#divider by @firefly-graphics

[comphy-and-cozy]

Fourth Down Conversion - Brady Skjei

Pairing: NFL!Brady Skjei x cheerleader!Reader (f)

Summary: On the sidelines underneath bright stadium lights, a spark flickers between Tennessee Titans star quarterback, Brady Skjei, and you, a cheerleader for the team.

Word Count: 4.7K

Author's Note: Written for @jxmieoleksiaks for @wyattjohnston's Winter Fic Exchange! Hope you enjoy this dive into this AU with everyone's favorite All-American quarterback! Inspired by @smileysvech's NFL Brady moodboard.

Warnings: Mature content (semi-public blowjob), alcohol use, persistent man pursuing a woman, maybe a little too much world building. The standard sexism/sexualization of women that comes with professional cheerleading, etc.

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Brady Skjei has everything: Money, fame, talent, devastating good looks. As the star quarterback for the Tennessee Titans, it’s safe to say that he is a man that women want to be with and who other men want to be. Since having a record-setting college career culminating in a National Championship title and a Heisman trophy, he’s continued to excel in the NFL: 2 MVPs and one Super Bowl ring to his name, with the expectation of more to come in the coming years.

His 6-bedroom mansion in Belle Meade is decadent. Luxury marble countertops, a fully stocked wine cellar, and a home cinema satisfy his extravagant lifestyle, known for hosting excellent celebration parties. He’s got a team the size of a small youth soccer team that services his house, cooks his meals, and keeps him in top physical shape in his state-of-the-art basement gym. In essence, his life is pretty close to perfect.

But he doesn’t have a girl.

And not for lack of options—being Brady Skjei certainly has its perks. With Instagram models fawning over themselves, desperate for a chance to be his arm candy for even just a night, he merely has to flash his ovary-bursting smile to win women over. He’s had rumored (but never confirmed) flings with no less than two top tier celebrities, the gossip columns frequently spotlighting the handsome quarterback, his face plastered across glossy magazine covers in grocery stores. 

But the truth is, because of his travel schedule and lifestyle, it’s hard for him to casually date. And even if he could, half of the girls in his dating pool only want him for clout. At first, it was nice, even fun, to have his pick of virtually any girl he wanted. But after a few years of it all, he’s started to grow bored of the same desperate, too-eager act. He doesn’t really have the energy or the time to distinguish between the authentic ones and the ones seeking five minutes of fame, so it’s easier to stay single-adjacent, earning himself the unofficial title of playboy millionaire. 

The upcoming season will be Brady’s second in Nashville, his seventh in the league, and all eyes are on the Titans, expected to challenge for a title in the postseason. His first season in Nashville, the team made a playoff run for the first time in nearly ten years. There’s a buzz in the city, his name becoming synonymous with something akin to the savior of the state of Tennessee sports.

For you, a three-year veteran on the Titans Cheerleading team, it means tighter expectations, smaller margins of error, and an increased demand for perfection. You’re fortunate to have a remote job that affords you a flexible schedule, allowing you to spend extra time at the studio practicing or at the gym training. It’s exhausting, albeit exciting.

You’ve chatted with Brady a few times, but only surface-level, having seen each other around the Titans’ practice facility from time to time. Enough for you to be somewhat comfortable in his presence, but never enough for you to expect him to remember—or even know—your name, let alone approach you and say hello.

But here he is all the same, greeting you as you sit cross-legged on the ground, your small sewing kit beside you. He frowns at the sight of you sewing in additional padding around the inner hem of your sequined uniform. “What are you doing?”

You tie off the last thread and flip the top right side out to inspect it and ensure there are no visible signs of your doctoring. “I have to add in padding because the sequins cut into my sides.”

“They cut you?”

“Sometimes it makes me bleed on a bad day.”

Brady’s eyebrows crease. “Your uniforms aren’t made in a way that won’t hurt you?”

“The uniforms are made for male entertainment,” you say with a matter-of-fact shrug. It’s true—you’re more than aware of the fact that being under the male gaze is part of your life, part of your job. You accepted that fact a long time ago; you might as well take advantage of your youth and fast metabolism while you can.

“That uniform was made for guys like me.”

It’s a bold statement, one that takes you a moment to recover from. You zip up the case containing your sewing kit and toss it, along with your uniform, back into your bag before you stand and lock eyes with him. If he’s going to be bold, then so are you. “Brady, what are you doing?”

“Wanted to ask you out on a date.” He says it casually, like he had just been walking by when the idea struck his fancy. Like it isn’t completely out of the blue.

Your eyes roll. You watch the way his eyes trail over the Nike Pros you know are just a little too short, gaze traveling down your freshly self-tanned leg. His eyes move back up to meet yours, the dark umber glittering at you along with an expectant smile. 

“Don’t you think it’s a little cliche?”

“What is?”

Your eyebrow raises, conscious of the way you kneel—not bend over—to tug your gym bag off the floor. “The cheerleader and the football player?”

A feline smirk crawls its way onto his face. He’s even more handsome with a smile. “It’s a classic.”

“Goodbye, Brady.”

You’re in sweatpants on your couch, splitting a bottle of wine with two of your teammates. Love Island is playing on the television when your phone buzzes beside you. The red alert notifying you of a new Instagram message has you swiping to read it, the blue checkmark catching your attention.

[bradyskjei:] Call me when you’re ready to take a chance. 555-890-4392.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the way your pulse thumps a little quicker in your throat. It’s no longer just a passing fancy, akin to an intrusive thought that takes over; he’d taken the time to look up your Instagram and send you a message to reaffirm his interest. The thought makes you shiver.

Not only is it quite literally written in your contract, but it goes against your moral compass to entertain the thought, the boundary of not sleeping with your colleagues a firm one for you. He isn’t really a colleague, you tell yourself, not technically, anyway. Either way, it’s a little taboo, and the idea of sneaking around tempts your daring side.

But he also scares you. Not just because of his celebrity, though the idea of being in that level of spotlight is intimidating, too. His reputation isn’t anything you’re interested in; you don’t want to get involved with gossip columns and celebrity drama. It’s also his larger-than-life persona, his lifestyle so much bigger than anything—or anyone—you know.

But you can’t deny that you’re attracted to him.

You don’t reply, assuming that he’s got much more important things to do than check if you’ve seen his DM. But another hour goes by and you see another message.

[bradyskjei:] left on read? ouch.

Part of you is annoyed by the double text, the insistence despite your clear lack of interest—men—but another part of you recognizes his persistence as his way of showing you he really is interested. You’re sure he’s never been told ‘no,’ but there’s something about him that doesn’t make you turn away in disgust. He could have his pick of any girl he wants, and yet here he is, spending his time messaging you and noticing that you’ve read it and not responded.

Your response is simple: “I’m not interested in being a play thing.”

[bradyskjei:] What if I’m not interested in having a play thing?

Admittedly, your curiosity does ring—what does that mean? You stare at the screen, at the electronic keyboard, searching for something to say. Nothing comes, and you decide that no reply is a reply in itself.

Week 9 of the Titans’ schedule is a home game and it’s against the Ravens, one of two other opponents who remain undefeated. There’s an air in the city, a palpable, infectious energy, that’s seeped into every building, street, and stoplight. Having your life revolve around the team, feeding off of their success and contributing to the atmosphere in the stadium, it’s hard not to let that contagious excitement flutter in your chest. You’re a genuine Titans fan, rooting for the success of the team.

So when Brady throws a career-high 4 touchdowns, you find yourself leaping in the air beside your teammates as the whistle is blown and the field is flooded by reporters and players converging in the middle to shake hands. It’s been weeks since he last tried to pursue you, but at the moment, you’re just like every other Nashville resident, and you’re ecstatic that the best football player in the world is on your team.

By the time you’re done packing up your things in the cheerleaders’ locker room, your heart rate has returned to normal. Slipping on an oversized sweatshirt, you sling your Adidas bag over your shoulder and bid goodbye to the few girls left in the room. Brady Skjei is on your mind as you walk out into the lobby, that handsome, heart-melting smile like a fucking teenage heartthrob.

Which is why your heart does a triple flip when you see him walking down the opposite hallway. He turns his head at the sound of your footsteps, a grin breaking out onto his face when he realizes it’s you. “Guess it really is my lucky night.”

Your smile is coy, but you can’t fight the real smile that blooms at the way he beams. There’s a light in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, adrenaline still coursing through his veins from his exhilarating night. “Congratulations, Brady. It was a hell of a game.”

“Thank you,” he says. You like the way he says it, like he’s so genuinely grateful for your compliment. It surprises you, the peek into the real him, the one that’s beneath the big grins and Nike commercials. “Heading home?”

You nod. 

There’s a brief air of hesitation, gone so quick you thought you imagined it. Then he asks, “Would you like to get a drink with me?”

“You want me to go out in downtown Nashville, in the city where you just had a huge milestone game and your name is the only thing everyone’s talking about?” You can’t help the incredulous tone of your voice or the pointed look you give him.

He smiles, letting the indirect accolades roll off as if they don’t mean anything to him. Maybe they don’t. “Does that mean you’d be talking about me too?”

You ignore his chide. A vision of flashing cameras, trending hashtags, and an inbox full of hate messages from jealous Instagram models passes through your mind, a dread filling your gut. You’re not ready for that. Not for a few hours with a man you barely know.

“I’m really not in for a crowd,” you say, turning to walk away. It’s the truth, but part of you—you’re really not sure which—wonders if you shouldn’t have rejected his advances. What if you did have a connection? 

You only get to take one step before he’s calling after you again.

“What do I have to do to get you to give me a chance?”

You pause, thinking. Then you turn and smile. “Win a Super Bowl. Then we’ll talk.”

The celebrations are legendary. Navy and light blue confetti flies in the air, the roar of the crowd near deafening; later, champagne and beer flow in excess and the music pumps loud through the speakers in the dark, packed bar. Despite the typical order against fraternizing, you and your teammates are earnestly invited to the afterparty. We just won the Super Bowl, they say, no one can touch us.

Brady is preoccupied all night, constantly surrounded by teammates, friends, family, and beautiful girls. If he remembers your unofficial promise, or intends to act on it, he doesn’t show it; you don’t even get the chance to talk to him amidst the celebration. You don’t hear from him at all, so you assume your lack of interest has caused his own to dwindle, writing you off as a lost cause and moving on to the next target.

About a week after the Super Bowl, you’re at the stadium clearing out your locker in the dressing room. The deep, familiar voice comes from behind you.

“I won the Super Bowl.”

When you turn around, Brady Skjei, Super Bowl MVP is standing in the open doorway. He’s sporting joggers and an expensive-looking sweatshirt, and you wonder what he’s doing at the stadium.

“You did,” you say, not trying to hide the grin that grows on your face. “Congratulations, Brady. You—you’re… really special to watch.”

He looks surprised at your genuine compliment, and he blinks. “Thank you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?”

His smirk is wicked, eyes flicking down to your leggings. “What if I want to celebrate with you?”

God damn, is he smooth. Against your own will, you feel your heart pulse a little bit faster. “Me, huh?”

“Who wouldn’t want to celebrate with the prettiest girl in Nashville?” 

“Laying it on pretty thick, aren’t you, Skjei?”

“Just telling the truth,” he says with a wink; you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Then, “How do you like dive bars?”

Pausing, you allow your eyebrows to raise before looking back at him. “All that pining and now you’re okay with our first date being at a dive bar?”

“Who said anything about a date?” he says, winking, then grinning at the expression on your face.

Twenty minutes later, you’re stepping hesitantly out of his truck (that costs more money than you have in your savings account) and walking through the door he opens for you. Your self-preservation radar is blinking as you take in the seedy bar, but Brady’s large, looming presence at your back comforts you. The bar isn’t empty, but it is definitely a dive: dim lighting, a neon Miller Light sign on the wall right beside the ‘Cash Only’ sign written in sharpie, and well-worn barstools create a dingy ambience. The bartender doesn’t look up at the opening of the door, but he does nod in familiarity when Brady approaches the bar. You wonder how in the world he knows about this place. 

From the booth you settled in, you watch the two exchange a few words before the bartender sets off to grab the two Bud Lights that he hands him. Back across from you, he slides one bottle across the table at you. He offers the lip of his bottle in a silent toast, which you clink yours against before you take a drink.

“Not so bad, huh?”

“How do you even know about this place?” you laugh incredulously. 

“Been coming here since I moved here,” he explains. “Tom—the owner—was one of the few people who didn’t treat me like this huge elephant in the room. It was the only place I could be just… Brady.”

You cast your eyes down, gaze tracing over the initials carved into the wood of the table. You were guilty of doing exactly what he said; making him into someone larger than he is, letting the weight of his name make your decisions about him before even giving him a chance. 

“It comes with the territory,” he says, like he can sense your guilt. “Everyone does it.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, I am the savior of Nashville sports,” he says with a cheeky grin, and just like that, any discomfort has dissipated, clearing the air in an instant. Then he asks, “How long have you lived in Nashville?”

At first, you hesitate, debating with yourself how much of yourself you want to reveal to him. You look into his eyes, trying to determine how interested he really is. They glitter as he looks at you, that handsome, all-American charm radiating over his features. But beneath that, you see sincerity, almost a pleading look—maybe for you to just give him a tiny bit of leeway. 

“Four years. I’ve been on the cheer team for three,” you ultimately say. 

“Dancer?”

Your eyes narrow. True, it isn’t far-fetched to know that the majority of professional cheerleaders have a background and training in dance, but you’re suspicious of how he knows it. Does he know because he’s been around them since being thrust into the world of the NFL, or did he have a more intimate knowledge?

“My sister’s a cheerleader,” he says with a shrug. You get the strange sense he was reading your thoughts. “And, believe it or not, I am capable of making friends that are female.”

“Can you blame me for my suspicion?” 

Another broad grin. “Only a little.”

Conversation comes easier than you expect. Turns out, you have more in common than you thought, and in addition to being handsome and talented and successful, he’s also got funny on his resume. He tells you about his sister, his dogs, and how he typically spends his offseasons. The longer he talks, the more you realize he really is just a normal guy beneath a public persona and 8.1M Instagram followers. 

Bit by bit, he breaks down the brick wall you’ve constructed around yourself, your hesitance around getting to know him evaporating with each laugh that he pulls from your lips. It surprises you how nice it is to see him like this; it makes you feel special that he’s comfortable enough to peel back a few layers with you. You wonder how many people get to see this version of Brady.

And good lord is he handsome. You’ve never really had much of an opportunity to speak with him up close; you never noticed the scar on his chin, the ridge in his nose, or the freckle on his jawline. Sitting across from him, he looks at you like you’re the only person left in the world, not seeming to notice the handful of other patrons in the bar or their lingering stares. 

Being the center of his attention, the subject of his attentive gaze, is intoxicating.

“Man, you are so out of my league,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle, leaning back against the cushion back of the booth. He shakes his head like he knows he’s in trouble. Even in the dim lighting, his cheeks are tinged with pink.

You can’t help the laugh that barks out in response. “You realize who you are, right?”

“I do.”

“And that you’re quite literally in the biggest sports league in the world?”

He nods, that same sincere look in his eyes as before. “I think you’re insanely beautiful. And talented. And funny. Unless you’re a serial killer, you’re the perfect catch.”

The joke creates an easy opportunity for a laugh, but you find your heart fluttering at his words. As much as you’d like to be immune to the weight of a compliment coming from Brady Skjei, it’s easier said than done. Satisfaction and humility bubble up inside you against your will, and you smile and thank him shyly. It isn’t lost on you that it’s exactly what people say about him.

When you told Brady you’d get one drink with him, you really meant it. But even your impenetrable fortress isn’t immune to his charm; three drinks later, you find yourself pressed against the passenger door of Brady’s car while he mouths at your jawline. His lips are hot against your skin, heating radiating through your body while they trail fire over your neck. A soft moan escapes your lips—it feels so fucking good, so good that you can barely even bring yourself to care that you’re in the middle of the parking lot getting felt up by NFL superstar Brady Skjei.

Your hand clutches onto his bicep, another gasp escaping when his teeth sink gently into your skin. His tongue caresses the sting, finding a tandem that earns another rush of pleasure down your spine. The space between your legs is hot in your leggings, your center seeking out his firm leg; you feel the smirk against your neck before he nudges his knee between your thighs.

His groan rumbles against you when your hips begin to grind yourself against him, creating the friction you desperately need. Soon enough, you’re whimpering shamelessly with his large hand—the one that throws the football—groping at the flesh of your ass to guide you along.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against your lips. “Lemme see you.”

The heat formulates in you faster than you expect, exploding at the apex of your thighs as you cry out. Almost immediately, his hand claps over your mouth to cover the sound, an amused laugh on his face at what he’s done to you, unable to control your own scream. His breathing is almost as heavy as yours when he curses in your ear. “Fuck, baby.”

Your lips are damp from where they were locked with his, feeling slightly swollen as you smile at him when he pulls away, opening the door for you and offering his hand to help you inside the car. “I’ll take you back.”

When he settles back into the driver’s seat, he turns to look at you with a smile before he puts his seatbelt on. Maybe it’s the beer or maybe it’s the fire he lit inside of you, but something makes your hand reach out to stop him, instead leaning over the center console to kiss him hotly. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, accepting your kiss eagerly and allowing you to brush your hand over his thigh. At first, it lingers on the inside just above his knee, but the return of his tongue to your mouth encourages it to draw higher.

Brady’s breath hitches in his throat when your palm comes up to press against the firm bulge beneath his zipper. You like knowing you have an effect on him, like the way he releases a sigh when you apply a little pressure and squeeze him. 

“Can I?” Your question is a purr in his ear, fingers toying with the waistband of his joggers.

“You want to get your hands on me before I get to touch you? That’s criminal,” he says.

“Guess you gotta work harder than that,” you tease, liking the power you have over him when his dick is in your hand. 

His response is simply a groan, followed by a conceding nod, lifting his hips to help you shimmy his joggers down his legs. It’s a bit cramped in the car, but all you’re focused on is the sizable erection that springs free. Headlights turn on in the parking lot, illuminating the road beside you, and you keep a normal expression even as your hand wraps around his length—you’d almost forgotten that someone could very realistically catch you here, in the act. 

He’s warm, soft skin over the very hard appendage. Your fist begins to stroke, earning a lower groan from him. Glancing over, you smile at the way his eyes close; it amuses you that Brady Skjei, one of America’s most eligible bachelors, is falling apart over a handjob in a dive bar parking lot. 

When you lower your mouth to his tip, allowing your lips to ever so gently brush the head, you look up at him in another silent question.

Brady practically whines. “Now you get to taste me before I get to even touch you?”

“You already tasted my lips,” you say, fully aware of the innuendo. His answering grumble makes your lips curl up on your face. 

His tip is warm, soft against your lips, a dribble of precum leaking out that you catch with your tongue. He’s firm in your mouth, and you find yourself pleased at the physical evidence of his attraction to you. The guttural sound that leaves his throat is motivation to take him further, working your lips around his length.

Nothing about sucking Super Bowl Champion Brady Skjei’s dick in the parking lot of a seedy dive bar is normal, or even remotely how you anticipated your evening would go. But now that you’re here, something inside of you is determined to see it through—if he wants to be a simp, you’re going to give him a reason to be a simp.

Unlike most other men, he has a body part that’s more prized than his penis, but you’re willing to bet that it’s a close second on the list. So you worship him, giving each inch the attention it deserves. Judging by the white knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel, his other hand tangled in your hair to keep it out of your way, you’re confident he approves of your performance.

He grunts out a warning before he finishes, and afterwards, he opens the glove box to fish out a handful of fast food napkins—celebrities, they’re just like us!—and offers you one to help clean up your mouth. “I think I’m in love. D’you want to get married?”

You laugh. “I have to say, a marriage proposal is quite the endorsement.”

“I have a lot to endorse,” he says. “God, you’re perfect.”

Brady drives you back to your car at the arena, one of three vehicles left in the staff parking garage—perhaps the cleaning crew, given how late it is—and he looks at you when he puts the car in park beside yours. “You gonna give me your number this time?”

“I have your number,” you say with a smile. You’re not sure what the last little bit of resistance left in you—you just sucked the guy’s dick in a dive bar parking lot, for Christ’s sake—but it’s what takes the driver’s seat and puts up one last layer of defense.

He smiles back, unbothered by your antics. “I’d like to see you again.” “I’m sure you would,” you reply with a smile, casting a glance down at his lap and earning a chuckle from him. 

“I’m serious. A date. Nothing physical. I have to prove to you that it’s not all about that for me.”

You hesitate. “A drink is very different from a date. I could get kicked off the team—”

“I can be discreet.”

“I don’t know, Brady. The consequences are much steeper for me than for you if this goes sideways.”

Brady grimaces—he hadn’t thought of it like that. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to conjure a magic solution out of thin air. Then he announces, “I’ll take the blame.”

“I’m not sure it works that way,” you say with a sad smile. 

“I won them a Super Bowl. I’m pretty much untouchable,” he continues, and he says it without an ounce of ego behind his words. “Breaking the tiny rule of pursuing a beautiful girl—which there is evidence of, by the way—won’t even be a scratch on my record.”

You consider his words. He had a point. Brady Skjei is untouchable in Nashville, and you do have the evidence proving his interest long before you ever agreed to see him outside of Titans-sanctioned events. Would it actually do anything to save you should things go sideways? You aren’t sure, but you think it has to count for something. 

There’s also the fact that beneath the surface, through your interactions with him, you’ve found he’s kind, funny, and caring. He’s exceeded all expectations, so much so that he had you humping his leg after just a couple of beers. You feel a flutter between your legs at the thought of what he might have you doing after a real date. 

You hate to admit that you’re really intrigued at what a date with Brady Skjei would look like. How it would feel to spend time with him that has a label, an intention. If it’s anything like tonight—simple and fun and easy—it’d be wonderful. Though you’ve tried to ignore it, there’s something there, the hint of a spark. You can’t deny your curiosity to see if it fizzles or flames. 

“Just one date?” you ask, and the grin that forms on his face is wider than the one he had after he won his second Super Bowl ring. 

“That’s all I need.”

[mrprettywhenhecries]

𝑨 𝑻𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒏–𝑳𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒔 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠

Despite the demons in their pasts, Gator and Win both find themselves missing certain holiday traditions, and for their first real Christmas together, they decide to recreate them and make better memories in the process.

Gator Tillman ✗ Win Lewis

❄︎ 𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓈 𝒞ℴℴ𝓀𝒾ℯ𝓈 Win laments that she wishes she had her mom’s Christmas sugar cookie recipe, but refuses to call her dad to get it, so Gator takes it on himself to do so, surprising her.

❄︎ 𝒪, 𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓈 𝒯𝓇ℯℯ Gator finds out that Win’s never had a real tree before and insists they pick one out together, taking her on an adventure to cut one down.

❄︎ 𝒮𝓃ℴ𝓌𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓁 ℱ𝒾ℊ𝒽𝓉* A day out in the snow leads to warming up together afterwards.

❄︎ 𝒢𝒾𝒻𝓉 𝒲𝓇𝒶𝓅* Appalled by his lack of wrapping skills, Win helps Gator wrap his gifts to the Lyons, and then lets him unwrap an early Christmas gift. 

[ *denotes smut ]

[kingkaisen]

DOCTOR, DOCTOR!

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Being a surgeon is hard enough, but dealing with attractive men who can’t seem to get enough of their pretty doctor? Well . . .

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || MINORS DNI — multi! jjk x surgeon! reader (separate) ft. sukuna, choso, gojo, nanami, toji, & geto, very tiny amounts of smut, mainly just suggestive, fluff, some angst, modern au, mentions of injuries and blood.

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I don’t know much about the medical field, so there will be some inaccuracies!

⚕️ — 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

“There is no reason whatsoever as to why my surgical patients have to suffer due to your incompetence. They’re post-op. Post-op. These people have been freshly cut open, and they need enough medicine to manage their pain.” You strode down the brightly-lid hospital hallway. The two nurses at the receiving end of your anger struggled to keep up with your quick pace. “After I visit with Mr. Sukuna, I’ll be stopping by Mrs. Mura’s room, and that poor woman better not be in tears again from a lack of quality care when I get there.”

“Y-Yes, doctor.” The nurses nodded. They scurried off as you stopped outside an oak-colored wooden door.

You knocked twice before opening it, entering Sukuna’s hospital room with a fake smile to disguise your anger.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sukuna.” Approaching the man propped up in his bed, you folded your arms across your chest, and he smirked up at you.

Briefly, you turned to face the slumped-over inmate guard dozing off in a recliner chair in the corner of the room.

“Sir? Would you mind stepping out for a moment?”

The guard snapped awake at the sound of your voice, nodded, and yawned, rising to his feet as he dragged himself out of Sukuna’s hospital room. After all, the prisoner was chained to his hospital bed, so it would be perfectly fine for him to waste some spare change visiting a few vending machines for a couple of snacks, right?

“How are you feeling?” You asked Sukuna once you both found yourselves alone.

“Drop the act,” Sukuna paused. He grabbed his white remote and muted the television displaying old reruns of boring game shows. “Tell me what’s got you upset.”

“Something that is much too inappropriate for me to discuss with a patient.” You let your face fall into a frown.

“Even your favorite one?”

“My favorite?” You raised your eyebrows, smiling softly as you pressed a button on the side rails of Sukuna’s bed, lowering him just a bit. “You and your ego.”

“I’m just sayin’, if you’ve got a problem with someone, y’know I’ll take care of it for you.”

You leaned over Sukuna, shining your pen light into one of his eyes. “See? Comments like that are exactly why your left wrist is handcuffed to your bed.”

“Relax, I’m just messin’ around,” he gave you a sly smile.

You pulled away from him briefly. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not,” Sukuna’s eyes slowly trailed over your body, taking in the sight of you from head to toe. “Just say the word, pretty girl.”

“First of all,” you paused, your voice stern, though you could hardly fight off the strong urge to smile. “Drop the nicknames already. Second of all, how are you supposed to take care of my problems while you’re cuffed, under constant supervision, and healing from an arm fracture? A complicated and complex one at that. I was operating on you for quite some time. I’m guessing your violent behavior led to it.”

Hunger lingered in Sukuna’s gaze. He had no appetite for the bland, half-eaten hospital food getting old and stale on a discarded tray on the other side of his bed.

No.

He was starving for the gorgeous surgeon in front of him right now. And after having all the time in the world to lie around and think, think, think, it dawned on him that, perhaps, his growing affection wasn’t one-sided.

“A complicated surgery your excuse for not discharging me already? I think someone likes having me around.” The tip of Sukuna’s tongue darted out briefly as he licked his bottom lip. You turned your head away from his piercing stare, suddenly overcome with shyness.

“Don’t get all embarrassed now,” Sukuna teased.

It was rather odd. Lying to patients — or, as you preferred to think of it, temporarily withholding the truth for their own benefit — was a skill all doctors had to learn. By now, you had considered yourself a master at doing so.

Until it came to Ryomen Sukuna.

Oh, he could see right through you . . . could destroy your detached, professional, tough attitude that one needs to have to survive the medical field and reduce you into nothing more than a shy girl with a crush. A crush on her own damn patient.

“You know what? After I finish examining you, I’m gonna work on getting you discharged first thing tomorrow,” you said, leaning over him yet again. Your penlight shined into his other eye.

Sukuna’s gentle breath patted against your face as he mumbled, “constantly examining my eyes even though my arm was the problem. You’re looking for any reason to get close to me, doc.”

The bright light seized with the click of your thumb. Though your eye exam was done, you hadn’t yet pulled away from him.

“I’m just doing my job. You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be, which is why I can’t support the decision to discharge you just yet,” you said.

“You think I believe that? Let me show you how well my arm’s healing up.” Sukuna’s injured arm was in a cast, but he wouldn’t let that hold him back. One second, you were leaning over Sukuna, and the next, he was grabbing your leg and pulling you over his lap, making you straddle him.

“I can toss you around just fine. But I’ll let you keep up with your little act,” Sukuna gripped the collar of your white coat. “After my eyes, you always examine my mouth, right? Tell me what you think, doc.”

With the hunger of a starving man, he connected your lips. A little gasp of surprise escaped from you. Sukuna was quick to use that opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth and swirling it around yours. Your breath was minty — he could taste it. If he wasn’t currently swallowing your soft moans while moving his mouth against yours, he would have teased you over freshening your breath before coming to visit him.

You broke the kiss a while later due to a lack of air. Damn your lungs. They felt as if they were on fire by the time Sukuna leaned back, a sly smirk on his face.

“Examination go well?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“It’s . . . um, just as I thought.” You stammered, pausing to breathe. “You’re displaying certain symptoms that have me concerned. We might need to keep you here for an extra day or two.”

Sukuna smirked yet again. Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “If you wanna keep me here, you better take those scrubs off right now.”

“But we could get caught-”

“Just shut up and come sit on my face.”

⚕️ — 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎

On what was a late Wednesday afternoon, you tossed your empty cup of coffee into a nearby garbage can. The next surgery on your chaotic schedule was meant to be a simple procedure done on a young man’s knee, and according to his pre-op lab work, his vitals were just fine. Ideal blood pressure. Quite healthy. No behavioral issues.

So far, so good . . .

Until you walked into his hospital room.

It is rather expected for surgeons to introduce themselves to their patients before an operation, which is why you entered Choso’s dark room to begin with and flipped on the lights.

But, when the unfamiliar man’s dark brown eyes landed on you, they widened. His cheeks and ears darkened to a pinkish shade of red, and he began to cough. The ice water he was sipping on nearly spewed from between his lips.

You rushed over worriedly, yet calmly.

“Keep coughing, don’t hold the water in or you’ll continue to choke.” With one hand, you grabbed the plastic cup on his overbed table, holding it to his mouth. With the other, you eased him forward, ready to give his back a couple of blows if necessary, but rubbing it soothingly in the meantime.

Eventually, his light choking session came to an end after he spat the water out, and no drastic measures were needed.

However, his skin hadn’t returned to its previous pale shade. His cheeks and ears were much too red for your liking.

After a brief introduction and overview of the operation — all talking on your part, not a word from him — you gave him a serious glance.

“Would it be alright for me to check your vitals myself? I know your nurse already did so, but you still seem a little flushed. I’m sure it’s from the little choking mishap, but I would still like to double-check.”

He nodded, avoiding your gaze and staring only at the white blanket draped over him. You removed the stethoscope from around your neck.

A quiet or shy patient was nothing usual. Beyond that, he was probably embarrassed about what happened, along with the general anxiety that builds up within most people at the idea of having surgery.

Therefore, you spoke as softly as you could, pressing the cool, circular end of the stethoscope against his chest.

“Take a deep breath for me,” you said.

You checked a few different areas before pulling away from him, hanging your stethoscope underneath the collar of your white coat.

“You have a rapid heartbeat. Is this a regular occurrence?”

“No.”

His heart rate should have calmed down by now had it been related to the water incident, you thought.

“Well, I’d like to check it again in a couple of minutes. We might have to consider scheduling you for an ECG if nothing changes. Have you experienced any palpitations, dizziness, or shortness of breath?”

Choso looked off to the side at nothing in particular.

“Only . . . right now,” he mumbled.

“Oh, I see,” you smiled gently, though he couldn’t see it. You were certain he’d stare directly into the sun just to avoid looking you in the eye. “Nervous around doctors, I understand.”

“I’m not usually nervous around doctors,” Choso fiddled with his folded fingers resting in his lap. He scratched one thumb with the other, breathing unsteadily.

You hid your confusion and concern behind an expressionless face, one as blank as a new canvas.

Tightening the blood pressure cuff around his muscular arm was your next move, one made in a thick awkward silence. The fact that he was in seemingly great shape only worsened your worry.

After all, those who exercised regularly were known to have a resting heart rate lower than the average person. Not higher.

You weren’t a fool.

From the very moment you took your first pre-med undergraduate course, you were taught time and time again that even those who took exceptional care of themselves could become victims of several illnesses. You’ve witnessed it yourself. Seen or performed tumor removals, cracked open chests, or sliced into the stomachs of countless amount of people who seemed healthy. Or tried their hardest to be that way.

Was that the case now? Was this seemingly healthy guy unknowingly suffering from some sort of heart condition?

Those were the questions running through your mind when the screen monitoring his blood pressure blinked red. The cuff released a puff of air as it stopped squeezing his bicep.

“Elevated blood pressure,” you said.

Removing the cuff, you darted your eyes down to his face.

“You shouldn’t be concerned. I’m fine,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t need any tests. I’m just nervous. Not because of the surgery or because you’re a doctor, but you’re . . . pretty.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Reaching down, you gave his fidgeting hand a reassuring squeeze.

Being that his vitals appeared normal when being checked by someone else, then perhaps, he was telling the truth.

“Thank you,” you pulled your hand away. “Just to be safe and test your theory, I’ll have you sit here for a few minutes, and I’ll send a nurse back in to recheck everything one last time. If it all looks good, no ECG. How does that sound?”

For the first time since your arrival, Choso’s chocolate brown eyes met yours.

“That won’t work,” he mumbled. “Even if you bring in someone who isn’t you, I will still be thinking of you in a few minutes, so my heart rate and blood pressure will still be high. I’m sorry.”

⚕️ — 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

Seeing Satoru Gojo among your scheduled appointments for the day was a certainty, just as the sun would rise in the morning and the moon would shine at night.

His operation was quite a while ago. It was a smooth surgery, and yet, here he was, sitting in the waiting room of the tall, fancy building with your name on the outside — you had established your very own private practice.

Despite being a surgeon on the younger side, you had accomplished what most surgeons wouldn’t dare to dream of accomplishing until their late 40s, if they could accomplish your level of success at all.

You had a wall full of framed degrees. Certificates. Awards. And it certainly wasn’t easy, from the accelerated programs and sleepless nights to being disrespected by your older male colleagues. You couldn’t count the number of times someone had mistook you for a nurse, even as you wore your white coat. There were even patients who refused your care in preference for your less-accomplished, less-skilled, male fellow doctors.

Despite the trials and tribulations, your hard work paid off, thank goodness.

That was why you groaned with annoyance upon discovering that Satoru Gojo was among your list of patients, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

Because, damn it all, you wouldn’t ruin your remarkable career and reputation by falling for a patient . . . especially because he refused to stop being your patient.

— ⚕️—

“You again?” You stepped into the examination room, eyeing the white-haired man.

“Did you miss me?” Satoru grinned.

“You’re never gone long enough for me to miss you,” shutting the door behind you, trying your hardest to conceal your emotions, you asked, “What seems to be the problem now, Mr. Gojo?”

“Ya know,” Satoru paused. He slumped back in his seat. “I never understood why I have to tell the nurse all of my issues just to have to repeat it all again when you come in.”

“Considering how much you enjoy talking, I didn’t think you’d have a problem with that.”

“I’d rather just talk to you.” His goofy smile widened. “Anyway, I’ve been dealing with some stomach pain, and my incisions feel all sore.”

“You mean the incisions that healed up very nicely several months ago?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “And regarding your stomach pain . . . you booked an appointment with me instead of the gastroenterologist I referred you to because?”

“‘Cause you were the one who performed my surgery, unless I’m crazy and remembering stuff wrong.”

Satoru rose from his seat, heading for the examination table without you having to tell him. He knew every move you were going to make. After all — after many pointless visits because, apparently, these appointments were the closest he could get to going on a date with you — he knew the routine like the back of his hand.

You approached him. It was difficult to find the courage to look him in the eye — god, that lovesick gaze of his always made your heart skip a beat — but you stared at him sternly regardless, hoping he would take your words seriously . . . though, truly, you didn’t want him to.

“Satoru, this many follow-up appointments almost a year later aren’t-”

“What are the rules against a doctor dating a patient?”

Your eyes widened.

Your heart didn’t skip a beat. It skipped several.

You were certain it was going to give out, that you would go from being a doctor to being a patient.

He was being serious. There was no hint of playfulness behind his tone. Satoru’s love-filled gaze darted from your eyes, down to your lips, and back up to your eyes again.

“Mr. Gojo, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that just now,” you cleared your throat, taking a step back, breaking eye contact with him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” He asked with false innocence.

His long finger was suddenly hooked around the belt loop of your pants. He pulled you closer, closing the distance between you both. His soft, gentle breath patted against the skin of your cheek.

“Aw, you can’t even look me in the eye, how cute,” he teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh my goodness, just lay down already,” you mumbled. “Let me take a look at your stomach.”

“Yes ma’am,” Satoru grinned widely. He earned yet another eye roll from you.

You had hoped that officially starting his physical exam would, perhaps, break the building tension between you both. But no.

Your skillful hands were inspecting the faint and tiny incisions along his fit body, tracing over his lower abdomen.

“Like what you see?” Satoru said. “Don’t be shy, now. You can go lower than that if you want.”

“Once again, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” You pulled your hands away, and Satoru sat up. “Your incisions look fine, of course. But I will, for the thousandth time, be referring you to a gastroenterologist to run some tests regarding your . . .” you paused, giving him a look of disbelief, “. . . stomach pain.”

“Fineee, I’ll stop coming here,” Satoru said.

“Really?” You raised your eyebrows, but not in excitement. You were skilled in speaking without revealing your true emotions through your tone — years of telling sad families about an unfortunate diagnosis or death or a loved one required that form of expertise — but right now, you couldn’t hide your sadness as you spoke.

“You almost sound disappointed, sweetheart.” Satoru smiled, pushing himself off of the examination table. He started walking towards you, and you didn’t have the courage or desire to step away. “Anyway, I pieced it together just now. If doctors can’t date their patients, then I just can’t be your patient anymore. Is that what it’ll take for me to finally be able to snatch this coat off of you?”

“Mr. Gojo-”

“Or, I could do it right now.” This time, Satoru hooked his fingers around your chin, raising your head until you had no choice but to look him in the eye as he spoke. “What’s wrong? There aren’t any cameras in here out of respect for patient privacy, right?”

“Let me tell you something,” you frowned. “I’m a very hardworking woman who follows the rules. It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears for me to get where I am now, and I won’t . . . I can’t ruin it by . . .”

Satoru’s thumb stroked your cheek as he listened to your words. When you suddenly stopped speaking, he mumbled, “What’s the matter? I’m listening.”

Truth be told, your words trailed off into nothing because the beautiful man before you made a thousand different questions and concerns swirl around in your overworked mind.

There was no denying his sheer lust. It was written all over his face. But there was love within his gaze as well. And though you couldn’t see your own face right now, you knew you were staring back at him with the same amount of love.

“Stop coming here. If you stop being my patient, just as you said, then maybe, we can go on that date in a couple of months.”

Satoru smiled. “Deal. I’m pretty impatient, but I can wait years for you if that’ll make you more comfortable. You should know by now there’s no getting rid of me.”

“I won’t make you wait years. I can be impatient sometimes as well.” You couldn’t help but match his smile with one of your own. “Let’s give it six months.”

“Six months,” Satoru said in agreement.

“Well, if that’s everything,” you started to head towards the door, then suddenly, you halted your footsteps.

You turned around. Rising to the tips of your toes, you planted a soft, quick kiss on Satoru’s cheek. His cheeks and ears couldn’t help but become a deep shade of red as he blushed.

“Six months,” you mumbled.

Satoru’s movements were fast; his lips were on your cheek before you had a chance to turn away.

“God, you’re the cutest,” he said.

Though kissing each other on the cheek was risky — planning to date a former patient in half a year was as well — you couldn’t help but admire your quickened heart rate. There was something quite thrilling about breaking the rules every now and then.

⚕️ — 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

“Wow, I never thought I’d see little Kenny in my hospital.”

A bright smile graced your face as you stepped into the lavish room — though it was a hospital room, it seemed more suitable to view it as a hotel room with additional medical equipment.

“Well, when I decided it was time to schedule my carpal tunnel surgery, I was searching for a surgeon, and I saw your name appear. After I got over my initial surprise, I thought, why not go with my former best friend? Even if she used to be pretty clumsy during our childhood.” He gave you a smile as bright as your own. It occurred to him then, as his cheeks grew sore, that he hadn’t grinned so widely in quite some time.

“C’mere,” you approached his bed, leaning down to hug him and press a gentle kiss upon his cheek. “I’m gonna take great care of you.”

“I know you will. You always have,” the blonde-haired man whispered.

Something small, yet soft was being squished in between you both. He thought it was part of a pillow that had gotten caught in your embrace, but when you pulled away, his eyes darted down to the stuffed, light-brown teddy bear in your arms. It had a red heart in its grasp with cursive white letters that read: Get Well Soon!

“This is only one of the many, many things I plan to buy you from the gift shop,” you handed the stuffed animal to him. He took it, flipping it around in his hands.

God, he hadn’t noticed it when you walked in, so occupied with memorizing every detail of your gorgeous face and how it had changed since he last laid his eyes upon it. Even now, he couldn’t snatch his eyes away from you. The subtle smile pulling at the corners of your soft lips . . . your glistening gaze . . . even your nose was precious to him.

“Someone’s still a little sweetheart I see. Thank you,” he put the stuffed animal down next to him. “I intend to return the favor. I have a lot of missed birthdays and holidays to make up for.”

Kento’s long legs shifted underneath the blanket as he moved them to the side, making enough room for you to sit down on his bed.

“You and me both,” you paused, sitting in the spot he made for you. “I guess I can’t call you little Kenny anymore, can I? My goodness, you’re much taller than me now. When did that happen?”

Your childhood friend let out an airy, brief laugh. His hand scooped up yours. His thumb graced your skin, and he said, “I outgrew you right before we lost contact. I don’t expect you to remember, though. We were already starting to drift apart by the time that happened. But, more importantly, I think I have a more pressing question. When did you decide to become a surgeon? I’m proud of you.”

With a little hum, your eyes darted off to the side. Fighting off the bittersweet memories of growing up with Kento Nanami was an impossible task. What started out as a friendship formed in kindergarten over splitting peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sharing toys so drastically became a forgotten bond by freshman year of high school, when your closeness amounted to nothing more than waving at each other in the hallway.

No more sleepovers. No more snack sharing. No more innocent hand-holding.

From best friends to acquaintances, just like that.

And when circumstances led to your family moving to a different town quite far away, you and Nanami lost contact completely.

From acquaintances to strangers, just like that.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?” Your tone was laced with nostalgic sadness.

Cold air hit your hand when Kento released it — your skin craved his warmth. But the man did not release your hand without reason, as the hand that was formerly holding yours now rested against your soft cheek. He gave it a little stroke with his thumb, then moved your head back in his direction.

He hadn’t seen your eyes in years. He’ll be damned if they dare gaze at anything other than him right now.

“Well, catching up now is as good a time as any. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Talk to me.” Kento moved his hand away from your face. Cold air returned to your skin like an unwelcomed guest. “Are you married? Have any kids? How are your relatives?”

“No, no, I’m . . . I’m much too busy to start a family. Haven’t had much time to check up on anyone else either,” You replied. Your somber demeanor vanished. A heartwarming smile reappeared, and rather playfully, you poked Kento’s chest. “But what of you, sir? How are you these days? I must say I wasn’t very pleased to see such an advanced case of carpal tunnel. You’re too damn young.”

Kento caught the hand you were jabbing him with. His large hand wrapped around yours, and he held it. Warmth.

“Well, I’m a businessman. My job is so taxing, it’s no wonder I ended up with carpal tunnel. But I make good money from it. I’m in the same boat as you, though. Unmarried. No kids.”

“Considering how handsome you turned out to be, I’m assuming it’s voluntary?”

He nodded. “Much like you, I’m just too busy.”

You couldn’t help but glance down at your locked hands. Despite the years upon years that have passed since he last felt your skin, his touch wasn’t foreign. It was all too familiar, almost as if Kento Nanami never left your life to begin with.

“I always thought you would be the person I’d end up marrying.” Your words were soft, barely above a whisper.

“So did I. Our wedding was my favorite thing to daydream about during class.” Kento brought your hand to his lips. His kiss was a gentle one, and the previous warmth that came from his touch transformed into a burning heat running through your veins. If he kept this up, this gentle love, you were certain you’d combust into flames.

“I should leave now,” you mumbled, preparing to get off of his bed, though you hadn’t yet found the courage.

Kento couldn’t help but notice how your eyes wouldn’t meet his as if they found the mopped floor below oh so interesting.

“Look at me.”

It took a while. Much longer than he would have liked. But eventually, you gave in to his demand and your eyes found his, though your glistening gaze was, once again, filled with sadness.

“I know this is the first time we’ve seen each other in a long time and the circumstances aren’t ideal, but you don’t have to mourn our past, because I don’t intend on letting you get away from me again. Do you understand me?”

Your sad eyes widened. “You’re saying-”

“I’m saying I want you back in my life, if that’s okay with you.”

You knew the serious expression on Kento’s face well. He meant every word.

“I assumed we’d go our separate ways once again after this surgery . . . that I probably wouldn’t see you again until you needed a hip replacement in your late sixties,” you couldn’t help but let a single tear fall down your cheek.

A low, brief chuckle came from Kento. He leaned forward. Reaching out, he cupped your cheek, stroking the tear away with his thumb.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Come here.” With the hand that was resting on your cheek, Kento guided your head towards his chest as he leaned back against the hospital bed. Your upper body now rested on top of him. His thumb continued to stroke your wet cheek.

“Forgive me for saying so, but as soon as you walked through that door, I knew I wanted to start daydreaming about marrying you once again.”

“Good,” you smiled. “Because I was thinking the same thing.”

“I won’t get you in trouble for holding you like this, will I?” Kento asked, though he couldn’t think of anything worse than letting you go.

“Don’t stress about it. No matter what anyone says, I run this hospital. I can do what I want. Including this.”

Suddenly, you leaned up to press a kiss on his cheek.

“But I better get going,” you said. “It’s almost time for your surgery.”

You started to rise into a sitting position, but Kento’s large hand cupped the side of your face, halting your movements.

“Wait,” he darted his soft eyes down to your lips. “It’s too soon for this, but I need to do it anyway.”

Kento’s lips met yours in a surprise kiss so loving, so passionate, it took your breath away — there was nothing left except that familiar warmth and the feeling of his lips moving against your own. You truly didn’t know if the kiss lasted five seconds or five minutes because when he pulled away, it still felt like it was much too early.

“That kiss didn’t happen too soon,” You uttered breathlessly. “I’ve waited years for that.”

You staggered as you rose to your feet. Leave it to Kento Nanami to make you go weak at the knees.

Dragging your hands across your coat and scrubs to ensure they weren’t oddly twisted or wrinkled, you said, “Now I’ve really gotta go. But I look forward to slicing into you!”

⚕️ — 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

“You’re awake.”

It was the voice of an angel. Had to be. But, as Toji’s blurry vision cleared as he blinked, blinked, and blinked — he made out the sterile environment devoid of color and packed to the brim with machines that were wired to his battered limbs — he realized he was in a hospital room, not the afterlife.

“Welcome back,” you smiled.

Toji felt your thumb gently stroke his forehead. Your touch was so comforting. So soothing. It calmed his initial urge to panic as a result of the massive wave of pain and confusion that hit him as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Toji, you’re alright. You were in a construction accident.” Another voice spoke up, but Toji’s eyes didn’t bother searching for the source. They were on you — the pretty, unfamiliar woman with the voice of an angel, smiling at him.

— ⚕️—

It took several days for Toji to regain the strength to move. Talking was a lost skill to him for weeks.

God, were head-to-toe injuries painful. His nurses informed him — when he could manage to stay conscious, at least — that unsafe conditions led to him falling from a dangerous height while working at a construction site. Most people would have died instantly during an accident like that. If they were lucky enough to survive the initial fall and aftermath of collapsing debris, then they more than likely would have died on the operating table.

But Toji, however, had a brilliant surgeon who operated endlessly for hours upon hours to save his life. Brilliant.

Was it you? The pretty, unfamiliar woman with the voice of an angel who smiled at him when he first awakened? Just where did you go?

You suddenly walked into Toji’s room as if his thoughts had summoned you.

Before you could speak, he asked, “You the one who saved my life?”

“I am. My surgical team and I worked very hard. I’m glad you pulled through. How are you feeling?”

“Took you long enough to come check on me again,” Toji ignored your question, speaking with a soft, tired smile. “Haven’t seen you since I woke up. Was starting to think my mind made you up.”

“Actually,” you paused, approaching the side of his hospital bed. “I came by almost every night to check on you. You were just fast asleep. You can thank our pain medication for that.”

“Hm . . .” Toji’s eyelids were growing heavy. He spoke over the beeping vital monitors and IV pumps. “Guess I owe you one for . . . saving . . .”

He was fast asleep.

You smiled down at his face, which, although bruised and bandaged, was still quite handsome.

As you walked away, you heard the black-haired man mumble in his drug-induced state, “. . . so goddamn pretty.”

—⚕️—

The following physical therapy-filled weeks were rather difficult for a man like Toji. The struggles he endured were not only physical, but mental as well.

After all, he prided himself on having such an athletic build and insane strength — the amount of pounds he could lift with ease was startling.

But for a while, he was no longer the man who could haul just about anything with very little effort. He was a man who needed assistance to stand up. To walk. And his spirit was crushed, even well after he regained those lost skills and was deemed recovered enough to be discharged.

He was rather certain that if it wasn’t for a certain angel sticking by his side throughout his two-month hospital stay, he wouldn’t have found the strength to keep going.

—⚕️—

Toji Fushiguro found himself at a local, quiet bar more often than he’d like to admit. Most times, a wave of self-hatred washed over him every single time he grabbed a seat and ordered a drink, but not today. Today, he was happy to walk into the bar, because you were there.

“Can I buy you a drink, doc?”

You looked up from your phone screen to find your former patient standing at the side of the little table you occupied.

“Toji?” You smiled. “Wow. It’s refreshing to see you outside of the hospital.”

“And without a hospital gown on, I bet,” a little smirk pulled at the vertical scar on his lips. “It’s nice to see you without that white coat on, ‘cause that means I’m no longer in that hospital, even if the coat is pretty hot on you. Who knew I’d have a thing for doctors.”

“Aren’t you straightforward?” You gave a little laugh, then nodded at the empty seat across from you. “Sit down. Join me.”

As Toji pulled out the chair opposite of you, he said, “I was kinda worried, thinkin’ I wouldn’t see you again after getting discharged.”

“Really? I figured after seeing me every day for . . . how long has it been, two months, right? I assumed you’d be sick of seeing me.” You took a sip of your water. Condensation coated the cool glass.

“Sick of the hospital, yeah, but not you,” Toji propped his elbow up on the table and rested the side of his head in his hands. “Anyway, about that drink. Get whatever you want. It’s on me.”

“Toji, you know you don’t owe me for saving your life. It’s my job.”

“I don’t care. I owe you one. But an overpriced drink wasn’t how I was gonna pay you back anyway.”

“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “How were you going to pay me back, then?”

“I’ve got a lot of ideas. One of them involves you comin’ home with me. Another involves a nice dinner, whichever you prefer. Though if you really wanna know what I think, I think you should pick both.”

You waited for any sort of indication that, perhaps, the handsome man was joking. But you knew Toji quite well after spending much time with him, and he never bothered with being dishonest or secretive about his feelings.

Hospital food tasted like crap? He said so. Exhaustion lingering within your eyes despite your professional smile? He pointed it out.

You gave him a smile, shaking your head in disbelief. The chair scraped against the floor as you got up to leave the table.

Toji wasn’t surprised to see you leave. He expected to be turned down, having been your former patient. Pursuing any sort of relationship probably disinterested you due to moral and ethical-

“Aren’t you coming?”

Toji turned around. You stood there patiently, having halted your footsteps a short distance away from the table.

“Huh?” He blinked. So you were interested. Another small smile couldn’t help but grace his face. “What about that drink?”

“Forget about it,” you waved him over. “I like what you came up with more.”

“Oh yeah? Which idea?” Toji asked, rising from his seat.

“Both.”

“Then let’s go, angel.” Toji grabbed ahold of your hand, guiding you towards the exit. “I hope you like Italian food. And my version of physical therapy.”

⚕️— 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

Sharp intuition and good instincts were valuable skills one needed in the medical field. As one of the most skilled surgeons in the hospital, the best of the best, according to your peers — and, well, your low mortality rate — your skill set was rather exceptional.

There was, however, a drawback to having good instincts. It was the impending doom you couldn’t shake when your gut told you that something was off.

Though your incredibly long shift had come to an end, you hadn’t yet left the hospital. After all, today, your surgeries were all brief and complication-free. The ER wasn’t too chaotic. Even your coffee tasted extra pleasant today.

Things were going well. Too well.

Your time working as a surgeon had taught you one thing: a peaceful day working in a hospital was a bad sign.

And those good instincts of yours? They told you not to leave just yet.

Many nurses darted their eyes at you curiously, silently questioning why you hadn’t yet run out of the building once your shift was over. Free time was all too rare for a surgeon, so why, just why, were you hanging around in the ER, leaning against the counter of the nurses’ station?

You were taking a tentative sip of your beverage when a car arrived outside of the ER’s automatic sliding seethrough doors.

A man stepped out, not wasting time with trivial matters such as shutting his car door, and he swung open another car door. You couldn’t see what he was doing exactly due to the distance. Not until he stepped into the ER with an unconscious, blood-covered girl in his arms.

“Sir?” You called out.

The dark-haired man didn’t respond. He was in a state of shock.

You and your medical team rushed to find a gurney, ready to assess the girl in his arms, but he wasn't ready to let go of her just yet.

You gave him a sympathetic, but urgent look. “Sir, you need to let us help her. Can you tell us what happened?”

No response.

The man himself was bleeding from his head.

“Sir,” you tried yet again, speaking softly. He didn’t look at you until you touched the bloody hand he had hooked around the young girl’s shoulder. “I promise I will try my best to help her. I need you to trust me.”

He blinked a few times as if coming out of a daze. He placed the girl on the gurney.

— ⚕️—

It was a car accident. The man, who was named Suguru Geto, sat in the waiting room for hours, refusing medical attention for his own injuries. The young girl he carried into the ER was one of his adopted daughters.

Operating on her with the information a nurse passed on to you in mind gave you the strength you needed to push through your exhaustion — to save a young girl on the brink of death.

“I need you to stay strong for me, Mimiko,” you mumbled against your surgical mask, putting down one surgical tool and grabbing another — your scalpel. “Your dad’s waiting for you, sweet girl.”

Though the girl was unconscious, you continued to speak to her throughout the operation.

You couldn’t help it — perhaps believing it mattered on a subconscious or even spiritual level.

When the surgery came to an end, you gave Suguru an update, informing him that Mimiko was stable for now and that he could visit her soon.

“Thank you.” A shaky, relieved breath escaped from between his lips, and though he was happy to hear the news, he started to cry. Tears were streaming down his face, mixing with the blood on his skin — he couldn’t help but break down over the situation, now that it was partially over.

You wasted no time in grabbing a seat next to Suguru.

Wrapping your arms around him, you held the stranger, rubbing his back soothingly.

“It’s alright,” you whispered kindly.

Suguru pulled away from you after a couple of minutes. You gave him a smile. However, it didn’t take long for the corners of your lips to dip into a frown.

“Mr. Geto, your forehead.” You rose from your seat. “You need stitches. Please let me help.”

It took a moment, but he eventually nodded and got up as well.

You were well within your rights to go home, to pass off this mundane suturing opportunity to someone with less responsibility within the hospital, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

You were going to stick with this family throughout their entire healing process.

For a while, you treated Suguru’s wound in silence — beyond the general bustling hospital noise.

“You seem tired. Am I keeping you here past your shift?” Suguru suddenly spoke up.

You were silent for a moment, uncertain of how to respond.

“I’m just glad I was here, Mr. Geto.”

“Anyone who saves my daughter’s life can call me Suguru.” He stared down at the dried blood on his hands. “While you were still in surgery, a nurse gave me an update. She told me how hard you were working, and that you were speaking to Mimiko as if she was your own child.”

“I was. I like to talk to all my patients during surgery. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“Not at all, why would it? I appreciate it. You seem very caring.” Suguru would have smiled if he had the energy.

“Tired and caring, hm?” You grinned softly, finishing the last stitch.

“I’m sure I will come up with more adjectives in due time.”

Your smile widened, and even Suguru managed to give a tiny grin.

— ⚕️—

Suguru Geto approached you in the hospital hallway during your lunch break a few weeks later, on the day his dear daughter would get discharged. The man who you came to know after seeing him and his family on nearly a daily basis tapped your shoulder.

“Hm?” You turned around, and your eyes darted down to a packaged baked good in Suguru’s hands.

“What’s this?” You asked.

“Consider it a personal thank you for taking such great care of my daughter.” Suguru held out the tiny box, and you took the pastry.

“Oh, Mr. Geto, You didn’t need to do this for me. I was just doing my job,” you grinned.

“Your job was to save her life. To talk with her about her hobbies and interests . . . to comfort her . . . that was going above and beyond.” Suguru stared at you with sincerity and respect. “She’s been rambling on and on about you non-stop. I know you’re a busy person, but she said she’d still like to see you even after getting discharged, should you ever have the freetime.”

“Of course. She’s a sweet girl — both your girls are,” looking down at the sweet treat in your hands, you said, “and this looks amazing. You’re too kind, Suguru!”

“Believe me, I’m not normally a kind person. But you deserve every bit of kindness I might be able to spare.”

“A single father to two girls he adopted, who bakes pastries for other people? Sure seems like you’re pretty kind.”

Suguru stepped closer. He leaned down a bit, as far as he could without raising any suspicion from nearby medical staff and guests, and he whispered into your ear, “You just don’t know me very well. But I was thinking about how much I’d like to change that.”

“How so?” You whispered back.

Suddenly, Suguru stepped away. He grabbed your wrist, leading you towards the on-call room he fully intended on sneaking you both into.

You could hardly put the pastry down and lock the door before his lips were on yours hungrily. His hands were busy pulling off your white coat, your top, and undoing the drawstrings of your scrub pants.

His mouth made its way down to your neck. He sucked and kissed at your skin, all the while his hand snaked their way into your underwear.

“Remember when I started to cry, and you held me?” He asked softly, his breath patting against your skin.

“Yeah,” you replied. “I remember.”

“I think I should return the favor,” he paused, his fingers finding your clit while his other hand held you against his bigger frame. “Let me hold you while you cum.”

🩺 — @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @thequeenofcurses @he11okitty-mari @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @levisfavoriteteashop @insomniacbehaivour @preciousamethyst @kxmorrx @iwanttohitmyself @ellaumbrella1 @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @deadrevenge @koikohib

[coffee-and-geto]

scarf problem. gojo satoru (sfw)

cw. husband! gojo, crack, fluff, family diner, mention of kids and breeding, just gojo being gojo.

Heat rises on your cheeks, and your lips crumple into a pretty pout, eyebrows furrowed in displeasure as Satoru’s hand wraps around your thigh under the living room table.

“Pouting, sweetheart?” he blows out close to your ear with a fucking teasing tone.

Noticing the shiver that ran down your spine, a cocky smirk tugs the corner of his lips. How to break your husband’s perfect teeth?

“Aren’t you hot in that scarf?” your father chimes in, helping your mother to serve on each plate a juicy braised chicken leg.

“I’m fine,” you reply, your eyebrows so furrowed they look like they’re merging.

Indeed, over your pullover, wrapped up around your neck, a big red scarf knitted by Satoru himself is almost hiding half of your face, only your upper lip visible. Your vermilion cheeks give you away, nonetheless, and so does your slightly over-controlled breathing.

The heat is suffocating you, unbearable. But you hang in there. There’s no way you’re going to let your parents see the nasty red and purplish-blue marks left by your husband’s hickeys on the previous night.

“You’re suffocating, darling, take it off,” your mother insists too, a slight worried frown shaping her face, before sitting down in front of you beside your father. “The heater will warm you up.”

“No, I’m fine with this scarf, thanks,” you reply with the same, sulking face.

You ignore your parents’ worried glances at you and start eating your plate of mashed potatoes with peas — Satoru’s hand still on your thigh insisting on his caresses with his thumb drawing slow circles.

“C’mon sweetheart, just take it off,” he coos, and his hand squeezes your thigh harder just to enjoy seeing you suppressing a gasp. “Your pretty neck needs some fresh air. Otherwise, you’ll catch a cold.” He takes a mouthful of his plate and the fucker hums. “Delicious, by the way,” he comments to your mother, who smiles.

Cold my ass.

“Yeah, delicious,” you mumble grumpily, serving yourself a glass of water.

“So, the two of you,” your fathers starts as he swallows a bite of braised chicken and you raise the glass to your lips to take a sip. “Have you planned on having kids or something?”

You choke on your water and cough like a strangled ostrich, almost spitting out the liquid. Satoru gently and calmly pats your back as he responds to your father.

“Yes, that would be a good idea, wouldn’t it, sweetheart? What do you think?”

It’s not like he bred you to pass away the night before so you ended up to wear a scarf during your family dinner, hmm?

[mabeaute]

⤹ - - FIREFLY layouts ꒰ 🪐 req by anon

icons ++ banners . interact && / or credit to use

[i-collect-shiny-stuff]

31, unsorted

[scarameownya]

hewwo

[umamaki]

YOU POSSESS ME ! l&ds caleb x reader

NOTE hozier do i wanna know cover helloooo i am extremely unwell

Yes, Caleb is a very possessive man. But have you ever considered the fact that it’s because he feels so utterly and wholly possessed by you?

He’s obsessed with you because being in your presence, feeling your skin on his, is the only thing that keeps him sane. He’s not in his right mind without you. 

You’ve completely invaded his mind, settling yourself down in each nook and cranny of his brain. 

You’ve taken over every one of his thoughts.

You plague his consciousness during all of his waking hours, as well as during every hour of his dreams. 

He thinks about you in the morning; there’s sleep still in his eyes and he doesn’t yet know what day of the week it is, but he wonders if you slept well, if you’ve had any dreams. He thinks about you before he drifts off to sleep; he fantasizes about what you’re wearing and which side of the bed you’re occupying. He falls asleep thinking about you. 

He can’t help that he is infatuated with you to such a degree. Before you are his, he’s always been yours. You are his purpose. Even just the fact of your existence influences every single decision he makes. 

And it’s entirely out of his control. It kills him to have fallen for someone so fully, someone who doesn’t even know what they’re doing to him. He hates that you can go about your days as normal while it feels his existence is completely dependent on you, that he can’t do something as simple as love you in a normal way, that he is so madly besotted with you that he loses all sense of rationality and logic.

It’s selfish of him to be so possessive of you, to want him all to himself. He knows that he’s being greedy, that it’s unfair. But if he doesn’t have you, he’s not certain that he will hold out. 

It goes without saying. He truly is too busy being yours to fall for somebody new. 

[earthlyangelbby]

Hii! Your writing is so cute 😭 idk if you take requests but could we get Eddie x reader when she plays her secondary music taste? Like she enjoys mainly metal, but then she starts playing The Smiths and The Cranberries, and Eddie's a little bit caught off guard because he didn't know she liked much other music? Tysm, and I'm excited to see what you do with this!! 🤍

Words Count: 565 Warnings: None just fluff :) A/N: Oh my god !This is such an honor! thank you for the request!! Feel free to send stuff my way I'll try to come up with something:) Come out of the shadows dear anon so I can kiss you! THAT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME!!!! I did my due diligence and listened to the smiths and the cranberries to prepare for this ask! I got this immediately as you sent it and heres what I came up with.

You’re lying on Eddie’s bed, your mixtape low in the background as The Smiths fill the room with that bittersweet sway. Eddie just sat beside you, one arm slung lazily across your back, fingers toying with a strand of your hair.

“I had no idea you were a Morrissey girl,” he says with a lopsided grin, kissing your temple gently. “Hiding your gloomy British side from me?”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Not hiding. Just… not leading with it.”

He leans back dramatically, hands clasped to his chest, and in a painfully accurate Morrissey moan, croons “I would go out tonight… but I haven’t got a stitch to weaaaaar…”

You groan. “Oh my god. Stop.”

He grins, not stopping. “This man said it's gruesome that someone so handsome should ca-”

“Eddie!” you smack him with a pillow, half-annoyed and half-laughing. “You’re too good at that, and it’s making me mad.”

“Oh, don’t be jealous, sweetheart,” he teases, laughing as he ducks another swat. “If I start quiffing my hair and whining about existential loneliness, you’ll dump me for a real Brit, won’t you?”

“Keep it up and I will.”

He cackles, then throws his arms around you and pulls you close. “Please, I’m way too hairy to be Morrissey.”

Before you can fire back, the tape clicks and the opening to “Dreams” by The Cranberries floats into the air. The mood shifts instantly lighter, sweeter. Eddie stills, glancing at the stereo.

“Ooh,” he says, nodding along. “See, this is more my speed. They’ve still got a killer drummer. And her voice?” He closes his eyes for a second, appreciating. “Yeah. That’s real nice. I’ll take an Irish woman beautifully singing her heart out over a whiny British guy any day.”

You lean into his shoulder, a little shy. “The Song. Kinda reminds me of you.”

He looks down, surprised. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly. “You’re kind of my dream, Eddie.”

His grin fades into something softer, more fragile around the edges. He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm, his hand curling into your hair.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours. “I like this side of you,” he says. “Your music. Your mush. All of it. Makes you all sweet and cuddly.”

You go quiet, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

He just smiles, thumb brushing your cheek. “Even if your music taste makes me feel like I need to wear eyeliner and sulk on a rainy train platform.”

You groan again, but you’re laughing as you curl into him, the both of you wrapped up in soft music, warm limbs, and something that feels a lot like falling. After a moment, you murmur, “So… if this music makes me all mushy and dreamy… what does our usual stuff make me?”

Eddie huffs a soft laugh, eyes flicking to yours with a spark. “Oh, easy. Violent. A little mean. You get that look in your eye like you’d punch God if he looked at you wrong.”

You snort, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “And you like that?”

He kisses the top of your head. “Hell yeah, I do. Sweetheart, I like all your flavors. Soft, angry, spooky, weepy, dreamy. Bring 'em all.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed as you melt deeper into him. “You’re such a sap.”

He grins against your hair. “Takes one to love one.”

Thanks for reading :^)

[comphy-and-cozy]

nhl archive

where old fics go to die live when i've outgrown them. if a player is on this list, please do not request more content! nhl masterlist

CHRIS KREIDER ✿“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” ✿"I'm pregnant." ✿"Why would I stop when it gets me what I want?"*

JEREMY SWAYMAN ✿"Don't mind me, just enjoying the view." / "I won't bite, unless you're into that sort of thing."

MITCH MARNER “My friends get annoyed by how much I talk about you sometimes”

NOLAN PATRICK ✿“There is no way this much stupid can fit inside one person.” / “Take my jacket, it’s cold” ✿Cheek kisses

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Overstimulation with Loki

A/N: Errr. I may switch up the way I’m doing Kinktober bc I’m having ✨motivation issues✨ But fourth fic of Kinktober, yay! Let me know if I missed any warnings

Written with a male!Reader in mind

Link to masterlist here

CW: overstimulation, condescension, degradation, Reader is likened to an animal in heat, Loki restrains the Reader’s hands, Reader is called pet and darling and slut, multiple orgasms, licking up cum, ass play, rimming, Reader is mentioned to be a bit of a masochist, mentioned multiple rounds, aftercare, does this count as dubcon?

437 words

All you can do is whimper.

Your brain is fuzzy. Your thoughts slow and sluggish. All you can do is mindlessly move, squirming to get away and arching up for more.

It hurts. So deliciously.

You want to moan, scream, wail, sob for mercy. But all you can do is whimper.

“Look at you,” Loki’s voice is a low purr. A sadistic croon. “Fucking my hand so mindlessly. Like a base animal needing to mate.”

You whine, tugging weakly at the hand gripping your wrists. They’re pinned above your head, keeping you in place.

“Oh, no, my beloved pet,” he chuckles, swiping his thumb over your tip in a way that has your eyes rolling back. “You don’t get to escape so easily.”

You cum for what feels like the thousandth time. Weak spurts of cum spilling over Loki’s knuckles and fist. He lets go for just a moment to lick his hand clean and you gasp with relief.

Your body thrums with aftershocks, painful little jolts of pleasure that feel like electricity.

His hand smooths over your stomach and you whimper again, squirming away from his touch. “No, it’s too much!”

His voice is a low coo, even as he moves to turn you over. “Then I won’t touch your pretty dick anymore. There are other ways to make you cum, darling. I know you have a few more in you. I want them all.”

You shudder as his fingers slide over your asshole, gently pressing. It feels so good, and yet it makes your stomach clench and your dick throb.

“Please…!” You whimper out.

But Loki just chuckles. “Oh, darling. I know you have it in you. You’re just a dirty little slut under that big man facade. You turn drunk at the slightest press of my cock.”

You moan, pressing your face into the sheets. He’s not wrong, and it only makes it worse. The heavy throbbing of your dick gets twice as bad when he dips down to lick at your asshole. Lapping his tongue against you and purring at the taste.

“You’re delicious, darling. I’m going to enjoy this thoroughly.”

All you can do is whimper. Whimper and squirm against his hold. It’s no use. He’ll get what he wants in the end, and you’re not resolved enough to not want it. It feels so painfully good. And you’ve always been a bit of a masochist.

You give him two more rounds before you pass out. When you wake, you’re all cleaned up, wrapped in his arms. And with the pleasurable way your body aches, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

[bleach-your-panties]

1-800 D!CK-DA§H ... × 📞

ft. none other than, who else, but the golden mf trio (renji, izuru, shuhei) + kensei lol. creds to @sacredwarrior88 for the concept!

cw for entire work: fem reader, modern au, explicit sexual content (you literally called a 'dick-for-order' hotline), explicit language, pet names, oral (f! & m! giving/receiving), creampies, cumshots, + MUCH MORE. read at own discretion. individual scenarios + a gangbang at the end. the receptionist is so done with life LOL.

wc: 1.5k

menu: 💨 1. 💨2. 💨3. 💨4. 💨bonus

"Hello and thank you for choosing Dick Dash. My name is Shinji; so, what's your type?"

You had to press your free hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh - when your friend Mashiro told you about this, you honestly thought she was joking.

A point was made in your late-night girl talk about the guys at your university being lackluster in the bedroom and being too lazy to satisfy a woman properly.

"U-uhh, my type?" You stuttered dumbly, "you mean like -"

"Dick size, pubic hair, circumsised-"

You cut him off abruptly, "Oh wow, this is kind of embarrassing."

On the other end, Shinji rolls his eyes. He sat up straighter in his chair and removed the toothpick from his mouth.

"And calling a dick hotline in the first place isn't? Come on; I don't have all day, sweetheart."

'Okay, attitude.'

You let out a huffed breath. "Alright, Shinji, I'd like to place an order: "

"-lots of tattoos, dick length 8.5-9 inches, circumcised, good stamina, and cums A LOT."

Your cheeks were absolutely enflamed as you relayed your request to the stranger over the phone.

"My, that's a tall order," Shinji smirked, "I have just the person for you, doll. He'll be right over. Thank you for choosing Dick Dash!"

And he hung up right in your face.

As soon as the phone call ended, your palms began to sweat.

Were you really that desperate for decent dick to go and blindly order it off the phone like you were simply ordering a pizza?

Nervously, you began to pace around your living room, your hands continuously running over your jeans to eliminate the moisture from your palms.

Ding dong.

Well, you're about to get the answer to that question.

You stood on your tip-toes to look out of the peephole. All you could see was...red.

You unlatched the door and a tall, redheaded male - covered in tattoos, just as you'd asked - stepped over the threshold.

His hair almost matched the color of the red polo shirt that he had on.

A giggle bubbled up in your throat at the fact that they had an actual uniform and everything: red polo, black pants, black belt, and a cap with 'DD' in black lettering across the bill.

"Hey cutie, I'm Renji. You called for me?"

Renji had a cocky confident smirk set across his lips.

Then he started unbuckling his belt.

Your eyes blew wide. "W-wait, you mean we do it right now?!"

Renji shrugged, "I mean...I can wait. Just keep in mind that I get paid per 15-minute interval."

"Oh! Well, that's fine then."

For the first thirty minutes, the two of you just talked. Renji was pretty down-to-earth and funny, in all actuality.

You had tears in your eyes from the stupid jokes that he was telling you.

Now those same tears stung your eyes as you kneeled on the carpeted floor of your living room, your knees getting rug burns as Renji fucked your mouth.

"Just like that, baby. Remember to breathe through your nose. Atta girl.." His thighs clenched when you laved your tongue over his balls, right up through the seam separating them.

Heavy, rough hands pressed down further on your shoulders as Renji groaned loudly with his head thrown back.

His cap rested on the arm of your couch and the hair tie that had been holding his hair up had broken earlier due to his rough thrusting. A few maroon-red hair strands lay slicked against his forehead while the rest cascaded down his back.

The feeling of Renji's cock nestled deep in your esophagus had your pussy running rivers onto the soft beige material beneath you, and even more so when he reached down to rub a calloused thumb against your sensitive button.

Your knees shivered and your stomach buckled in, orgasm washing over you in undulating waves.

"Damn babe, you cum just from sucking cock?" His chuckle was strained and throaty as he moved to stroke his fingers over your dripping cunt before pushing two inside.

"Ohh!"

Renji began fingering your pussy at an insane pace that had your toes curling and tears trickling down your face like a fountain.

You placed your hands on his thighs to try and push back from him but he moved his free hand to take a fierce hold of your hair.

"Nuh uh. Take it. Take it and keep my dick in your mouth while you do."

You did as you were told, but it was a struggle. His heavy balls slapped against your neck while pre-cum and saliva dribbled down the sides of your mouth, coating them.

"Fuck! Gunna cum, gunna cum, gunna cum - oh shitttt." A steady stream of ejaculate shot into your mouth - warm and salty - and you gulped it all up like a greedy whore.

Renji held you by the back of the neck and slowly pulled you off of his dick with a soft 'plop'.

"Fuck, that's a talented mouth you have there, babe. Now, how do you want it?"

You weren’t so hesitant with your requests now.

"Rough. From the back."

"Nasty," Renji smirked, "bend over."

Your aching knees screamed at you as you then planted them into the rough fabric of the couch.

"Arch f' me, baby."

His hands smoothed over the globes of your ass before he smacked each one, enjoying the way the flesh jiggled beneath his large hands.

Hiking one foot up on the couch and taking his heavy dick in one hand, Renji teased you by sliding the head against your puffy clit.

"Please Ren...put it in.."

"Giving me a nickname already, sweetheart? I must be doing something right."

You were about to ask again when he thrust upwards, then dragged the head through your slippery folds until he was slipping inside your hole.

"Oh God.."

Your head dropped to your hands that were gripping the back of the couch in earnest.

Renji was long and thick; the veins trailing up and down his cock massaged your walls with delicious friction.

"Feeling good, baby girl?" He pressed you into a deeper arch and your mouth fell open.

“Y-y-y-” You struggled, stuck on the first letter of the word. Renji chuckled and smacked your ass, jiggling the flesh in his palm.

His brown eyes were transfixed on how his dick was moving in and out of your pussy, your juices covering his length leaving a silky, translucent sheen up to his base and smearing into his red pubes.

“Damn, pretty. Good pussy like this shouldn’t have to order dick. If you were my girl, I’d fuck you good every night.”

Renji’s large hand cupped your ass cheek, spreading you open wider to take more of his thick length, which left you howling. He wasn’t even going that fast, but he was so thick that he could reach all your spots with a few deep strokes.

“You stopped talking to me, sweetheart. Why don’t you tell Ren how good it feels, yeah?”

He sped up his pace, thrusting harder and directly into your G-spot, making you scream out his name in pure bliss.

“Renji!”

Said redhead hummed, moving the fingers of his free hand down to your clit, rubbing it vigorously side to side as his thrusting never slowed. Using his upper body, he pressed you further into the couch cushions. 

The entire couch banged against the wall from the sheer force of his thrusts. Your neighbors might have something to say about that..

“Renji, please..! I’m going to c-cum!”

You had never felt anything like this in your young adult life. Seems that the guys on your campus really didn’t know how to fuck.

“Go ahead, pretty. Make my day and cum all over this dick.”

Strands of his lustrous, dark red hair stuck against your back as your orgasm hit you like a crashing wave, but Renji didn’t stop thrusting; in fact, his thrusts got even faster.

“W-wait!”

There was no waiting when Renji was focused, and right now his focus was getting a second release out of you on top of his own.

“What are we waiting for, pretty? This is what you ordered, right? Come on, you didn’t think I was done that quick, did you?” 

The smirk in his voice was evident as the sly redheaded male quite literally fucked you into the couch. With one tattooed arm wrapped around your middle while the fingers of the other toyed with your sensitive clit, you could feel that same feeling bubbling up in your stomach once again, but more intense.

“Go ahead, and let go for me, babe - oh, holy shit - !”

Renji’s rough, calloused fingers stroking your clit like guitar strings paired with his rough, rhythmic thrusting caused a stream of liquid to gush from your pussy and soak the cushions of the couch. Good thing you lived alone…

Your squirting triggered his orgasm and the redhead pulled out just in time to spray his cum across your plump ass cheeks, some of the white strands hitting your upper back and even landing in your hair.

“Good girl…” He cooed, patting you on the butt affectionately as he climbed off of you and headed to the bathroom to get a cloth to clean you up with.

Meanwhile, you lay flat on your belly in the wet spot, attempting to catch your breath.

Renji had righted himself, looking exactly how he did when he first entered your apartment, smirk included.

After paying, you gave an awkward smile and walked him out so he could return to his shift. The thought of him seeing other girls made you just the teensiest bit jealous, but what could you do?

Turning to walk back inside, you heard a soft crinkle of paper in the back pocket of your jeans. Upon reaching into the pocket, you’d pull out a crumpled note:

‘Think I might call in sick for the rest of the day. Only thing that’ll make me feel better is a 2nd round ;)’

[bardic-inspo]

Dhampir Dreams

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Tav (Generic/Unnamed)

Part 1 of 2

Rating: Explicit (Smut)

Key Tags: breeding kink, pregnancy kink, body worship, light dom/sub, light bondage, light praise kink, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it dacryphilia, cunnilingus, PIV, Astarion’s past trauma, smut with so many feelings but nearly no plot, character introspection

Summary:

Tav saw beauty in Astarion he couldn’t have seen himself, even if he had a reflection to gawk at. She made love with a man who never thought he could have anything near it. Made all his red dreams come true, and then said: go on, make new ones, in whatever color you like. Astarion never thought about being a father. Not before her. Or: an angsty-turned-horny character study about the pale elf and his thoughts on creating new (un)life.

A/N: This is my first stab at writing a more generic Tav. Tav in this piece is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns. Most other identifying features are left out.

Click here to read on AO3 instead

Astarion’s never thought much about making another vampire.

In the rare moments the notion occurred to him, he shoved it to the far back shelf of his mind so as not to waste himself on an exercise in futility. What did it matter, after all, while Cazador still lorded over him?

More than anything, Astarion yearned to see Cazador’s blood spill. In his mind’s eye, he’d watch it pool across the floor, not unlike the way he'd seen so much clothing puddled at so many heels. The lake he’d make of his master would be wide enough to swallow the garments of all who’d stripped bare before Astarion. Every sweat-soaked night he found himself bound to another moldering mattress beneath someone else’s weight, rocking through the motions that left his stomach sour, he’d fill his mind with such sweet dreams as Cazador’s death.

Whether Cazador would allow Astarion to drink his blood before being relieved of it varied with the fantasy. The dream changed as often as the hands on Astarion’s hips. It mattered little to him whether Cazador’s end came with true vampirism or not. As long as he ended. 

As long as the vile river of shit that comprised Astarion’s life ended, one way or another. For better. Or for good.

Of course, he flirted with the fantasy of his own spawn, sent out like skittering spiders to dispense his will. Foul little monsters they would be. Fine tools to have in his arsenal; Astarion would only want such wretches of his own the way one might want a hammer to pound a nail. And what he wanted didn’t hold any weight while bound in Cazador’s chains.

So the idea recoiled into the dusty recesses of his mind, collecting cobwebs kitty-corner to such out of reach trophies as freedom from his servitude to Cazador and the sun itself. Both still gleamed, despite the tarnish of time and hope rusted over. Despite Astarion’s prayers, no heroes came to save him. No gods or slayers or saviors spared him from his servitude. 

Until the illithids did.

Despite everything -- the centuries of torment, the hollow where his heart should be, its silence in his ribcage, the scars on his back, the thousands of other lashes that Cazador let fade from his porcelain skin -- Astarion did the one thing Cazador could never.

He stood in the sun. And on the sands of that same beach, another miracle washed ashore. A contradiction. His counterweight to everything else he’d ever known.

Tav.

Astarion’s hands roam the supple shape of her nestled against his bare chest. Her breath crests and falls soft and rhythmic, like the gentle slap of waves against the cliffs where they first found each other. His darling is always so serene in her sleep. Astarion dips his head down, nosing her splayed hair on the pillow, drinking in the lovely scent of lavender that always lingers with his lover.

Often, he wakes before her, as he does now in the dim blue light of dusk. Not yet dark enough for him to step outside, but for the moment, there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be. Not even in the raw, rippling light of day.

The smell of her has his eyelids heavy again, the steady patter of her heartbeat hypnotic in his head. His hands curve over the flare of her hips before slipping beneath the hem of her tunic. He stifles the satisfied hum that bubbles in the back of his throat as his palm smooths down the lithe stretch of her stomach. He resettles with his nose in the crook of her neck, eyelashes grazing the twin puncture scars that mark her as his.

He’d thought, once, that he’d ascend and have her at his side for an eternity. He was scared. Frantic. Grasping. He thought he had to grasp at something, fashion some sort of tether, to have her. Thought he had to have power, and enough of it, to keep her. Now he holds her every morning in the bed they share, until day becomes night again. It’s as effortless as blinking.

Now, the thought of turning Tav into a vampire turns his stomach.

His lips brush, tender, to the flutter of her pulse in her neck. He loves those marks he gave her. He loves the way her fingertips tap against them when she’s lost in thought. He loves the way she arches into his arms as he feeds, the way her body gives and gives to him alone. That sleepy, slap-happy smile she has when he’s lapped his last for the evening. The way her eyes roll back, and she gasps, breathless, as he kisses a trail from her neck to a nipple and sucks fervently.

He loves that he’s marked her, but that it didn’t change her. He can still curl into the heat of her skin at night. Still watch her preen in a mirror. Still stare at those gorgeous eyes and know the shade of them is hers. Her cheeks still turn the shade of sunrise when he leans in with a lustful whisper, or grazes her waist with a feather-light touch.

Absently, his fingers follow the path of an old scar on her stomach. At its end, he finds the start of softness. Astarion loves that, too. She didn’t used to be soft there, when they were just surviving. They’re not just surviving anymore.

Perhaps he’s changed her after all. It’s not so scary anymore to admit she’s turned him, too. Not to the light, or anything so nauseatingly righteous. But rather, so Astarion could see himself in it. Even if his days of standing in the sun are done.

I’ll be your mirror, she vowed, what feels like another lifetime ago. She smiled in that fond way of hers that, at the time, hurt to look at too long. He scoffed at her poetic ruminations on his hair curling near his ears. The creases when he laughs. 

Tav saw beauty in him he couldn’t have seen himself, even if he had a reflection to gawk at. She made love with a man who never thought he could have anything near it. Made all his red dreams come true, and then said: go on, make new ones, in whatever color you like.

Astarion never thought about being a father. Not before her.

He’s thought of Tav as a mother before. It flitted through his mind when Astarion watched her ease Arabella’s pounding heart with the gentleness of her own. That feeling lingered when Yenna joined their camp, and Astarion caught Tav teaching her cards. Combing the snarls from the girl’s hair. Coaching her in the basics of swordplay.

She’d be a wonderful mother. Astarion has no doubts in that regard. And he, well…

He doesn’t have an example to look back on, or one to look up to. But he has his compass. Tav’s heart beats, sure and steady, in his ear. That sound’s guided him through so much else. How could he lose his way for long, if there were two pitter-patters to listen to? 

His palm paints cool over that blooming softness in her stomach. An ache burns in his own. The sort of hunger her blood won’t sate. Would she taste even sweeter, he wonders, with her body rounded and swollen? 

Of course she would. So hard to improve something so perfect already. But she’d be radiant, if she were ripe with their child.

And after, when their babe is born, and her body is new all over again, he'd love every line, every fold, every mark that came from their coupling. He’d worship every part of her that was remade by the two of them to make the three of them. Marvel at the way the same body that first truly fed him would feed their child, too. 

He’d help her find her way back to pleasure in her own way, in her own time. Just as she did for him. His Tav gives, and gives, and he’d give her anything, everything, for the rest of his days, if a wretch like him would be so stupidly blessed to be the father of her child.

Astarion pulls a breath between his teeth, his nose flooding with her floral scent again. That would change, too. She’d carry new notes in her sweat, in her slick, in her blood, while carrying their babe. Astarion wants to taste them all, to learn what songs she can sing while he does.

Instinctually, he presses to the plump of her ass to soothe the building stiffness in his cock. He plants a muted hum in the fabric of the pillow. His groin throbs to the thump-thump of his compass, beating oblivious beneath her ribs.

He pictures pouring into her, night after night, his spend spilling in little translucent rivers down her slicked thighs, overflowing from her cunt. Too much for her to hold in, but she’d take him as long as it takes until life sparks inside of her. Tav’s determined in all her undertakings. Resilient. 

And in his dreams, she’s pliant. Pleading. 

“Star, please.”

She’s trembling in that slinky, translucent nightgown she wears to bed sometimes. The one that hardly hides her skin, but cloaks it in a delectable, silvery sheen. He likes it too much to ruin it. Or at least, he has every other night. 

Oh, he’d like to ruin it, now.

Tav’s pupils are blown black with want. Sweat shimmers on her skin, spurring his tongue to swipe his own lips. Her shoulder peeks bare from her nightgown, and Astarion can see her pebbled nipples, dark beneath the sheer silk that separates them. Hardened with hardly a touch. A feeling he’s intimately familiar with. His cock twitches as he strokes the back of his hand over the soft swell of her breast. 

“Aren’t you sore, sweet thing?” He tries for tender, but it comes out coarse. Rough like the way he wants to grip her hips.

“So be gentle,” she says with a sultry smile, lips peeled apart and glistening just enough that Astarion can’t peel his eyes away. “I know you’ll take good care of me.”

Astarion slinks forward, crowding her against the edge of the bed. Careful, like cradling glass, his palm reaches out to cup the side of her cheek. She sighs into the touch, the curve of her smile reaching the heel of his hand.

“Always,” he says reverently, before his voice sinks to a growl. “You’re always so, so eager…for me.”

Her lashes flutter low over hungry eyes. All it takes is one little wordless bob of her head for Astarion’s own hunger to have the best of him. With a lazy roll of his wrists, he shoves her back with kind but firm force. The mattress bends with her impact, her breathless laughter nearly lost beneath the whine of the wooden frame. Astarion crawls after her, hands fisting in her nightgown, and pulling her free of it.

And then, she’s bare beneath him. Writhing from his tongue and teeth. Gasping out the best words he’s ever heard. Astarion downs them like a man starved, kissing her with the kind of fervor he thought reserved for bloodlust. But her lips, the promises they pour, are sustenance all on their own.

“I’m yours,” she whispers, “all yours. Always. All of me.”

Astarion can’t stifle the whine that drags from some hollow in his chest he never knew about before.

The bed creaks as he hitches one of Tav’s limber legs up over his shoulder and nips a path of sharp kisses from her ankle to the crux of her thigh. He pauses, sweeping a feverish gaze over the spread of her: legs parted in his grip, that perfect slit, already wet with want, the rest of her sprawled naked across the bed, at his mercy, at his desire, at her own. 

He leans down, tongue dipping leisurely through her cunt. Always, she swore. So there’s no hurry in how he takes apart the woman he loves so dearly, in one of her favorite ways to be unmade. No matter how many times she claws the sheets and hisses, “Please, Star. F-fuck, I need you inside of me.”

It turns something in the depths of him to hear his own name said as a prayer. It makes him want with a force and harshness stronger than any thirst he’s felt for blood. He wants to turn her. Change her. Forever, for good. For the life they could make from their bodies, bound as close as souls could be. He wants to see her swell with the love they make, with all the love he’ll leave inside her.

She’s so close, her legs quaking violently when her hand tangles his hair and yanks his head upright. She’s beautiful, flushed ruby red, taking her air in shallow doses. Her eyes burn with equal measures adoration and reproach.

Astarion smirks, unrepentant, lips smeared with devotion. “My love, any work of art takes time. And that’s what we’re making, you know. When others look upon our progeny, they will weep in the sight of such beauty.”

“If all it takes is time, dearest,” she says, with a smile just as filthy, “then I don’t want to waste one second of it lying here empty.”

“Mmm,” Astarion sighs, nosing down against her throbbing clit, eyes flashing back to hers as he dares another lick. Her fist tightens in his hair. Astarion only chuckles. 

“You’re right, of course,” he croons. “That won’t do, at all. I do recall promising to-- how did you put it the other night? ‘Fuck you full and senseless’? I’m more partial to what you begged me for a tenday ago, when I had you face-down and waiting for me as soon as the sun was set. Remind me again, my love, what you said when you weren't gasping my name?"

Astarion presses the tip of his tongue to her clit again and tastes her rapid, ravenous pulse in the heat of it. Tav’s hips jerk in response, but he holds her fast.

“I-I said I want-- that I want--”

“You want me to ‘breed you like a damn animal’," he finishes for her. "Oh, don’t be shy now, my sweet. We’re far past that. And we want the same things, after all. But," he sighs, letting his lips drag through her flushed folds, "I've another promise to keep, first.”

Astarion flicks his wrist, muttering magic beneath his breath. Tav’s sharp little yelp of surprise shoots heat straight to his groin. His cock throbs as she settles again, arms bound above her head by his mage hand, tits bouncing from the slightest struggle against her restraints. She smirks up at him, eyes aflame with fresh desire. Escape is the farthest thing from what she wants.

“You lie back now, dear,” Astarion drawls. “You’ll take me soon enough. You’ll be so good for me, like you always are, and take everything I give you. And I’ll take very, very good care of the woman I intend to make a mother.”

Astarion watches her keenly, tracing his forefinger down through her slick. He unfurls it, circling her cunt daintily, and watching her writhe for even the faintest promise of friction. He’s not sure if it’s his mercy or his selfishness that readily discards the thought of keeping her here, just like this, for the rest of the day. She’s mesmerizing, with the way her back arches from the blankets, and how her body strains towards any touch he’ll spare her. 

All mine, he thinks, with a smile that makes him feel weightless. He grounds his hardened cock against the edge of the bed, groaning. All yours, darling. Just for you.

Pride rumbles low in his chest as he sets his mouth back to work again and knows she can’t cover her own. There’s no muffling his name pouring from her lips. No hiding how she cries for him. Her whole body winds taut, shuddering with every stroke of his tongue. 

Finally, finally, he lets his finger slip inside her. Astarion sighs into a satisfied purr, letting the tremble of it soak into her sex. Her cunt’s a vice around his knuckle. Every pump of his finger feeds the building burn inside him, fanning the ache to be sheathed in that tightness. He only aches more, feeling her squeeze around his finger, and knowing she longs for him just the same.

He slips in a second finger to join the first, feeling her spread and then clench anew. Astarion ruts aimlessly into the mattress, in time with the thrust of his wrist. The head of his cock weeps anticipation with the rogue tear trailing down the side of her cheek. It’s only pleasure that makes her cry.

There’s only love in her heavy-lidded gaze as she pants, “Please.”

Mercy, then, Astarion resolves. For both of them.

Her thighs quiver against his ears like leaves in a breeze. Astarion swirls his tongue against the bud of her clit and sucks tightly. Tav stiffens abruptly. His arms hook firm around her legs as a shattered sound breaks from her throat,and a hard tremor courses through her hips. 

He holds her through it, pinning her to the bed until just the faintest brush of his lips has her shuddering. The start of her plaintive whimper has him easing back. A murmured word sets her wrists free of her restraints. Her heart still hammers, sumptuous, in his head, as he peppers her legs in kisses soft as velvet.

“Beautiful,” he whispers with each one, slinking up her body while she comes back down. “So, so beautiful.”

He thinks of new life, as his knee bends between her thighs and drags her open all over again. He thinks of the graveyard, where he had her freely beneath the stars, in the dirt where he woke centuries ago. He thinks he’d be happy to die again, this way, as he slides forward and buries himself inside her waiting heat.

Astarion grates out a long, low moan as he basks in the wrap of her arms and her cunt. Dimly, he feels her fingertips threading gently through his curls. He thinks of sunlight on his skin again as he sinks in fully, bracing his arms on either side of her head, letting his forehead tilt against hers. He can feel her pulse thrumming through her body, through his cock, through his fogged-over thoughts. His hips roll to the sound, as if it beckoned him to motion. Tav’s head drops back into the pillows. She lets out a long, contented hum, while her body rocks in time with his.

“Is this what you needed, darling?” He huffs a laugh, catching her lips in chaste kiss. It’s enough for her to taste her own sweetness. And one squeeze from her cunt is enough to cut his breath away all over again. 

“I think you needed me, too,” she purrs.

“Y-yes,” he stammers through bared teeth, his throat tied taut as she wrings him for all he’s worth. “Yes.”

She knows exactly what he needs, what he yearns for. He needs her, needs this, needs to see his seed seeping from her fucked-out hole, pink and puffy and leaking. He’ll know the rest of it was spent so deep inside her, her fertile womb is flooded. That’s his, too, with the rest of her. 

Hips high for me, beautiful, he’ll say, when his last thrust is done. And he’ll hold her legs up against his shoulders, kiss her heels, and slip the pillow beneath her pelvis. Just to be sure it takes. 

It’ll be another couple months before they’ll start to see the fruit of their efforts. Until Tav starts to bloom with it. And then, he’ll be hard pressed not to have his hands on her every hour. Cupping the fresh heft of her breasts as they grow with the passing days, heavy from him, for the babe growing in her belly. He’ll soothe her weepy eyes and tits alike, with a skilled tongue and sweet whisper. Rub her shoulders to ease the new weight her bones carry. Draw his nose down her neck and smell not just her, but himself, and the consequences of what they did, right here in this bed.

Feel her change beneath his hands and feel so fucking proud to be the reason.

Pleasure winds, binding, around his cock, and he feels that hunger snap its jaws around him all over again. His hips snap with it, jerking frantically. I need you, all of you, he thinks, and if he weren’t already fucking her, he’d be on his knees, begging for all he’s worth. Her cunt quivers, and he’s lost to the grip of her. Astarion shoves his own knuckles in his mouth to stifle a strangled cry. 

“Star?”

Astarion rips awake in a sweat. He sees familiar wooden beams above his head, above his bed. Sunlight streaks the floorboards, leaking from behind the curtains. Turning his cheek, he finds his lover peering at him from over her shoulder, concern wrinkling her face. Tav still lays on her side, and Astarion still presses against her back. But his hand clamps tight to her thigh, bare where he hiked up her tunic. And his cock twitches fitfully against her ass, unspent and painfully hard. 

Just a dream, then. For now, at least. 

He lets out a long, weary sigh, slumping back into the sheets. Tav tilts her head, the worry in her gaze gradually dissolving into a mischievous gleam.

“I thought you might--” she starts, snickering, “but you were having sweet dreams, weren’t you?”

“The best I’ve ever had,” Astarion mutters mournfully as he buries his face in his pillow. “You were there, of course.” 

Astarion rarely sleeps anymore. It’s not normal, not natural for an elf. But it was a trick he taught to dodge Cazador’s torment at least for a few hours a day. Reverie used to mean putting the horrors on repeat. He’d slowly eased from the habit, now that he has new memories worth seeing a second, third, or hundredth time. 

Still, occasionally, he drifts to sleep without meaning to. Sometimes, he wanders off into novel nightmares. Or, if he’s lucky, he dreams of making love to his wife and making her pregnant. Of making their own little dhampir.

His hips shift, and he hisses. Pre-cum seeps from the head of his cock, slickening the shaft. It’s not enough. Not after such a succulent fantasy. But one touch from his darling might have him sated, if not entirely satisfied. Pleasure stabs, sharp, through his groin as she shifts and brushes him with her motion. He grimaces. 

Just one touch alone could do it.

“I’m here now,” she smirks, twisting to face him. Her hand slips down between them. Mercy, he thinks, as her fingers wrap his length. He thrusts into her palm with a pleading whimper. “Tell me all about these dreams of yours.”

A/N: If you're yelling "Let him breed!!" at the screen just know I'm right there with you holding a megaphone about it 💜

If there's interest (from others & myself) perhaps there might be a part two where Tav takes matters into her own hands. Makes him say exactly what he wants, if he wants to have it so bad 👀

EDIT: This is now officially a part one of two 😉

If you'd like me to add you to a tag list for future one-shots, or all of my future BG3 fic (including multi-chapters), leave me a comment and let me know which you'd like!

& HUGE thank you to some lovely Discord and Tumblr friends/moots who cheered me on as I worked on this one! 💜

Tag List: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate

[sunandflame]

Analysis: Mihawk as a Lover

Warnings: none

Word Count: 929

Pairing: Mihawk x GN!Reader

crossposted on AO3

A Stoic, Loyal, and Elegant Partner

Dracule Mihawk, the world’s greatest swordsman, is known for his stoic demeanor, sharp intellect, and unwavering sense of honor. But what kind of boyfriend—or even lover—would he be? Based on his personality and behavior in One Piece, Mihawk would likely be a unique partner, standing apart from most others. He wouldn’t rely on grand romantic gestures, but rather on trust, respect, and a deep, quiet connection.

Loyal, Protective, and Independent

Mihawk is a man of his word. When he commits to something, he follows through—whether it’s training Zoro or keeping his distance from unnecessary conflicts. If he were in a relationship, he would be fiercely loyal and steadfast, choosing a partner with whom he could build a deep, lasting bond. However, he wouldn’t be overbearing. He values independence, both for himself and for his partner, ensuring that the relationship is built on mutual respect rather than control.

His protective nature would emerge in subtle ways—never in a possessive or overbearing manner, but always present when truly needed. He wouldn’t interfere unnecessarily but would be an unwavering presence, ready to act when the situation calls for it.

Calm, Mysterious, and Hard to Read

Mihawk is not one for unnecessary words or exaggerated emotions. In a relationship, he would be reserved, expressing his affection through actions rather than flowery declarations. His love language would likely be quiet and understated—perhaps an unexpected gesture of care, a knowing glance, or a deep conversation over fine wine.

Yet, his emotional depth wouldn’t be easy to decipher. He isn’t someone who opens up quickly, and understanding him would require patience. He would rarely reveal what’s truly on his mind, maintaining an air of mystery that could be both intriguing and frustrating. However, for those willing to look beyond the surface, Mihawk’s subtle tenderness and protectiveness would become evident over time.

A Lover of High Standards and Deep Passion

Mihawk respects strength—not just physical, but also mental and emotional. His training of Zoro proves that he values determination, resilience, and continuous self-improvement. He would expect the same from his partner, not out of arrogance, but because he believes in growth and excellence.

When it comes to romance, Mihawk’s style would be refined and elegant. He isn’t the type for exaggerated expressions of love, but his presence alone would be captivating. A romantic evening with him wouldn’t be about clichés; it would be something uniquely his—perhaps an intimate dinner in his grand castle, a quiet moment shared over fine wine, or simply the way he watches over his partner with his piercing gaze.

And while he may seem detached at times, his passion would be present in the silence. He wouldn’t need loud proclamations to show his devotion—his intensity would lie in the way he understands his partner, noticing small details and ensuring their happiness without making a spectacle of it.

Conclusion: A Challenging but Profoundly Rewarding Partner

Mihawk would be a demanding but deeply fulfilling partner. He isn’t one for fleeting romances or superficial connections—he values authenticity, strength, and mutual respect. Being with him would require patience and independence, but for those who appreciate his quiet depth, unwavering loyalty, and mysterious charm, he could be an endlessly fascinating and devoted lover.

Mihawk in Intimacy – A Controlled, Respectful, and Intense Lover

When it comes to intimacy, Mihawk would likely approach it with the same calm, controlled, and respectful demeanor that defines his entire character. Here are a few aspects that could describe him as a lover in an intimate context:

Respectful and Attentive

Mihawk would be highly conscious of his partner’s comfort and desires. He would respect boundaries and ensure that his partner always feels safe and at ease. He’s not the type to act on impulse or rush into things—rather, he would carefully observe how the moment unfolds, adjusting accordingly with patience and consideration.

Reserved, Yet Deeply Passionate

Though Mihawk is naturally quiet and composed, he could reveal a surprisingly intense passion in intimate moments. However, this passion wouldn’t manifest in an exaggerated or dramatic way, but rather in a focused and deliberate manner—showing that he is truly present and connected with his partner. For him, intimacy is not about dominance, but about forging a deeper, more profound connection.

No Room for Arrogance or Superiority

Despite his unmatched skill as a swordsman, Mihawk remains humble. He wouldn’t see intimacy as an opportunity to prove himself or showcase his power. Instead, he would treat it as a shared experience, prioritizing his partner’s needs and well-being rather than seeking validation for himself.

Precision and Control

As someone known for his precision and mastery, Mihawk would likely carry these traits into the bedroom as well. Every movement would be deliberate and measured, creating a carefully controlled yet deeply immersive experience. He would have an acute awareness of his partner’s reactions, adjusting with quiet confidence to ensure mutual pleasure and satisfaction.

Not Overtly Expressive

Mihawk is a reserved and enigmatic figure, so he wouldn’t be overly vocal or expressive about his emotions. His affection and desire would be conveyed through subtle gestures rather than words or dramatic actions. He wouldn’t rely on grand declarations—his quiet presence and the depth of his intimacy would speak for themselves.

Conclusion: A Composed, Intense, and Considerate Lover

Mihawk would be a calm, focused, and deeply respectful partner in intimacy. His passion would be understated yet intense, never arrogant or forceful. Control, for him, wouldn’t mean dominance but rather the ability to create a balanced, mutual experience where both partners feel valued and understood.

I hope you enjoyed my first analysis of one of One Piece’s handsome men! I definitely had fun writing it, and I’m considering turning this into a series. Let me know which character you’d like to see analyzed next in the comments, or send me an anonymous ask if you are too shy!

[razrogue]

A Gentle Touch (Zayne)

Zayne x Reader/You

Tags: Early Mornings, Sleepiness, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff

Notes: No edit, no beta, we ball (please be kind 😊); curly hair care mentioned; Zayne has a nickname

Words: 830

Read on AO3

The sunrise was just on the horizon but the apartment was thankfully still dim enough for his exhausted eyes to have a break. Zayne removed his shoes and shirked off his coat, hanging it carefully on the coat rack beside the door. He tossed his own keys into the wooden bowl on the foyer table, grinning as they clinked against the cute keychain set still nestled there. Zayne raised his arms overhead, stretching to the ceiling, trying to ease all the tension in his shoulders and back from his long shift.

He was supposed to get off in the late evening, he’d miss dinner with you but he knew he’d be able to bring a late dessert for the two of you to share. Just as he’d placed his stethoscope around the neck of his lab coat hanging in the small closet, the emergency tone on his phone began blaring. His hands dropped to his side as he sighed and reached for the phone ringing from his desk. “Raincheck on dessert?” He ended the question with one of the snowman emoji you’d installed on his phone and got ready to go tackle the latest emergency that was keeping him out from another evening with you.

His message tone rang out just as you opened the door to his place. Hurrying to free your hands so you could respond, you were a little defeated when you didn’t see a message letting you know he was on his way home. You knew he was a dedicated doctor that was great at his job, in fact you admired that about him. You admired the way he worked hard, sometimes tirelessly, for his patients. He was considerate and thorough and would always see the cases through to a solution. Sometimes though, you wanted him to be a little more selfish, to give a little more time to your relationship. As soon as the thought cropped up, you shook your head vigorously trying to clear it from your mind. You knew what you were signing up for, just like he knew what he was signing up for - the both of you were dedicated to your jobs and to saving lives in your own ways. Pushing that fleeting thought far from your mind, you prepped some bowls for him to quickly heat up once he made it home before settling in with your own meal for the night.

Zayne loosened his tie and headed into the kitchen, the handwritten note on blue paper taped to the fridge door catching his eye as he opened the fridge to see three containers stacked neatly on the top shelf.

Z - From that place we wanted to try. I picked out all the carrots.

The three little hearts signing the note made him chuckle quietly to himself as he grabbed a small bite from the top bowl. With a slightly satisfied hum, Zayne made his way to the bedroom.

He could just make out the nest of blankets near the center of the bed as he removed his clothes. Down to his boxer briefs, he carefully sat on his side of the bed, setting his glasses down before reaching out to the blanket to gently rest his hand on you. Your pineappled curls peek out of the top blanket, scarf no longer on your head, but thankfully Zayne made it a point to buy silk pillowcases to have at his place when you stayed over. He didn’t quite understand at the time but he listened thoughtfully as you explained caring for and protecting your hair to him some months ago. He finally slid into the bed behind you, placing his arm around your waist and carefully pulling you closer to you. With his face nuzzled into the side of your neck, Zayne sighed, the scent of the fruity lotion on your warm skin filling his nose and making him all the more content and happy to be home. You finally stirred from your slumber as he began covering your shoulder in soft kisses, rubbing his cheek against you in bliss every few kisses.

“Z, what are you…”

Before you could finish your statement, he tightened his arm’s hold on you slightly and pulled your body flush with his. Satisfied that you were right where he wanted you to be, Zayne’s hand reached for yours so he could lace your fingers with his own. You freed your other arm from beneath the pillows and rested it on top of the muscled arm around your waist.

“Did you eat yet?” You inquire as you softly caress his forearm. Zayne doesn’t respond, instead closing his hand around yours a little more, settling himself against you, a contented sigh his only answer. You shake your head a little in amusement, continuing your soothing touch along his arm. The two of you remain there in the middle of his bed, cuddled together for who knows how long until you hear soft snores in your ear.

[comatosebunny09]

you're good at this—playing all coy and social as if you aren't a clump of nerves ready to burst.

like your legs aren't bouncing beneath the table, and you haven't knocked your knees against its underside a few times, almost spilling your wine.

like you haven't bitten your lips to hell, and your teeth aren't stained with the pretty rouge of your lipstick because of it.

no one's the wiser to your plight. to the quiet war waging in your head and the anxiety spilling like lava into your extremities.

you'll never get used to this things, no matter how many you attend—these parties, these galas, these socialites, this acting.

none of it is you.

not the form-fitting gowns, the kohl clumped to your lashes, the facsimile of a smile you've worn all evening until your cheeks ached.

but through the chaos, one thing remains a constant: him.

him and the hand he has clasped around your thigh to tether you. anchor you back to earth. all big and warm and reassuring, and he's angling himself a little closer until your nostrils fill with the scent of cured leather and peeled mandarin. and, fuck all, he’s warm even from this proximity. so hot, you feel the pressure of his body slowly seeping into your own.

his eyes gleam like the sunset in your peripheral. silently, they ask if you're alright beneath a slightly raised brow, above a customary smirk—a mask he dons during these gatherings if only to make the time fly by. not meant to tease you, he promises. he reserves something genuine for you.

he knows you're not alright, which is why he rubs all gently at the notch of your knee—an attempt to bring you back when you feel your mind slowly disconnecting from your body.

- at an event with sylus. you're clearly nervous. you always are. so the pair of you bid an irish goodbye, and he'll murder anyone who has the gall to stop you.

- watching him sneer at the partygoers blocking your exit is low-key a turn on.

- the night concludes with you both settled on your couch in your living room.

- and, of course, kissing ensues. because why wouldn't it?

- and he's a little handsy, so deft fingers creep up the expanse of your thigh because, of course, the slit of your dress would beckon such actions.

- and sure, yeah. you're into it as he gently pushes you back against the sofa. slots himself between your split legs as your fingers rake through the riot of his hair.

- and he hums all nice and low into your mouth, very much enjoying the sticky grind of your lips together.

- this is sylus. he's always gentle. always takes care of you, treating you like aged porcelain preserved in a museum.

- so why the fuck are you so nervous?

- you’ve made out a thousand times before.

- sex, however.

- well, fuck.