someone?” he asked, tension creeping into his voice.

“No” you said, confused, wiping your hands on a cloth as you walked to the door.

The man standing outside was someone you hadn’t seen in years. Dr. Marcus Vell, a former colleague from your days as a junior scientist. His slicked-back gray hair and sharp suit gave him an air of authority, but there was something unsettling in his smile.

“Y/N!” he said warmly, stepping forward as you opened the door. “It’s been too long.”

“Marcus?” you said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about your success” he said, glancing around the lab with thinly veiled interest. “I must say, I always knew you’d surpass the rest of us. Your creations…” His eyes flicked to Caleb and Zayne, lingering a little too long. “…are remarkable.”

Zayne, standing in the corner, crossed his arms, his icy gaze fixed on Marcus. Caleb moved closer to your side, his posture protective.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty busy.” you said, trying to keep the interaction short.

Marcus chuckled, unbothered by the cold reception. “Of course. I won’t take much of your time. I’m here with an offer. Humanity needs minds like yours—truly gifted ones. Come work with me. Together, we could rebuild this world far more efficiently.”

You hesitated, sensing the hidden implications in his words. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m happy where I am.”

His smile faltered slightly, and a flicker of something darker crossed his face. “Don’t be so hasty. You’ve barely heard what I have to offer.”

Caleb stepped forward, his expression hard. “She already said no. You heard her.”

Marcus glanced at him, his smile sharpening. “Ah, the pilot. A fine creation. But let’s not forget who’s really in charge here.”

Before Caleb could respond, you held up a hand. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Marcus.”

Marcus straightened his suit, his eyes lingering on you. “Very well. But consider this—talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted in obscurity. I’ll be in touch.”

As he walked out, Zayne’s voice cut through the silence. “I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I” Caleb muttered.

You sighed, brushing it off. “It’s fine. He’s just an old colleague trying to stir up trouble. Forget about him.”

But Caleb and Zayne exchanged a look—one that spoke volumes.

Later that night, while you were asleep, Caleb and Zayne made their move.

“He’s not going to stop” Caleb said, his voice low as he paced the dimly lit lab.

Zayne, seated at a console, typed rapidly, pulling up information on Marcus. “Agreed. He’s been digging into her work for months. I found encrypted correspondence with other labs—he’s trying to recruit people to take her away.”

Caleb clenched his fists. “Then we stop him. Quietly.”

Zayne looked up, meeting Caleb’s gaze. “For once, we’re on the same page.”

Two days later, Marcus Vell vanished.

You didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in your work to realize he hadn’t “followed up” as he promised. When you eventually thought of him again, Zayne was the one to casually dismiss your concerns.

“Marcus?” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I heard he left the region. Something about funding issues.”

“Really?” you asked, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

Caleb chimed in, leaning against the counter. “People like him are all talk. He probably realized you weren’t interested and gave up.”

You nodded slowly, still feeling a vague unease. “I guess. Well, good riddance.”

Caleb and Zayne shared a brief glance behind your back, the unspoken agreement between them crystal clear. Marcus was no longer a threat.

A week later, Caleb handed you a plate of food while Zayne adjusted the cooling system for your new project.

“Thanks” you said with a smile, taking the plate. “You two have been unusually cooperative lately. Should I be worried?”

“Cooperative?” Caleb grinned. “We’re just that good.”

Zayne gave a small shrug, his lips curving into a rare smile. “Sometimes, we have the same priorities.”

You tilted your head, sensing an undertone you couldn’t quite place. But whatever it was, you trusted them. After all, they’d proven time and again that they would do anything to protect you—even if you didn’t always know the lengths they’d go to.

As you turned back to your work, Caleb and Zayne exchanged a small, knowing smirk. They didn’t need your gratitude. Keeping you safe was reward enough.

----- Bonus: The Great Dinner Standoff It had been a long day of work, and you were looking forward to a relaxing dinner. Caleb had volunteered to cook, which usually meant something delicious but overly ambitious. When you entered the dining area, the smell of roasted vegetables filled the air.

Caleb turned from the stove, flashing you a proud grin. “Dinner’s ready. I made roasted carrots with honey glaze, some chicken, and mashed potatoes. Pretty fancy, huh?”

Your mouth watered at the sight of the golden carrots on the table. “It smells amazing. Thanks, Caleb!”

Zayne appeared in the doorway, pausing mid-step as his eyes landed on the carrots. His face immediately darkened. “Carrots? Really?”

Caleb smirked, clearly enjoying Zayne’s reaction. “What’s wrong, Doc? Too sophisticated for your picky palate?”

Zayne ignored him, stepping into the room with a tray of his own. “I made something, too.”

You blinked in surprise. “Wait, you cooked?”

Zayne set the tray on the table, revealing a dish of cilantro-lime rice. “I thought I’d contribute.”

The moment Caleb saw the cilantro, his expression soured. “Cilantro? Seriously?”

Zayne’s lips twitched into a subtle smirk. “Oh, I know. Just thought it would balance out your… overly sweet carrots.”

Caleb glared at him. “You’re sabotaging dinner.”

“Sabotaging?” Zayne asked innocently, taking a seat. “I’m expanding the flavor profile.”

You groaned, sitting down between them. “Can we have one meal without a fight?”

Caleb pointed his fork at Zayne. “Tell him that. He’s the one ruining perfectly good food.”

Zayne calmly spooned some cilantro rice onto his plate. “I could say the same about your poor excuse for a vegetable.”

You sighed, grabbing a little of both dishes and taking a bite. The carrots were sweet and perfectly cooked, and the cilantro rice had a refreshing zest. “Honestly? They’re both great. You two should just appreciate each other’s cooking.”

Caleb muttered something under his breath but started eating, avoiding the rice entirely. Zayne, for his part, made a show of pushing the carrots to the edge of his plate.

By the end of the meal, you couldn’t help but smile. Despite their endless bickering, you knew they both cared in their own strange ways.

[eclipixels]

hello:)) I have no idea if requests are open, if they aren’t you can just ignore this, but if they are: could I ask for headcanons with Yukimiya, Sae and anyone else of your choosing with a lover who plays soccer and is equal of not better than them. thank you smm:)

Blue Lock x Soccer Player!Reader Headcanons

Character: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rin Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Rensuke Kunigami, Kenyu Yukimiya, Sae Itoshi, Ryusei Shidou, Michael Kaiser

Yoichi Isagi

Lowkey lives for the rivalry dynamic in the relationship.

Analyzes your gameplay constantly, half out of admiration, half because he wants to beat you.

Sometimes forgets he's flirting and ends up giving tactical critiques mid-date.

Gets a little pouty if you score more goals than him in practice, but is secretly proud.

“We’re the perfect chemical reaction,” he says, probably after a 2v2 win together.

Meguru Bachira

Absolutely thrives having a partner who can match his unpredictable moves.

Makes up silly names for your special moves “That’s the ‘Heart Snatcher 3000,’ right??”

Always tries to draw you into wild, improvised 1v1s for fun. You call him your 'unmedicated ADHD woodland creature' which he, for some reason, loves.

Gets a bit pouty if you’re training with someone else: “Don’t forget who your favorite monster is.”

If you nutmeg him, he’ll smile like you just proposed.

Hyoma Chigiri

Always ties lets you tie his hair up before matches. It's like a ritual.

There's mutual teasing about who's faster or more graceful on the ball.

He loves racing you during sprints and secretly times how far ahead or behind he is.

“Don’t go easy on me just ‘cause I’m your boyfriend,” he says, eyes glinting with fire.

Brags about your skills to teammates without realizing it.

Rin Itoshi

Externally cold, internally obsessed with how talented you are.

Doesn’t say 'I’m proud of you,' but shows it by watching your games over and over.

Training turns into full-on warzones when you spar, neither willing to lose.

Only opens up emotionally when you completely wreck him on the field.

If you praise him, he short-circuits a little.

Seishiro Nagi

Pretends not to care when you beat him in training, but texts Reo immediately: “Bro... I think I’m in love fr.”

Complains about how eccentric you always are but secretly loves how it keeps him on his toes. 

Likes when you ask him to “teach” you new moves because it means getting close physically.

Takes naps with his head in your lap post-match like it’s his reward.

Lets you wear his jersey after games, even though he complains you look better in it than he does.

Reo Mikage

Custom orders matching cleats in your favorite color. Limited edition couple type shit.

Turns your training sessions into tooth rottingly sweet fluffy flirting.

Says things like, “One day, we’ll own a training facility together. Our future kids are gonna be cracked.”

Insanely supportive, always brags to his parents who adore you.

Was super excited when you got into soccer with him when he first wanted to try it out.

Rensuke Kunigami

Big golden retriever energy when you play better than him. Proud, impressed, a little jealous.

Brings protein shakes and wraps up snacks for you like the doting boyfriend he is. 

Makes a point to protect you during rough games, even if you can clearly hold your own.

“You’re incredible,” he says like he’s in awe every single time.

The kind of boyfriend who cheers the loudest at your matches.

Kenyu Yukimiya

Photographs your best moments and keeps them like trophies.

Takes inspiration from your plays for his own aesthetic on the field.

Loves talking tactics and style with you, deep convos over coffee and drills.

Slightly vain when you outperform him, but only because it lights a fire under him.

“We’re the beautiful game,” he probably says unironically. You tease him for being so cheesy.

Sae Itoshi

Finds it thrilling, though he rarely shows it.

Gives you genuine compliments  during intense training, “That was good. Do it again.”

Drawn to the challenge and unpredictability of loving someone as driven as him.

If you beat him, he’s grumpy but secretly enjoys it.

Drops sharp, flirty compliments mid-game “If you score like that again, I’m gonna marry you.”

Ryusei Shidou

Falls harder the worse you beat him. “Ugh... I hate you... wanna make out?”

Turns every training into a screaming, chaotic love-fight.

The type to yell, “MARRY ME!” mid-play if you body him on the field.

Loves being dominated by your skill and calls it hot every time.

Gets possessive if anyone else tries to train with you. “Back off, that beast is mine.”

Michael Kaiser

Initially cocky—“No one’s better than me”—until you outplay him once. And then it’s obsession.

Competitive flirting,“Beat me, and I’ll take you on a date. Beat me again, and I’ll make it a weekend.”

Competitive banter is your love language: “You can’t outshine the king.” / “Watch me.”

Posts couple photos post-match with obnoxious captions like “My rival, my royalty.”

“You're the only one who makes this game feel like war and love at the same time.”