#fem!reader

[gojosluut]

Turning around on your other side facing Satoru, you poke his muscular back with your index finger. Making his back arch a bit, as he turns his head around to look at you with a confused sleepy face.

“what was that for?” he rasps, sleep still lacing in his voice.

“can you lay on top of me..? like on my back..?” you whisper, your eyes peering up at his tired blue ones.

“…”

“…”

“…you want me to do what?” he asks sitting up more to get a better look at you. His face now outright confused.

“..I want you to lay on top of me!! like crush me with your body!” You whine, your hand now laced around his muscular bicep, gently shaking him from side to side.

Satoru sighs a small smirk on his lips. “fine, fine.. lay down on your stomach.” He says softly. You smile up at him before flipping onto your stomach, your face going into your soft pillow. laying in a pencil like position.

He turns over more lifting the covers up as he goes to his knees, before laying ontop of you. Laying his entire weight on your back, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

You sigh softly with content, feeling his entire weight on you. Turning your face slightly to the side having a lazily smile on your lips. “mm now i’m comfortable..” you mumble sleepily, all Satoru can do is chuckle lightly into the crook of your neck.

“why am I crushing you again?” He murmurs into your soft skin.

“becauseeee you’re like my personal heating pad for my period cramps,” you mumble out. As your eyes droop shut. Satoru sighs smiling, shaking his head lightly.

“weirdo..” he mumbles before drifting off back to sleep. with his body quite literally covering yours completely, your period cramps dissolving as his warmth and the pressure of his body soothing the pain entirely.

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[novaimperia]

★ student council secretary!reader and her unconventional quid-pro-quo partnership with enforcer for hire!Toji

“if i’m gonna bust my ass teaching those frat guys a lesson, i’ll need a little more than some over-the-pants petting this time, doll.”

"well, y-you can't grope my breasts again; you're too aggressive and it hurts."

he grunts. "ya gotta shake off y'r habit of mistaking pleasure for pain. and in any case, those assholes give me a rash so, as nice as y'r tits are, it's still not gonna cut it."

you fidget with a loose thread on your skirt. truthfully, you didn’t want to go back to him – toji’s brash, crass, and intimidating. sitting on a contraption to work the quadriceps muscles of the leg, you assume, you’re left awkwardly standing to the side, in the gym, watching as his thighs flex and thicken with the strain.

they’re really impressive things, actually. 

“you eye fucking my thighs?” the scar on his lips stretch ever so slightly with the smirk stealing your attention. “if i had known the pretty secretary had a thing for thighs, we woulda been having much more fun.”

scoffing, you retort, perhaps a little more defensively than you would have liked, “i don’t. ugh, j-just think about it, okay? phi kappa psi has been lax with their charity quota and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. so, just do what you usually do: make them see things our way.”

he huffs in dry amusement.. “i’ve made my point clear so let me know what ya decide, kiddo.”

‘kiddo’ is worse than ‘doll,’ but you don’t say anything. unsure, you don’t leave just yet. no amount of reminders, of chasing their president and begging the faculty to get involved has convinced the fraternity to make good on their quota. it’s proven to be a huge bother for the student council. 

and, though you’ve already gone above and beyond for your job – rubbing his length, impressive and hot as it is, over his gym shorts or jeans in the janitor's closet or locker room has always left you a stuttering, fumbling mess – there has to be some limits. right?

the worst part, you think, is that it was never to bring him to an orgasm; he just wanted some entertainment. you don't like calling people names but he can be a real jerk.

crazily unethical as it is, you needed to indulge him otherwise the dean would never write a good enough recommendation letter for the top masters program for your interest. if you failed or disappointed him, it’ll be a stain on your perfect record. that just can’t happen. and it won’t. at this point, you’ll do anything to make sure of that. 

“fine.” at the decisive sound of your voice, he stops stretching those powerful legs of his, grunting to show he's listening. “um, what do you have in mind?”

his obnoxious bark of laughter sends heat to your cheeks. people’s heads turn but when they realise it’s fushiguro, they turn away hastily. with grace unbefitting of a man of his stature, he climbs off the machine and stands to his full height before you. sweat makes his skin shine under the lights. a dizzying musk, masculine and oddly sweet, reaches your nose. you step back. 

running a large paw through his slicked hair and showing off the veins bulging in those monstrous biceps you try not to look at so much, he drawls, “well, my thighs do feel a little sore. be a doll and help a guy out, yeah?”

when he wraps a sweaty arm around you and pecks your head, you realise it's already too late to have regrets.

[ellana-ravenwood]

“Batman, you need to-IS THAT A BABY ?!” - Batfam x Fem!reader

Synopsis : Bruce and Batmom bring their newborn daughter to the Watchtower, so she can meet their friends (or vice versa). Includes an overprotective Damian, League members who cannot believe the Batman is smiling, and other shenanigans.  

Oop, I’m back (?). My dudes. It’s been TWO YEARS since I last posted here. Two. Years. I posted like, two life update...don’t know if some of y’all saw it, but long story short : I got married, I have a son now, and everything is going so well in my life that I didn’t really need the validation I got from writing online...Buuuuuuuuuuuuut, I still love writing. And so, after quite a long break, here I am :). Hope you will enjoy this, don’t hesitate to let me know if you do : 

Please, do not repost my stories anywhere else, under any other form. Do not translate and then repost them either. Thank you.

My masterlist : @ella-ravenwood-archives

________________________________________________

“You’re evil, you know that right ?” You say, raising an eyebrow.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love.” He answers, a small smile on his lips. You turn to him and...Oh that smug look, that smug look you loved so much. He definitely DEFINITELY knew what he was doing. 

And that it was utterly...evil. 

“It’s going to be FUN !” 

Ah, and here’s his little devil. Damian himself. He loved this. Partly because he thought it was funny to mess with everyone, partly because he liked showing that you guys were a family. 

“They won’t believe their eyes !” His little voice kept going, followed by a big roar of laughter that sounded, by all means, more childlike than devilish. 

“That they won’t, they always seem so surprised when Bruce acts like a human.” 

Jason. Still not calling Bruce “dad” (except sometimes, by “accident”, and even him don’t realize he did), he’d only slowly been back at the manor, with all of you. And, for sure, a certain important event which happened about four months ago made it so he came back to live at home.

Dick chuckled and added : “Who would blame them ? We’re talking about a man who eats his burgers with a knife and fork !” He gestured to his father with his left thumb, his other hand shielding part of his mouth as if he was telling them all a secret, as if he was trying to be discreet, so his dad wouldn’t hear...Always quite the little clown, that eldest son of yours. With his exaggerated mannerism, and that sparkle in his eyes, in his smile. 

“I’m certain some of them thought he was genuinely a cyborg for YEARS” Tim added, quite seriously, his tone the opposite of his older brother (and that was just his way of joking...you think). And honestly ? Yeah, you were pretty sure some of your friends at the JLA thought your husband was a robot, at one point. 

Oh yes. That’s where you were going, to the JLA’s headquarters. To execute Bruce’s plan. Quite the evil plan indeed. 

“Hell, even I thought he was one before I met you guys !” Duke chimed in, and that made Cassandra smile widely, as she shook her head up and down pointing at Duke as if to say : “what he just said”. 

And in a very Bruce manner, your husband kept a straight face, ignoring his children’s teasing. Only you, saw that twinkle in his eyes, that smile that might not reach his mouth, but was definitely dancing in those bright blue eyes. 

Oh yes. Yes, your friends were in for quite the surprise. 

************

Meanwhile, in the Justice League headquarters : 

“Oh, hey ! Look, Batman’s zeta tube is turning on ! We haven’t seen him in a while right ?”  

Indeed they haven’t. Because, well, let’s put it this way : Batman’s wife just had a baby. 

A baby girl (finally, right ? You and Cass weren’t TOO outnumbered anymore). 

And Batman had been VERY busy doting over his baby girl. 

Batman had been busy being Bruce Wayne. 

Just a man, who thought he’d never be happy again, not knowing how to handle all those feelings he had for his wife (for you), for his children. 

That was happiness then, right ? 

So, yes. Batman hasn’t been much at the JLA’s headquarters lately. But your husband thought, it was finally time to go see his friends a little bit. He knew they were all up there, because it was their monthly reunion (once each month, they gathered to talk about the state of the world, the universe, what threat lingered, what lurked beyond...and to get very drunk, and see their friends, the only ones who knew what it meant to be a “hero”). 

And that what’s made him particularly evil. 

He knew, they would all be there. He knew what their reaction was going to be. After all, his memory was amazing, he definitely hadn’t forgot the way they reacted the first time they saw you, the first time they learned he had children (childrEN, plural !). 

And he knew they were a little worried about him. 

He had missed their last three reunions, and only answered : “Everything is ok” to their messages asking if he was alright (they hadn’t dared to go see if he was indeed ok, because last time they did that, they found him bed ridden with all the bones in his body broken, and he got so mad at them for butting in his business he worked twice as hard when he was fine again, and didn’t talk a WORD for months...that was, of course, years ago, before you were in his life, but the experience was still in their minds and so, they decided to respect his privacy, he would come to them when ready). And he never pushed his “red button”, him, or anyone in the family. 

They just assumed he was busy, they hoped it wasn’t anything bad. 

Yes. They were worried. For him. For you. For your kids. For Alfred. For your dogs, your cats, your cow...They. Were. Worried. 

And Bruce knew. 

You told him, when your pregnancy was confirmed, to tell his friends. That they would be happy. But after his own initial happy thought, his surge of hope and love at knowing he was going to be a dad again, he started to make his plan. 

Why tell them, when you could toy with them ? 

“They deserve it.” He told you, and you weren’t sure if they did, but you weren’t about to fight him on that. After all, you too, thought it could be amusing. Amusing to hide your pregnancy, making up excuses as to why they couldn't come see you, and you didn’t come up the headquarter. Amusing, to even hide it quite expertly from any form of news (Bruce was a MASTER of disguise, not only for himself), so it would be a real surprise. 

Amusing, to have your little girl in secret, with only your family. Amusing, but also what you wanted. For this good news to be just between you, your children, and Alfred. Your close family. Because you had too few things that just were yours. 

This had to be yours. Your thing, your secret, your own happiness. Yours, and only yours. And you found it was good, that you guys spend the first few months of your daughter’s life only between yourselves. 

It was nice, to go out “disguised” as a normal couple, and show your daughter Gotham (and how her little eyes already tried to take the entire world within them). 

It was nice, to live in total privacy for a little bit. 

So, yes, you had been a little selfish. And he had, too. You knew it wasn’t just to prank his friends, he kept it all a secret. That it was also to have some quality time with his family. To spend the first few months of his daughter’s life being the only one being utterly smitten with her. 

Though, this last thing wasn't true...You were, too. And your children ? Let’s just say your daughter had not been alone ONCE since she was born. And she seemed to love it. 

Whenever she made the slightest sound, smiled, laughed (or cried), they were there, Bruce was there, absolutely loving that little baby. 

She was almost 4 months old now, and Bruce thought that the gist had to be up. What scale did he use to measure this amount of “readiness” ? You had no idea. You thought he was just now ready to share his happiness with his friends, and not just his close family. 

And so here you were, after months of secrecy carefully crafted and orchestrated by your husband, in the JLA’s headquarters, along with your family, the little new addition to said family in your husband’s arms. 

Evil. Your husband was downright evil. 

He knew that what was about to happen would have a massive impact on his friends. He. KNEW. 

And as the zeta tube brought all your family up there, you knew that as he saw their faces, your husband was a little TOO happy with himself for his little “prank”. 

************

“Batman, are you al- IS THAT A BABY ?” Very typical, very in character : the first to react was Flash himself. 

None of the other noticed, and they seemed inclined to think Barry had lost his mind but then...

Bruce’s face didn’t move an inch, he just held that little “package”, and had his same stoic expression except...Except there was a little hand grabbing at his chin. 

Then another hand appeared out of that bundle Batman carried, with a bat plushie bunched in a tight fist, shaking it and...Cooing. 

Cute little sounds, and the way- EXCUUUuuUuuuUSE ME ?

The way Batman just softly looked at her, the way his cold expression was replaced by a tender one as he lowered his eyes to her ??

WHAT ?! 

They knew. They knew he had THE softest spot for his family. They knew his scary aura greatly dimmed when he was around his wife and children. They knew that when they weren’t there, he was only made of shadows. They were his light, his salvation. 

They knew he didn’t have the same face expression, when they were around.

Well, when they were looking at him...Barry swore that Batman loomed around his family, standing menacingly behind them, his eyes cold and calculating as if he was ready to fight any seconds to save his loved ones, and then whenever they turned to him his feature would instantly soften. He will ALWAYS remember the first time he met little Dickie, 9 years old and so full of joy and life, and how whenever he would look at Batman and talk to him, said Batman got a softer expression somewhat, but then when Dick turned around, Batman looked about to murder them whenever they came too close from him. 

Once, Tim, also 9 at the time, years after the JLA met Dick, told Barry matter of factly : “He doesn’t kill people. He could break your knee caps though” in a very Tim fashion. The kid was serious. And had noticed the aura surrounding his dad, how it changed when he was around (he noticed more than his siblings, because for a while, Bruce had been really cold and distant with him, since he met him not long after Jason’s death..understandable. So he was the only one who had this sort of behavior aimed at him, the shield Bruce put in front of him to keep everyone away so he wouldn’t be hurt, the shield that now was lowered for them and only them). 

It was his eyes. His eyes that were always hard and cold, became different when looking at you or his children. 

Not to say that his family never exasperated him, or that he never had his “mask” around them. After all, Bruce’s stoic expression was his face by default. It’s just that he was often too focused. And that he spend years practicing hiding his emotions, practicing keeping a blank face. Because Barry also remembered seeing Dick perched on his father’s shoulders, letting himself dangle in his back, his head upside down, whistling and kicking his feet, and Bruce having this stoic mask on, concentrated. 

Anyway, they knew all that. It had been years, since Bruce finally trusted them enough to bring his wife here, and his kids. But yet, yet they were still surprised sometimes.

Like today. 

The picture of Batman holding a baby was...a little weird. 

Even if he opened up to them over the years, he was still mostly very cold, distant and aloof. You know, Batman. That’s just who he was. So sometimes, to see him so devoted to his wife or kids, it was odd to say the least. 

And right now, as he walked towards them with a baby in his arms, the shock was real. Damn it, will there be a day when the Bat didn’t surprise them with something ? 

How did none of them notice you were pregnant ? Proof again Batman was a master of his craft. And that little girl...

Oh your daughter was such a beaming ray of sunshine, that in his arms it was particularly a jarring image. 

The big scary bat, tall, broad shouldered, muscular in every way, his face void of expressions, holding a tiny baby who kept smiling at everyone around, and playing with her plushy. 

Odd. 

Yet, sweet. 

Were they surprised ? Yes. 

Were they a little mad he hid something (AGAIN) this important from them ? Definitely. 

Were they shocked that his daughter was so darn cute and smiling and laughing that much ? Not really, because you were his mom too. 

Were they happy for him ? For sure. 

Were they going to adore that little girl ? Probably as much as they adored his other kids already, which meant...yes. Yes they were going to. 

Damn that bastard Bruce. Always so sneaky. 

Hal, couldn’t help but think : “First, he’s not a vampire, then, he’s married with children, and now, he has that cute baby. This guy ??!!” 

***********

The initial shocked passed, and only after your children MOCKED all of your friends (you had to give it to Dick, he knew how to imitate them so well..and when Damian joined in ? Oh, oh it was a fit of laughter impossible to fight that attacked them), did they approach your daughter. 

“Her name is Martha.” Bruce said “We named her after my mother.” and it wasn’t his usual flat tone he used as Batman. No, it was a soft voice he usually only reserved for his kids. And the reason he was using it now ? Well. He didn’t want to scare his daughter, as he still held her. 

She beamed at him when she heard her name, and babbled some baby nonsense. She then turned towards all those new faces, and you saw Bruce’s hand hold her a little tighter. 

Your beautiful, sweet soul husband. He clearly was worried she’d be scared, meeting all those new people. Especially since they all wore mask. But Martha-

Martha let go of her bat plushy (which Damian caught before it touched the floor, rolling on the ground in a way you thought was quite comedic. Oh, that boy), and lifted her arms up towards- 

“What a sweet little girl !” Diana said with a voice you NEVER heard her use. You realized it was her “voice reserved for babies and domestic animals”, and it made you smile. It was higher than her usual voice, and full of softness. 

You thought your daughter reached for her because she could feel the warmness in your friend. And after all, amongst all of those gathered here today, she was probably the one that adored babies the most. 

Diana looked at Bruce, who only inclined his head a little to give her the ok to lift her from his arms but-

Another arm stopped her, and took the baby away. 

Damian. 

Damian, the one who took his role as a big brother a little too seriously. 

He held Martha protectively against him, and literally sneered at all your friends. 

************

Damian deemed most of them unworthy to hold his baby sister, and only Clark ended up being allowed to carry her. And that was partly because Clark was the only one who knew about Martha, the only one who saw her already, and he had months to convince your son to trust him with her. 

Being an extremely close friend and all, you just couldn’t hide this from him and... no, really, you literally couldn’t hide this from him as he was the immediately noticed that second heartbeat when he listened in to make sure you and your family were safe. Bruce hated when he did that, but Clark wasn’t about to let them be in danger without moving an inch.

Anyway, Clark was allowed to hold her, but he gave her back to you rather quickly because your son’s stare made him uncomfortable. If eyes could kill, right ? 

Damian took his job as an older brother very seriously. He would protect her at all cost. And you had no doubt that he would be the kind of person to burn the entire world down if it meant saving his family. 

Damian only glared at everyone, letting them approach ONLY after they put on a surgical mask so they wouldn’t give her their “viruses or whatever”. 

You had to admit he was a bit much, and you asked him nicely to calm down a little. He relented on the face masks, but made them all wash their hands (twice). 

You ruffled his hair affectionately, what a sweet little boy. It broke your heart, how so many people judged him too fast. He really was, a nice kid. With a heart of gold. He just didn’t have much luck for the first few years of his life. 

But he chose to be like this. Chose to love, instead of hate. Chose to protect, instead of attacking. 

Although, right now, as Diana came back towards his sister, he definitely seems ready to high kick her (which definitely wouldn’t have hurt the amazon). 

************

It was a hassle, to convince Damian to let go of his sister so they could hold her. As per usual, it’s Dick who managed to convince him, saying Martha was all soft and cute, and everyone deserved to hold her at least once. Adding that if one of them dropped her, he would be allowed to do whatever he wanted to them. 

Some of the mightiest heroes of the planet were gathered hear, but the threat didn’t fall on deaf ears. Damian could be a little intense, and scary sometimes. 

They weren’t fooled by Dick’s agreeable smile either. A smile that didn’t always reach his eyes. They knew if they messed up, he would find every way to rip them to shreds. Dick was often seen as the calmest of your children, but his anger issues from when he was a child were never far. And he could be ruthless.  

Diana held her first, and your daughter babbled to her excitedly. 

Of course, being only 4 months old, she just talked gibberish. And it was so sweet, how Diana answered her : “What ? *babbles from your daughter* Noooooo. *more babbles from your daughter* I can’t believe he said that. And then what ? *babbles babbles babbles*”. 

After that, Dick took her back, and asked if someone else wanted to hold her, under yours and Bruce’s watchful eyes. 

Then again, in the room, many were also already parents and knew how to hold a baby. They weren’t too worried, except-

Except Dick, that little sh-, had found a new game in recent weeks. Whenever he gave his little sister to someone else...he pretended to drop her. 

And it made him laugh and laugh and laugh, to give mini-heart attacks to EVERYONE whenever he gave them his baby sister to them, as they always all panicked and screamed seeing her dropped (Dick always had her secure, he only pretended to drop her of course). 

“Oh no careful !” He’d scream, dropping his arms suddenly (she looooved it) while still gripping her, and they’d scramble to catch her, and he would just laugh. 

“You little-” Hal’s colorful words were...imaginative. And Damian was inclined to agree, since his brother pranked him oh, I don’t know, only about A HUNDRED TIMES since their little sister was born. 

You wouldn’t admit it, but it made you laugh a little too. Even if he got you a few times as well, pretending he was going to drop her. Then again, you trusted your eldest son. Once you and Bruce wouldn’t be around anymore, you knew he would hold this family together. 

************

Martha was a calm baby. She let people hold her, curious enough to not fuss and watch them all intently. It made Barry uncomfortable, how she held his gaze and would just stare at him. 

She would stare, and stare, and stare, and her bright blue eyes were EXACTLY like Bruce’s, it felt like being stared down by a miniature version of Batman. 

He didn’t like it. So he gave her back to whomever was closest, which happened to be Jason

Jason, who was always very delicate with his little sister. He handled her as if he’d break her. It broke your heart, to know he probably literally thought that. 

He refused to hold her at first, sure he would hurt her. But she kept reaching for him, crying when he wouldn’t take her, and she was so adorable and-

He caved, of course. After a little while. And he was oh, the fixture of a patient older brother. You knew he would ALWAYS be part of her life, and step in whenever she needed to. 

Right now, she was grabbing his hair, which were getting quite long, and pulling hard on them as babies do and- He didn’t say anything. He just let her do it. 

You really hoped she wasn’t going to take advantage of this when she’d get older, even if you already had visions of her having her brothers and father wrapped around her little finger, having her sister too, and...apparently, the entirety of the JLA. 

************

“How can such an a-hole make such a cute baby ?” Hal said, looking at the little girl he held. She was sort of dozing off, which for sure was adorable. 

Bruce only glared at him, which amused Hal greatly. He just gave him the shock of his life, he could laugh at his expense a little, right ? 

“I believe, to make a baby, you need to-”

“Um, no, Jon, please, I know how to ! It’s just-Oh, forget it.” 

Flustered, Hal Jordan was flustered. Jon J’onzz didn’t seem to get why, but then again, human sarcasms and irony were still very foreign to him. He always answered pragmatically to people. 

Talking about pragmatism. Hal handed back your daughter to Tim, who slipped her in his favorite new contraption : the baby carrier 3.0 (of his own design). Made so he could do all sort of work while having her strapped to him. Keeping an eye on her at all time. 

Tim adopted the use of a baby carrier, so he could still work while taking care of her (he stole the idea from his dad, who definitely hung around with his daughter EVERYWHERE with that thing...which was the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen, this tall broad man and this tiny baby attached to his chest). 

It was so cute to see her little feet dangling while he was working. Damian nearly lost it when he found Tim WELDING two pieces of metal together with the baby carrier on his front. Tim merely said : “I made her baby sized goggles and a fireproof pyjama, she’s fine, and she likes it” and indeed, your daughter didn’t have a scratch, and cried when Damian hauled her away from the sparks. Ooooh the smug look on Tim’s face as his brother gave her back reluctantly. Damian’s was utterly vexed. 

Vexation he forgot just a few minutes later, when Martha decided she had enough of sparkles and made little sounds of protest (not quite cries), and reached her little arms to him. 

As of now, Tim had her in this baby carrier again, and was strolling around the JLA headquarters, showing his new little sister to everyone. 

************

Cassandra didn’t say a word, as per usual. She never liked big crowds, only spoke to those she trusted the most. Her brothers, her parents. 

She only gestured to others. Remained quiet. But she monitored every little movements. 

Hawkgirl approached her sister ? Noted. Carefully studying every move. Martian Manhunter asked if he could hold her ? Noted. 

Superman made little babbling sound at her, while her dad held her ? Noted, with amusement. It was funny, to see one of Earth’s mightiest hero grimacing to a baby to make it laugh, while said baby was held by another mighty hero who was utterly stoned face. Cass’ smiled at her dad, who smiled back for a fraction of seconds before Clark shifted his head up to look at him too, and Bruce went back to his : “ -_-” face, by reflex really. 

Cassandra never spoke much, but she loved a lot. And her way of loving her little sister ? It was to always keep a watchful eye on her, so she could react to whatever she needed. And give her space when she needed to. 

She had many brothers, she often joked that if she lost one, she could just replace him (a joke you didn’t like much, because you knew it was just a self-defense from her, to shield her heartbreak at the mere idea of loosing a sibling), but only had one sister...

Yes. Your youngest child definitely held a special place in everyone’s heart. 

And you could see her slowly creep in every members’ of the Justice League’s heart too. 

Gods, you couldn’t even imagine what would happen to the person who would one day try to hurt her. You could bet, though, he wouldn’t get out of it unscathed (to say the least). 

************

Martha was particularly fond of Duke’s inuit kiss. He had the capacity to instantly calm her, and he could easily feel her inner emotions. 

As she was passed around everyone, and she started to be tired and cranky, he simply retrieved her and brought her to Bruce, because he knew that was her preferred spot to fall asleep. 

He kissed her on the forehead, and sure enough, she was asleep before he could pull away. Your husband put a warm hand on Duke’s head, a warm smile on his face. That boy could always tell what others felt. It was a gift, really, and sometimes a curse as others’ feelings could leak into him. Which is to say that sometimes, when others were sad, he would be too...

But for now, he felt content. At peace. Because his dad was, too. 

And indeed, Bruce, holding his sleeping daughter against his heart, his hand supporting her head gently, was utterly at peace. 

He loved the idea that his arms were his daughter’s favorite place to sleep, and never refused to hold her to help her sleep. You sure were a little jealous, but he told you : “They all always come to you when they need comfort, one kid out of six, you surely can give me, right ?” and though you knew he was joking, it broke your heart a little. 

So, you let go of your jealousy, and let him have this indeed. Martha was definitely a daddy’s girl. And that was good. You could see the impact on your husband, how having a baby in the house soothed him. 

He loved his kids so damn much. He often said they were his lights. And the fact Martha found comfort with him ? 

It reminded him of his own parents. How he would go to his mom, a Martha too, to find the same comfort. To fall asleep in the same way. 

You let go of that small jealousy, as you saw her falling soundly asleep, cuddled up against her dad. And it was funny, how Bruce would take his usual Batman persona, stone faced, standing straight and- 

Having one of two fingers held tightly by both of his daughter’s little hands. She grabbed them as he took her, one hand holding her (she was so tiny...and he was a big dude), the other, she used as a sort of comfort plushy. She held them with all her might, as she slept. 

And Bruce was speaking battle plans, and you had to fight the laughter in you as all your friends couldn’t help but stare at the scene, not knowing how to feel. 

Hal snickered at one point, and he made a gesture for him to zip it, and it was quite an odd scene, as he held his daughter and did that childish gesture. 

Seriously. That guy !! 

************

Batman smiling was...different. 

They all got caught staring at him, when he had his daughter in his arms. Staring because his broad smile was-

Well. Broad. 

It wasn’t his signature smirk. It wasn’t a soft smile. It wasn’t a half-smile. It wasn’t a smile that you could only see in his eyes. 

It was a full on big ass smile (as Barry would say). 

And sure, they already saw him smile like that (although he schooled his face back to “stone mode” when he noticed them looking), never that much. 

As if the birth of his daughter gave Batman another new light, and it was just impossible to yield to his old demon, to brood, when holding that ray of sunshine. 

It made them all feel...soft. And warm. 

It was nice, to know the bat wasn’t just a machine. They forgot it sometimes, that he was, in the end, “just” a man. They forgot why he became Batman. The pain and guilt he held inside. But moments like this, they were reminded of it. 

That the Batman didn’t exist because of hatred, but because of love. 

Because he loved his parents, his city, and now- 

His family. 

It was nice, to get reminded that there was a man below the mask. And though he could be an “a-hole” sometimes, there, holding his baby, he was just that. 

A loving man, who wanted to protect others. 

************

You made a note of every moments you would cherish forever of you introducing your daughters to them all : 

1. The shock on their faces as they beheld the sight of THE BATMAN holding a baby against him, and being so delicate. 

2. Your daughter being the star of the show, all of them smitten with her !

3. Your friends wanting to hold her, and how they beamed at her (and she beamed back, except with Barry, whom she only stared at for some reasons). 

4. Dick’s “game” of pretending he dropped her, and their panicked reaction. 

5. The success of Tim’s baby carrier, and how now, there was always one up in the tower. 

6. Diana and how it definitely seemed like she would move mountain for that child. 

7. How Clark’s eyes filled with tears again, as he looked at Martha. Because it made his friends so happy. You and Bruce. And especially Bruce. And Clark was an emotional man, who suffered too, and was just so happy “The Batman” was happy. 

8. How Jason seemed at peace with his little sister, and how whenever he held her, he seemed less weary than usual around everyone. Like Cass, he didn’t like much being amongst too many people. But now, it felt like he had an “emotional support baby”. Ah. 

9. Their reactions, past the shock, welcoming that new life in the world. 

10. How Bruce monitored his daughter being held by his friends, holding your hand. Even after all those years, when he acted close to you in his Batman costume, it made you...feel things. He always kept a facade as Batman. A facade that would crumble with his kids, and especially with you. PDA weren’t rare. And even after years at his side, it always made your heart beat wildly when he showed affection towards you in public, because it meant- 

Oh it meant so much. 

And you had so many more moments forever ingrained in your heart from that day spend up at the JLA’s headquarters. 

Too many to count. Some sweet, some hilarious- 

All positive feelings. 

And as you and your family stepped back in the zeta tubes, your friends saying “byyyyye” to Martha especially, with their baby voice (making Bruce roll his eyes), and as she waved at them- 

Waved for the FIRST TIME ever oh. 

Oh it felt like you would die of happiness. 

And still, Bruce’s hands held yours tightly. 

He knew. 

He knew, you were the source of this happiness he thought he could never find again. 

He knew. 

He never loved like that before. 

Yes. It felt like you could just die of happiness.

__________________________________________________

And here we are. I hope you enjoyed this. Don’t hesitate to comment and/or reblog, it’s always greatly appreciated :). 

Also, initially, the child was going to be Thomas (their son in my “main” storyline, if you already read a few works from me), but last minute, I was like : “wait no, I want to give Bruce a daughter, and the boys a sister. Also, poor Cass eh ?” and here we are. I really hope you liked this; I’m nervous for some reasons. Anyway. See you soon with another one ? 

[hitomisuzuya]

Oh miss Hito! Can I plead. I mean please. Request wanderer/scara, perhaps hybrid? (cannon genshin) accidentally smelling some type of aphrodisiac mushroom while doing a commission, and when he finds you he starts to act weird, having really flirt comments he brushes off just to end up slamming the door to ur room and nuzzling on ur thighs, biting them and grinding himself into the mattress with such a sweet sound.

I just want him to get off just by being that close, and who knows maybe scara will rip our panties off and eat like he’s starving

hybrid!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. grinding. cunnilingus. accidental aphrodisiac usage (i really did not know how to word that). biting. whiny scara.

this request was so intimate 😳

it's inevitable that one will sneeze if something tickles the nose. some pollen happened to be floating by on the wind, connecting right with scaramouche's nostrils.

his ears twitch as he sneezes. it's a big sneeze, one that made him inhale sharply before he sneezed again. the force of said sneeze blew aphrodisiac spores from a mushroom into the air. his second sneeze is what made him inhale it.

"what the fuck is this shit?" he grumbles, batting at the air to disperse the spores. wrinkling his nose, his tail flicks as he continues on his way.

he originally planned to spend the day laying around, and napping. however, as time went on and the aphrodisiac spore's affects start to settle in (which was a little faster than most. consistent irritation made it trickle into his system that much faster), he started thinking about you.

a lot.

when his cock starts to throb just from the mere thought of you, he knows the only thing he wants to do is find you. every fiber screams inside him that he needs you. it didn't matter what he did to try and get his mind off of you, it didn't work.

before he knows it, scaramouche is gritting his teeth, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands to try and control his thoughts. your delicate little body would look so fucking hot swollen with his children.

he can barely ignore the aching in his cock as he knocks on your door. even though it's only a few moments before you answer the door, he thinks you take too long.

you sense something is off. way way way off. "scaramouche? is something wrong?" you are concerned. he just doesn't random drop by, not being the very social type. still though, you are glad to see him, and his charming ears.

"can i come in?" his voice shakes, a little strained. "no, wait, you should stay back," it really would've been for your own good, even if it wouldn't have done you much good in the end. he doesn't know what he is capable of.

"huh?" you tilt your head, confused. you practically have to pull teeth getting him to come inside usually. "are you okay?"

scaramouche barely hears your question. his eyes are shamelessly sliding down your body before he even realizes it. "fuck, those thighs of yours. i could just.." your thighs look so soft, so pliable.

thoughts of holding them apart while he fucks you absolutely stupid consume him.

"w-what? do you even hear yourself?" you blush, looking away shyly. his comments are making your heart pound faster than it usually does whenever he is around.

his skin looks flushed, and his breathing is labored. "are you running a fever?" you start to put your hand on his forehead, "let me check."

"stop it," he growls, batting your hand away. "just forget this happened."

you stand there, stunned as you watch him leave. you want to stop him, and try and find what is going on, but you know that it won't do any good. as you close the door, you swear you hear him scream "FUCK!" in the distance.

hours later, the aphrodisiac is still coursing strong through him. you smelled so good it was suffocating to him. soon enough, he finds himself back at your house, clenching his fists tight.

scaramouche decided to say fuck off to the concept of knocking, simply just walking into your house. "so fucking naive," he hisses discovering your door unlocked, not concerned about just walking in like this.

you are always way too fucking nice to be mad about it.

he zeros in on your scent immediately. you are right up in your bedroom, practically waiting like a wrapped present for him.

"you left your front door unlocked, idiot," his eyes widen seeing you in only a clingy shirt and panties. "oh? doing laundry?" his eyes are anything but discreet as he crawls onto your bed.

you are stunned, watching him crawl onto your bed. "scaramouche? are you okay? i have been worried about you?" the novel you are reading drops from your hand as you watch him crawl to settle at your thighs. "what are you doing?"

"hmm, if you are worried about me, then that means you want to take care of me," his head is getting awfully close to your thighs, and it makes your heart hammer in your chest. his ears flick, keenly picking up your increased heart rate.

"just let me nuzzle them for awhile. they have looked so fucking tempting all day," he sighs shakily, brushing his cheek against your thigh. he fully expects to rightfully kick him away. he has just walked into your room, and was rubbing himself against your very bare thighs suddenly.

you didn't fight him, and he didn't know exactly how you felt about him. "what happened earlier?" you lay back, letting him do as he pleases. in the end, you couldn't and didn't want to say no to him.

scaramouche would rather the ground swallow him whole than admit what happened. "i won't lie, i'm really fucking turned on right now," his cock throbs as his tongue sweeps out to lick the inside of your thigh.

this close to your panties, he can smell the warmth and arousal of your cunt. "your skin..so pretty.." he breathes shakily, skimming his teeth against your skin. "so unmarked," you let out a soft moan as his teeth start to nip and bite your skin.

you squirm a little as he pulls a mound of skin into his mouth to suck on. goosebumps prickle onto your skin as his tongue prods the inflamed flesh before moving onto a different spot. the insides of your thighs tingle as his thumbs brush again them.

you moan softly as he focuses on a sensitive spot. scaramouche whimpers softly, rutting his aching cock against the mattress. "such a pretty noise, so it again."

he can smell you are starting to get wet. moaning, he increases the pressure of his bites, his tongue lapping greedily at your soft flesh. "last chance to push me away, i don't know if i can control myself," he growls, inhaling the sweet scent of your pussy.

"i..i.." is all you can manage, moaning a little louder as his tongue sussed out your clit outside your panties. he groans tasting you, letting saliva soak your panties.

"these are in the way," he mumbles, easily shredding them off of you. immediately, he parts your soaking folds with his tongue, licking long and slow. he can't stop grinding his cock into the mattress. you taste so fucking good it blew his mind.

you gasp as his tongue circles your clit. your hands tremble, shakily finding the back of his head. the sensitive nub throbs and swells. wanting more friction, you gently press his mouth down onto your pussy. "your tongue," you moan shamelessly, "it feels so good."

his fingers press into your thighs, holding them apart as he laps at your quivering hole. he can't hold back his soft whimpers and moans as he devours your hole, prodding the sensitive nerves around your entrance.

"fuck, i am gonna cum," he moans, scooping your clit into his mouth to suck on. his tail curls around your thigh as your hips rock to grind on his mouth, your taste saturates his tongue.

scaramouche didn't know how much he needs to feel you, to taste you, to devour you until now. his body burns with the need. "i need more," he whimpers, holding your pussy on his mouth for a moment, his thumbs stroking the blossoming bruises on your thigh.

cum spills into his shorts listening to whimper while he sucks on your clit. "maybe i'll deny you to enjoy my meal longer," the effects of the aphrodisiac hardly show signs of wavering.

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

When you, a puppy!hybrid first learned of your bunny!hybrid bf’s rut, you were very excited. He was such a cute little thing, and you couldn’t wait to tease his cock and help him through his rut by stroking him and riding him until he cried…

Those were your plans, but…

“H-hold on, too much!”

You cried out, your pussy puffy and swollen from abuse as your boyfriend held onto your hips, fucking into you at an agonizing pace.

“C-can’t stop… too good, gotta fill you up…”

He grabbed onto your tail, whimpering softly into your floppy puppy ear as he knotted you yet again. You would think he’d give you a break, but no. He kept rutting into you even as your pussy stretched over his swollen, throbbing knot.

His fluffy bunny ears twitched, his cotton tail wagging furiously. You felt so warm, so good, all he could think of was breeding your puppy cunt.

He could almost imagine how precious you would look with your belly heavy and swollen with his kits, milk leaking out of your fat tits…

You’d never been so exhausted, your heats didn’t compare at all to his rut. He fucked you into the early morning, your thighs shaking and stomach full of his cum.

“Sorry, pup…” he whispered into your ear, rutting into your cunt lazily as you slept. “But you said you wanted to help… and it made me so happy…”

The next week was full of mating, and by the end of it there was no doubt you’d end up pregnant.

You’d never underestimate a bunny’s rut again.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @screaming-crying-screamingagain @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @j3llyphisching @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"ITS A BIRD ITS A PLANE NO THATS MY SON..."

Bio: More of baby Cairo, the son of WB!reader and Conner Kent. Based of this post

Cairo Kent Who is the cutest little boy to have ever appeared in the spotlight: 3c curls and a light tan with the biggest smile known to man. He is literally the sun, and he could light the whole room with just his presence alone. Little Cairo is a spitting image of his dad; he looks too much like Conner—his cheeky laugh, his goofy personality, and his little pout. It's like that one meme: "Nine's mouth in my stomach making me suffer just to look like your damn daddy!" But you don't mind having him look like your husband. It was cute when he was a mini version of Conner; once, Conner made a joke of calling him "Kon Jr." You were not having it; you wanted to give him a C name that matched with the Kents, and Cairo just rolled off the tongue too well.

But just like you, Cairo is kind of an introvert; and when I say “kind of,��� I mean a lot. He gets really nervous and anxious around people. You remember having a parent-teacher conference with his Pre-K teacher. She said that he didn't play with the other kids and was always by himself, which made a lot of sense because that was you. He may look like his daddy, but he has your subtle awkwardness down to a tee. But don't worry, he'll get adopted by super extroverts just like you did, and those Kryptonian genes are strong. Your little boy has powers; he's prone to flying around a lot, barely using his legs for anything. You have to scare him into walking around by saying that he’ll lose his legs if he flies too much. It worked, and it also worked on Conner as well.

Whenever it's time for date night, and you and Conner are too busy to take care of your little bugger, your mom takes care of him. But you refuse to let any of the Bat family get anywhere near Cairo; you're practically hiding him away from them. I mean, who knows how they act? You don't want him to get neglected like you did—pushed to the side, ignored, seen as an outcast. You didn't want those yandere tendencies to rub off on your son. But when Bruce begged to see him, you couldn't say no, and I guess he was the center of attention—which is an understatement. Bruce couldn't keep his hands off the little man, twirling Cairo around, cooing, using a baby voice on him. You feel a smile creep up on your face; the way he treats him can't let them think you're growing soft on them. You're still their biggest hater.

At your baby shower, Damien tried to give you a present for young Cairo; it was two dual swords, and he’ll have to learn how to use them soon. At least the other gifts were more acceptable—baby clothes, little hats. Alfred absolutely adores Cairo, and now your son is starting to get a little British accent the more he hangs out with the butler. Dick and Jason are having a literal staring contest over who gets to hold him. You never really liked kids—not even babies—but when little Cairo holds his finger, his heart melts, and he succumbs to baby fever. Stephanie and Cass can't wait to dress him up in little suits, and Babs has the weirdest baby voice when talking to him, while Damien is trying to make your son into a warrior: "Soon, one day you will be covered with the blood of your enemies!" But for now, he's going to be covered in strawberry jam. Does he have dreams of being a hero? We don't really know—he's in his own world, and there's nerd starting to appear in him. Conner's genes may be strong, but the way he's wandering off to the toy aisle so fast to get a Star Wars Lego set shows that the nerd never dies.

[kelltonic]

Admiration☆彡

Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Drunkenness/alcohol!! Other than that all fluff. Canon-typical asshole Hangman. established relationship and mentions of introverted girlfriend - no use of y/n

Description: While drinking at the Hard Deck with his fellow daggers, Fanboy finally gets to prove the origins of his callsigns through his drunken ramblings about his (civilian) girlfriend.

WC: 1,580

A/N: My first time posting fanfiction on this account!! Glad it’s dedicated to my underrated husband <33 - on that note, I did write this instead of studying (I’m mid exams) as a form of procrastination, and honestly a de-stressing exercise type thing lmao

“Earth to Garcia?” Mickey hears as he slowly raises his head from his phone, awaiting a text from his girlfriend after the string of ‘I miss you’ and ‘you won’t believe what Reuben just said’ messages.

“Huh? Did you say something?” Fanboy responds, unsure of who grabbed his attention.

“Man, what’s even so interesting on your phone? Come on! Live in the moment!” Javy disappointedly scolded him, gaining some nods and murmurs of agreement. Majority of the squadron were sitting in a spacious booth, various alcoholic drinks accompanying them. Fanboy was squished in between Payback and Hangman while sitting across from Phoenix, Bob and Coyote while Fritz and Rooster sat at the end in seperate chairs.

“Sorry I find my girlfriend more interesting than you guys.” Fanboy scoffed sarcastically.

“Really? Doesn’t seem like she’s responding anytime soon.” Hangman joked with that bothersome southern drawl, peering over to see Fanboy’s one sided conversation. He didn’t blame you, it was late. Really late. The daggers were given a day off and decided to celebrate, not having to worry about getting up early - despite the fact majority probably would anyways.

“She’s probably just asleep, she has exams.” Fanboy defended, he didn’t want the others to get the wrong idea, that he was needy or anything. Though, it didn’t really help. But he wasn’t lying, you were mid exam week in college and were conditioning yourself to a better sleep schedule, he would probably tell you to go to sleep if you did ever respond.

“Mhm… I’m starting to think she’s been made up.” Hangman mocked, no matter how much alcohol he has - he will always find a way to push someone’s buttons. If anything, the alcohol made him more irritating. But before Fanboy could interject, he was saved by his best friend.

“Trust me, she’s real.” Payback groaned. Fanboy wasn’t surprised that he backed him up, or that he seemed so annoyed about it. Reuben had nothing against you, to be honest, he hadn’t even met you in person. But, he did have the unfortunate role of being the closest to Mickey in every outburst he had when he was away from you for too long and needed to scroll through all your shared memories. Reuben had lost count of how many times Mickey showed him his favourite photo of you two right before he got called to Top Gun.

“Really? I need proof or I’m never believing you.” Hangman emphasised, more likely bored than actually unbelieving. Mickey was attractive, both physically and personality-wise, it’s no shocker he’s dating someone. But when your foundation is being a dickhead, and you add alcohol and boredom to the equation, you need someone to annoy. Fanboy was just the easiest target for Hangman given the situation.

“Haha, no chance.” Fanboy swiftly replied. He absolutely loved showing people photos of you. Displaying you with pride, like a toddler showing off their artwork. But when it came to people in the military, specifically other men in the military, he always felt icky. After hearing too much nasty locker room talk, he really only described you and your shared experiences, keeping away from physical depictions and photos. The only exceptions were guys he really trusted, like Reuben. And it’s not even that he doesn’t trust Jake, he just doesn’t want to risk you getting involved in his constant teasing.

“Come on, you always talk about her - just one photo!” Phoenix chimed in, genuinely curious. Fanboy took a second, he was always easy to persuade when he was drunk. But, he stuck to his values and faced his phone away from Jake while scrolling through his favourites album.

“Seriously?” Hangman bluntly groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. “I swear I wont actually say anything weird.” Hangman pleaded, that signature smile spread across his slightly flushed cheeks.

“No shot.” Mickey responded, clicking on one of his favourites of you. You were in a beautiful black dress with some light makeup, it was the one time he ever successfully persuaded you to go to a big party. You were smiling widely, holding onto Mickey while both of you were laughing your asses off. It was a candid one of your mutual friends took while you were both drunk out of your minds. Your hair was slightly tucked behind your ear, revealing an earplug. You were never good with loud noises or bustling groups, so Mickey bought you earplugs to colour match your jewellery. You seemed so happy, and Mickey couldn’t have been more relieved. He was terrified that he would finally get you to go out to a big party and you would hate it, so he sought to make you as comfortable as possible in the situation.

He proudly flipped his phone towards the other side of the booth, presenting you to Phoenix, Bob and Coyote while Rooster and Fritz peeked over. Just about everyone was curious at this point, they had always gotten bits and pieces of his ranting about you but never actually seen the face that matches the admiration.

“Aww!! She’s so pretty.” Bob reacted softly, trying not to overstep but also wanting to validate Fanboy.

“The dress is stunning on her.” Phoenix raved with an approving smile to Fanboy.

“I know, everything’s stunning on her.” He sighed thoughtfully. Despite the fact you were dating, he was still acting like a schoolgirl yearning over her celebrity crush. The others could only laugh at this, while Hangman just drank from his beer. He doesn’t usually feel left out due to his very extroverted and dominating personality, but this was an exception.

“Well that explains a lot.” Rooster chuckled.

“Huh?” Fanboy was seemingly brought out of his trance, tilting his head at Rooster’s comment.

“Your callsign, always wondered what warranted it.” Rooster elaborated, gaining a group-wide laugh. It was so true, he was full on fanboying over you.

His slight embarrassment to his exposure was quickly taken to a halt when his phone buzzed while Phoenix was holding his phone, admiring the photo.

“Mickey baby, you drinking responsibly or just drinking?” You texted. You couldn’t help but laugh at the seemingly millions of messages you had gotten while locked in studying - cramming - for your next exam in… about 7 hours.

Mickey chuckled at your message the moment he snatched his phone back. But, his remaining responsibility took control as he replied.

“You should be sleeping! I love youuuuuuuuuu1!1!1!! go to sleep!” He typed out, his heart sad that he knows he can’t keep you up. But, his last remaining brain cells were aware that you needed to sleep for your big exam in the morning.

“No fair, you texted me first.” You groaned, knowing he was right.

“Yeahhh but like…. I don’t have work in the morning.” He sighed, he was so excited for your exams to be over so he could endlessly bug you without feeling guilty about taking up your time.

“What’s going on now?” Hangman interjected, finally trying to weasel his way back into the conversation.

“I’m telling her to go to sleep, I wasn’t lying - she’s got exams.” Fanboy whined, he was desperate to talk to you - he was always extra clingy when drunk.

“Ooh that reminds me of this other photo.” He quickly switched up, you stopped replying so he could tell you got the message and (hopefully) went to sleep rather than uselessly cramming.

“Oh lord not again.” Reuben moaned, falling back into the seat while he had to sit through yet another rant about you.

“I took this one after the last one when we were in bed..” Mickey was swiftly cut off by some disapproving noises.

“No, no, not like that, it’s nothing sexual - it’s cute!” Mickey reassured, not surprised that his friends’ minds immediately went there.

He pulled up a photo of him lying on your chest while you were both pressed together on your sides, lipstick marks all over his face. He had about a dozen kisses on his face printed from your lipstick, and he couldn’t have been happier. He and you were both still clearly drunk - only the bottom half of your face in frame. Your hair was dangling onto Mickey while he was tucked just below your chin, leaning into your chest. Your smile was just in frame, while his was front and centre. He loved the photo not only for its contents, but also the fact that it was one of your favourites. Mickey explained to his friends the backstory, and how you never really liked seeing or taking photos of yourself. So the fact that you were only partially in frame yet your presence was one of the most significant aspects, it was perfect.

“Okay, okay, we get it - you’re an absolute fanboy. Can we talk about something else now?” Hangman complained, still excluded from the presentation.

“This is what you get for being such an asshole and taking advantage of any personal thing we tell you, Bagman.” Phoenix responded, utilising her daily humbling moment. With a few ‘karma’ and ‘deserved’ comments flying around alongside the comfortable laughter, Mickey couldn’t help but feel so at home. He missed you more than anything, and he couldn’t wait to introduce you to his friends.

“Good night baby ❤️ ❤️” you finally texted back.

“Were you studying just then??”

“I had to finish up!!”

“Yeah? Well good night sweetheart, sleep well ❤️” he replied, shaking his head with a small chuckle.

Began: 1:00am 21st of June

Finished: 2:30am 21st of June

[rasberrybabez]

★⚽₊⊹ ᰔ °⋆

Footballer!Simon who has a habit of acting out on and off the pitch, despite being the team’s star striker. Millions of fans crowd the stadium to watch him play, but really to watch the way a man like that can throw a punch.

Footballer!Simon who is too good of an asset for the team to loose, but the coach is so fed up with his attitude that he needs some rehab. Sends him to a training camp for little kids, to volunteer coach put in the country and hopefully get his act together.

Footballer!Simon that wasn’t nothing to do with little brats and a summer camp, until he meets her. The camp counselor that treats him like just a man, no fan of fortune attached. Counselor!Reader that knows why Simon is here, and treats him like a little boy who needs an attitude adjustment.

Footballer!Simon that finds out he’s extremely, extremely attracted to finally being the one getting yelled at, but only by her.

Counselor!Reader who loves her job, and will not let some rich snob with attitude issues get in the way of it. He will make crafts at seven, he will serve dinner in the mess hall at eight, and he will read spooky stories at ten campfire until curfew at twelve.

Footballer!Simon that slowly wins her over. Does as she says, yes ma’am and all. Teases her about being uptight, pokes fun at her around the kids. Makes her laugh. Teaches them how to play a good match, turns into the football dad coaching from the sidelines.

Footballer!Simon that realizes the way to her heart is the kids. Takes them on as his little ducklings, doesn’t do autographs because that’s for fans, and these are his children now. Apparently, he tells them he lost the birth certificate but they’re definitely his

Counselor!Reader that slowly begins to warm up to him. Scooting closer during dinners, walking back to the cabin with him after the bonfire and talking about everything under the sun. ‘Oh, my brother used to play’… ‘met a guy once at a bar, now I support Tottenham’… ‘I think I’ll take you to one of my games, lass… gimme’ a pretty prize to win for’

Footballer!Simon who knows that he’s here as a punishment, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. He knows he shouldn’t break anymore rules than normal, this is supposed to help, not hurt. But that zero fraternization policy? Maybe he just missed it going over the rules.

Counselor!Reader who knows she shouldn’t be hooking up in her cabin with the broody rich asshat sent here for a spanking, but maybe she just missed that in the rules. They didn’t specify the volunteer that they were taking on was this annoyingly endearing.

⋆｡𖦹°⚽︎⋆｡𖦹°

[fluentmoviequoter]

No Rules

Part 2 of Break My Rules

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!Smitty!reader

Summary: As your relationship with Tim progresses, you both learn that some rules are worth not only breaking, but forgetting.

Warnings: injuries (Tim and Smitty), stress/anxiety, fluff, comfort, teasing/banter, insecurity, discussion of breaking up, softie Tim

Word Count: 3.8k+ words, requested

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

Beneath the desk, Tim’s foot moves to an unheard beat. You’ve been at his house almost every night in the past week, not because either of you needed comfort but because you wanted to spend time together. He’s convinced that breaking your rule is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Lucy has been nagging him since the morning after he kissed you, somehow knowing he had made a major change.

“I’m just going to ask her what happened,” Lucy sighs, pulling her phone from her pocket.

“Where do you think she’d like to go for dinner?” Tim asks.

Lucy’s eyes widen – which makes Tim roll his eyes and grumble that he regrets asking ��� before she steps forward and slaps Tim’s shoulder.

“What happened?” she demands.

Tim rubs his shoulder and begins to answer before they’re interrupted.

“Another stripper incident, Bradford?” Smitty inquires, smiling as he leans on a nearby desk.

Lucy swallows, observing Tim. Tim is unfazed by the interruption from your dad, though, and shakes his head.

“Grey told me to find something to do,” Smitty continues, nearly slipping from his attempted casual position. “What are you up to?”

Planning a date with your daughter, Tim thinks smugly.

“We’re looking at satellite of my patrol route,” Lucy lies. “I’m looking for-“

Smitty raises his hand to stop her, then groans. “Sounds boring.”

As he walks away, Tim shakes his head and wonders if you’ve taken a paternity test.

“What were you thinking?” Lucy inquires softly. “And who asked who out? Tell me everything.”

“Dinner somewhere nice, doesn’t matter, and no,” Tim answers in order of her questions.

“I’m taking that as she asked you out, and good for her.”

“I asked her first,” Tim grumbles under his breath as Lucy offers her phone, displaying a list of restaurants.

“I hope it goes well, Tim,” Lucy offers. “You both deserve it.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’m going to ask her for all of the details,” she adds before turning on her heel and leaving.

“I have no doubt,” Tim mumbles as he begins typing a text to you.

Tim pulls you under his arm as you exit his truck, laughing and smiling as you lean against him. Your first date went better than expected, and you’d told him as much before your food was delivered to your table. He admitted then that he’d lied awake last night, worried that he might be nervous and say the wrong thing, somehow making you regret breaking your rule for him. You’d taken his hand over the table and assured him that you would never regret it, you’d never been happier, and then you dropped your voice and admitted you feared you’d be so nervous you’d be awkward and ruin his carefully planned night. After that shared admission, you breathed and spoke a little easier, enjoying every single moment in Tim’s presence.

Your phone buzzes in your bag – which is over Tim’s shoulder – while you unlock your front door.

“You need to get that?” Tim asks, his hand spread comfortingly against your back as you walk inside.

“It’s probably Lucy asking how you did,” you say, smiling at Tim.

“Oh, so this was a test?” he questions, nodding along with your joke. “How’d I do?”

You hum, tapping your chin as you lean closer to him. “You couldn’t have done better.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” he points out.

You shake your head before you pull your bag off his shoulder and set it aside. Then, you wrap your arms over Tim’s shoulder, moving into his space as his hands rise to hold your waist.

“We should do this again,” Tim murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Nodding, you kiss his jaw.

“But you’re busy.”

You hum at that, kissing the other side of his face.

“So maybe I could take you out to dinner after the charity show,” he suggests breathlessly.

“Lucy called dibs on that night,” you reply between kisses.

“Seems like I should have veto rights,” he complains.

“Technically, she was my friend first.”

“Sure. But it’s different.”

Tim catches your jaw, holding your face gently in his palm to direct your eyes to his.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “It’s different. How about the day after?”

Tim smiles, shakes his head, and kisses you.

As your choir team lines up to go on stage, you rise to your tiptoes and do a headcount. You come up two short, so you recount but get the same number.

“Who’s missing?” you ask.

“Peter couldn’t get his tie on,” one of the boys answers. “Derek stayed to help him.”

“Okay, can one of you go get them, please?” you request.

“Sure,” the same boy agrees. “As long as you’re okay with them not wearing ties?”

Your brows draw together, which is enough reason for him to add, “None of us know how to tie a tie. Our parents did ours, but Derek took his off to try to figure it out to help Peter.”

Pinching your eyes closed, you take a ragged breath. “Go get Peter and Derek, please, and I’ll try to find someone who can help them out. We’ve only got five minutes.”

He straightens and salutes you before running toward the bathrooms behind the stage. Shaking your head, you smile at their antics. They’re good kids, a better choir team, and you’re incredibly proud of them for all they’ve done.

“What about your dad?” the girl standing closest to you suggests. “You said he was coming.”

A memory of your dad tying a bow tie like a 5-year-old's last-minute gift wrap flashes in your mind before you draw your lower lip between your teeth and think. The answer comes as quickly as the memory: Tim Bradford. He doesn’t answer his phone, though.

Tim is tuning Lucy out as the crowd of law enforcement officers and their families find seats. The charity show is a highlight for many people, and the department always gets an astounding amount of donations from the live broadcast. As Lucy talks about the prospect of a station-wide talent show – or something like that, Tim thinks – he wonders about you. You were nervous before your kids competed, but he doesn’t know if a charity show is any less nerve-wracking for you or your team. He’s learned how to calm you down during the months you’ve been friends and found a few new methods in the weeks you’ve been more.

When his phone vibrates, your name and picture illuminating the screen, he stands. Lucy stops talking and asks what’s wrong, but Tim steps past her wordlessly and exits the large auditorium. He finds you in less than ninety seconds, relieved to see you smiling at one of your students.

Approaching you, Tim clears his throat to draw your attention. “You called?”

The teenage girls beside you fall silent, their eyes widening and lips parting at the sight of Tim Bradford in a suit. You take him in, dropping your eyes to his shoes before dragging your gaze back up to his face. His hidden smile tells you he appreciates your reaction to the view.

“Did you put on your tie?” you question suddenly, remembering why you called him. “Can you tie one?”

“Yes,” he answers carefully. “Why?”

“Your saviour returns!”

You release a deep sigh as three boys return to the lines, one wearing a tie properly and the others clinching the black fabric between their fingers.

“I got it,” Tim assures you, pressing his hand between your shoulder blades. “Relax.”

Nodding, you do just that. Tim can feel the tension in your back release before he steps away and introduces himself to Peter and Derek. They shake his hand, and you watch as Tim bends slightly at his waist and explains what he’s doing, allowing Peter to watch him tie Derek’s and Derek to watch the process on Peter. They thank him, offering a fist bump that Tim takes in stride. When he’s finished, he returns to your side, his eyes bouncing between yours as he ensures you’re good.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Thank you!” your entire team calls together.

Tim smiles and waves at them, chuckling as they applaud him while he walks back toward the auditorium. Your laughter-filled demand to focus is the last thing he hears before he returns to his seat, and he remembers it rather than indulging Lucy’s questions.

Three hesitant knocks distract you from the sheet music spread before you. Pulling a sticky note from a nearby pad, you mark your place before moving toward the door. As you pull it open, you see Tim leaning against the door jamb with heavy eyelids and a small, close-lipped smile.

You don’t speak as you open the door wider and invite him in. Tim waits until you’ve closed the door to perch on the back of your couch and open his arms to you. Not questioning or hesitating, you step into his hold and wrap your arms firmly around his waist. His heart beats beneath your cheek as his hands wander your back, grounding himself as his breaths slow. When he leans heavier against you, you grunt and tap his back.

“You’re fine,” he says into your hair. “I’ll get up in a second.”

You smile, trusting him. As promised, he stands a few moments later, keeping you close.

“Can I get you anything?” you offer, tipping your chin to look at him.

“No,” he murmurs. “Thank you. I just- I’m just tired. Last time I slept, I had nightmares.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tim shrugs. They’re normal now, but they’ve gotten fewer and farther between over the past few years. Dreaming of losing you, however, might be the worst he’s ever had.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks, dropping his hands to your hips as he surveys the music on your table.

“Prepping for semi-finals and finals,” you answer. “It’s not a guarantee, but we need to be ready either way.”

“Anything I could help with?”

Smiling, you counter, “I think you might be too tired.”

“I’m good,” Tim assures you.

“Then… I could use a distraction, something worth taking a break for,” you whisper.

Tim hums. “Well, I could make dinner.” He lays his hand on your shoulder, then trails it up to hold the back of your neck. “Or we could try something else?”

Your nod isn’t enough. Tim waits until you request, “Kiss me,” to move forward. He has this down to a science, you think as he angles his face to align perfectly with yours, like two puzzle pieces made to fit together and only together. While he holds your jaw, you slide your hands from his waist up to his chest, leaning closer to him with every second.

A sudden knock on your door startles you, but you don’t immediately pull away from Tim. He smiles into the kiss and steps back, prepared to open the door for you.

“I can see your car!” your dad yells from the porch.

Your eyes widen as you look between Tim and the door. He snatches his phone off the couch before tugging your shirt back into its rightful place.

“I have a backdoor, but you’d have to jump the fence,” you say. “He won’t stay long, though.”

“What do you want me to do?” Tim whispers, lifting his arms. “And don’t say meet Smitty as your father, I don’t have the energy for that right now.”

Hiding your smile, you nod in agreement. “Bedroom it is,” you decide, pushing Tim toward the hallway.

“Moving fast aren’t we?” Tim jokes. “When I said we could break some more rules, I didn’t-“

You cut him off by closing the door behind him. As you return to the front door, you glance in the bathroom mirror to ensure your hair looks okay. Your dad knocks again, likely getting worried, so you hurry to the door and pull it open with an easy smile.

“Sorry,” you begin, “I was looking at music.”

“I’m aware of your inability to multi-task when it comes to melodies,” he replies, pulling you into a quick hug.

“I’m actually working on harmonies.”

“Tomato, potato.”

“You alright?” you inquire. “You don’t stop by much these days.”

“I wanted to see you after the show, but you were busy rubbing elbows and then you were gone,” your dad explains.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say as you sit beside him, “a friend wanted to take me out to dinner, and I couldn’t find you in the crowd. It was hectic.”

“Well, you and the kids did a great job.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

 “We haven’t gotten dinner in a few weeks,” he remembers, “what about tonight?”

“I really need to finish this prep,” you answer. “What about tomorrow?”

He checks the date on his watch, then nods. “I- I’m glad you found some people to hang out with. Anyone special?”

“Are you asking if I’m seeing anyone?” you translate.

“Hey, I’m just making conversation, dear, sweet daughter,” he defends, lifting his hands in surrender. “But the offer-“

“I might be,” you interrupt. “I’m not sure where it’s going yet.”

“I’m happy for you,” your dad says. “And I’ll let you get back to work. Meet you at the station tomorrow or pick you up here?”

“I can meet you there. I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too. And tell your new friend your dad is a cop before he can get any ideas.”

“I’ll do that,” you agree.

You wave as your dad pulls away, then close the door and sigh. Walking back to your bedroom, you begin to wonder if you left anything out and fail to remember if you even made your bed this morning. Tim has been quiet, but he had to have heard your dad leave. Without knocking, you push the door open.

“What are you doing?” you ask when you see Tim sitting at the end of your – made, thankfully - bed with something in his hands.

“You’re adorable,” he says, showing you the picture of you and your dad at your last high school choir show.

“Shut up,” you beg, taking the picture and laying it face down on the shelf he took it from.

“Hey, you’re the one that invited me into your bedroom,” he defends.

“That joke isn’t going to stop anytime soon is it?” Tim smiles, so you sigh and remind him, “I’ve broken a lot of rules for you. Don’t push me.”

Tim nods with faux seriousness before he reaches out, grabs your waist, and pulls you down onto the bed with him. Propped up on his elbow, he looks down at you like he never wants to see anything else.

“We were doing something before we were interrupted, right?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He leans forward like he’s going to kiss you, then stands and says, “Dinner.”

“Never should have brought you in here,” you grumble as he pulls you to your feet.

“Guys!” you call. “Focus!”

It works for a second; the team quiets and watches you, then one person laughs, and the room descends into chaos once more. You chuckle then, unable to remember what made everyone laugh in the first place. Regionals are a week away, so you can stand to give them a bit of a break. You would have loved one in high school.

While you scroll through your phone to find a fun song for them to sing as a break in routine, Lucy calls. You swallow the anxiety you always feel when a cop calls you unexpectedly and then answer the phone.

The room silences after Lucy speaks. Her rushed explanation, “Something happened during a call; your dad and Tim are in the hospital,” makes your face drop, and when the kids standing before you see the fear in your expression, they silence.

“How bad?” you whisper, gripping the edge of your desk.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “They were both injured and transported via ambulance. The watch commander and I are waiting for the doctor to come give us an update. I just wanted to let you know.”

“I’m on my way.”

You hang up, trying to remember everything you need to say and do before you leave.

“I texted my mom,” one of the students – Eliza, you think but can’t be sure – says. “She’s here, so she can stay with us until everyone’s parents get here.”

On cue, her mother walks into the room and lays her hand on your shoulder. You nod, then exit the room. Your team calls after you, sending well wishes and promising to keep practicing. Your mind is racing with thoughts of the worst-case scenario.

The drive to the hospital is strange; you’re focused but distant at the same time. It feels like three seconds and three days, but you enter the emergency room and see Lucy and another cop lingering by a door.

Lucy rushes to you, pulls you into a hug, and says, “They’re fine. You can go see them, but…”

“But what?” you press.

“They’re in the same room.”

You release a sigh. If that’s the worst news, then they must really be okay. Tim and your dad are both important to you, and you need to see them. It’s as good a time as any to let your father know about your broken rule, you decide as you knock on their shared door and step inside.

Tim sees you first, his eyes brightening as he inhales deeply. Your dad is on a bed to Tim’s left, looking worse for the wear. One eye is bruised and swollen, a bandage lines his collarbone beneath his hospital gown, and his knuckles are red. Looking back at Tim, you’re unsurprised when he tips his head, telling you to visit your dad rather than worrying about him.

“Hey, Dad,” you greet quietly as you approach his less-bruised side.

“Hi,” he replies. “Looks pretty cool, huh? Bruce Willis couldn’t have come out this unscathed.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but you smile. Your dad can be dim sometimes, but it’s who he is. Right now, you’re glad to hear anything he says, no matter how strange it may be.

“We’re going to have to reschedule dinner,” he adds.

“Yeah, that’s okay,” you reply. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks to Bradford.”

You look across the room then, meeting Tim’s eyes.

“We got a call, standard, nothing out of the ordinary,” Tim explains. “Turns out, it was an ambush. I managed to get the guys off Smitty, but it wasn’t pretty.”

“Thank you,” you tell him. “Are you alright?”

“Bradford is pure steel, I think,” your dad interrupts. “A shot to the vest and he didn’t even go down.”

You freeze at the realization that Tim was shot. Desperate to go to his side, hug him, feel him alive and loving in your arms, you weigh your options.

“Dad,” you begin, “Tim-“

“Isn’t Superman,” Tim interrupts, shaking his head at you. He doesn’t want you to tell your dad yet, but you don’t know why. “I’ve been trying to tell him that.”

Unseen to you, Tim’s mind is overthinking so hard it’s giving him a dull ache behind his eyes. If you told your dad you broke your rule and started dating a cop – one from his station, no less – would it be enough? You were scared to be with a cop because of the risk, the fear, the stress, and everything that loving a cop requires. This will be enough to make you regret it, a voice in his mind says, and you’re going to leave.

For you, however, nothing has changed since you first told him you wanted to try. Losing him is going to hurt regardless of whether he’s taken from you or you leave voluntarily, so you deserve to be happy, to have him by your side when you’re happy, scared, elated, in love, and everything in between.

“Hey,” Lucy says from the doorway. “Smitty, your doctor cleared a trip to the cafeteria, if you’re up for it?”

“Free food?” he questions excitedly. “Best part of the hospital as far as I’m concerned.”

Lucy smiles at you as your dad is helped into a wheelchair. You squeeze his hand and tell him to have fun, which he promises to do.

“Tim,” you sigh after the door closes, walking to the side of his bed.

“It’s okay,” he says, nodding as he avoids your eyes. “I get it.”

Furrowing your brows, you slow and question, “Get what?”

“This is why you didn’t want to be with a cop. I understand that it can be too much, that you don’t deserve it. I won’t blame you for leaving, and I won’t make it awkward with Lucy.”

Your jaw drops as you reach his bed. Despite the shock at what Tim just said, you take his hand. A bandage wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulder is visible, and you drag your finger across the skin of his chest without thinking.

“Are you alright?” you whisper.

“I’m fine,” he answers tightly. “A piece of buckshot grazed my shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Tim doesn’t reply, opting to stare past your shoulder.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” you say. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Of course not. I just…”

“You assumed I’d leave when it got hard? This isn’t a Hallmark movie, Tim, there is no second act breakup for a grand reconciliation. I meant what I said before: I want you. Losing you is my greatest fear, so why would I walk away from you? After everything it’s taken to get here?”

Tim visibly relaxes, sinking into the pillow behind him as he interlaces his fingers with yours and tugs you closer.

“I love you,” he says, blinking slowly. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

“I love you,” you promise. “And breaking that rule is the best thing I’ve ever done; don’t ever doubt that or second guess if I mean what I say. You’ve healed so many jagged edges I didn’t even realize I had, Tim, and we’re going to keep growing together, alright?”

“Alright,” Tim agrees, nodding. “Whatever you say, honey.”

You laugh, blinking away the tears clouding your eyes as you lean against the side rail of his bed. “Could I interest you in a song?”

“Do you have to ask?” he counters.

“Tim?”

He blinks his eyes open again and hums.

“If you ever mention me leaving you again, I will punch you, buckshot or not.”

Tim smiles. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.”

He moves over carefully, inviting you to sit on the bed with him. Before your song is over, he’s asleep. You trace your fingers along his knuckles, reiterating your promise.

You barely manage to slide off the bed and take a seat across the room before your dad returns with three trays stacked high with food. As you talk to him, you’re distantly aware of how Tim invited you into his bed. Now, two can play his teasing game, you think, and there are no rules.

[zaynessbeloved]

Say it's me you want

Synopsis: The morning after your long-awaited night together, you wake alone in Rafayel’s bed—her warmth gone, the sheets barely holding the memory of her touch. For a brief, aching moment, doubt sets in. But Rafayel isn’t one to disappear without a reason. What follows is a quiet exploration of intimacy after vulnerability: tender moments shared between each other, soft teasing over breakfast, and the slow, unspoken confirmation that what bloomed between you wasn’t just a night of pleasure, but something deeper taking root.

Amid subtle glances, playful remarks, and the weight of emotions left unsaid, the two of you navigate the morning after not with declarations, but with gestures—cups of coffee passed between lips still marked by kisses, and touches that linger just a little too long. It’s not just comfort—it’s the beginning of something real.

Content warnings: fem!raf, party girl raf, non-canon rafayel, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), post-sex intimacy, fingering, exploration of sexuality, internalized insecurity, jealousy, possessiveness, emotionally vulnerable dialogue, light dominance/submission dynamics, praise kink, mutual pining, consensual intimacy between women, kissing, biting, multiple orgasms, emotional sex, grinding, nipple play, clingy affection, domestic tenderness, neck kisses, cuddling, defining a relationship

Pairings: fem!Rafayel x reader

Word count: 13k

A/n: in order to celebrate pride month, i posted a poll for you guys to pick one of the guys as fem and rafayel won, hehe. so here it is fem!raf for whoever enjoys this kind of content, and i hope you'll like it.

this is the second part because some people really liked the first part and I also had a lot of fun writing this, so I got inspired to write more.

p.s. i don't condone any type of hateful, homophobic behavior. so if this is not for you, please scroll. i will not hesitate to delete these types of comments and block you :)

that being said, enjoy 🌈

part 1

Chapter 2

The morning after, you woke not in your own bed, but tangled in hers. Which, frankly, made sense. Your sheets were… well, unusable after the night you’d had. The first thing you noticed was the absence of warmth beside you—Rafayel was gone. Her side of the bed was empty, a faint indentation the only trace she’d ever been there. For a second, your stomach dropped. You weren’t sure what to make of it—didn’t want to jump to conclusions. That wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t like her. But still, the silence was louder than you'd like.

And then, just as your overthinking mind began to stir, you shifted under her silk sheets and caught sight of a small note beside the pillow. Pale blue paper, her rushed handwriting slanted and a little messy—not quite her usual dramatic flair. She must’ve written it half-asleep. Or hungover. Maybe both. 

“Cutie, don’t panic. I’m just grabbing coffee. There’s water and painkillers on the nightstand. Be good. Or don’t. I’ll know either way. ♡”  

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. It was quiet, barely more than a breath—but it was real. Your fingers clutched the note before you even realized, thumb brushing over the little heart she'd scrawled at the end like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. To you, it was.

Memories from the night before returned like a tide—slow at first, then crashing. Your lips tingled at the thought of her mouth on yours. Your body responded instantly, heat curling low in your belly, skin still hypersensitive, as if Rafayel’s touch had etched itself permanently into your nerves. You could still feel the ghost of her fingers trailing down your spine, her breath at your ear, the way she spoke your name like it tasted too good to waste on silence.

She made you come twice, murmuring filth against your skin like poetry. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t even just discovery. It had felt like something else entirely. Something terrifying and exhilarating and far too intimate for the word casual to ever apply.

You were still clutching her note when you realized you’d been biting your lip, dazed in the center of her bed, sheets wrapped around your bare body like a lover’s afterthought. There was a faint ache between your thighs—not unwelcome—and a softness in your limbs you hadn’t felt in a long time. And somewhere beneath the hangover pounding behind your eyes, a different kind of pulse drummed—steady and trembling with anticipation.

You hadn’t known what to expect when it came to being with a woman—with her. But Rafayel had made it feel… electric. Undeniably sensual, but also kind. Like she wasn’t just trying to take your pleasure, but gift you hers. There was something so intimate in the way she touched you, like she had always known your body, always waited to claim it, and now that she had, she’d never let you forget it.

And maybe you didn’t want to forget it.

You reached for the glass of water and the small packet of painkillers on the nightstand—just as her note had said. The medicine went down with a wince, the sting at the back of your throat reminding you that no matter how sweet the night had been, the morning had teeth. 

Still aching in places you didn’t want to admit, you rose from her bed and padded to the shower. The water was hot, soothing, and it slid down your skin like a balm, though it couldn't wash away the lingering heat trapped in your muscles, or the way your body still reacted to memory alone. Her lips. Her voice. Her hands. 

And when you stepped out, steam curling off your shoulders, you caught sight of your reflection in the mirror. A soft, dusky mark stained the curve of your neck—just beneath your jaw. Deliberate. Beautiful. Undeniably hers.

Your breath hitched, stomach flipping as your fingers ghosted over it. It wasn’t just the ache between your legs or the tremble in your limbs—it was the mark itself, subtle and intimate, like a secret she’d left behind just for you. You swallowed hard and dressed quickly, throwing yourself into anything to stay occupied—changing your sheets, folding laundry, pretending the silence didn’t feel like a countdown.

She’d be back soon. You knew that. You felt it like a thread pulled taut beneath your skin. But still, questions swirled. Would she say anything? Would she pretend last night never happened? Should you bring it up, or wait for her to? Did this change anything or was it just a fluke, a beautiful, sensual accident wrapped in heat and alcohol and aching need?

You didn’t want to think the worst. Rafayel had never treated you like you were disposable. But this was new—you were new to this—and somewhere deep in your chest, your heart coiled in quiet, cautious hope.

The dorm door swung open without warning.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” came the familiar lilt of her voice, too smug, too chipper for someone who had definitely been drinking just as much as you last night.

Rafayel strolled in like sunlight with teeth—radiant, smug, effortless. Two paper cups of coffee balanced in one hand, a bakery bag tucked beneath her arm. She looked like someone who didn’t have a single thought weighing her down. And when her eyes found yours, she lit up with a smile that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“Still alive?” she teased, sauntering over like she hadn’t made you come undone against her mouth hours ago. “Because I feel like death warmed over. And this,” she held up one of the cups, “is my only salvation.”

You took the offered coffee with a quiet smile. It was warm. Sweet. Just the way you liked it—milk and sugar. Of course she remembered. 

“Thanks,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around the cup like it might anchor you. 

She collapsed onto your freshly made bed with a dramatic sigh, folding one leg beneath her and unceremoniously tossing the bakery bag beside her. She looked casual—or her version of it: slouchy black trousers, a ribbed crop top hanging off one shoulder, silver rings glinting on her fingers. Her lavender hair was still damp from a quick wash, curls soft and loose around her face.

And then she took a sip of her own coffee. A low, pleased hum escaped her throat—casual, involuntary, entirely unaware of the way it made your spine straighten.

You looked away, biting your lip, pretending to be fascinated by the steam rising from your cup. Rafayel didn’t seem to notice. She was already pulling open the bag, revealing a pair of flaky croissants dusted in powdered sugar. Your stomach growled at the sight, loudly enough that her head tilted toward you, one perfectly arched brow raised in amusement.

“Well, well,” she purred, holding out one of the pastries with exaggerated flourish, “someone’s body remembers how much energy she spent last night.”

Your face flushed immediately. “Raf.”

Her grin widened, biting into her croissant like she hadn’t just sent your brain into flames. “What?” she said around the flaky bite, voice innocently muffled. “I’m just being generous. I don't have to guess that I probably left you a little sore.” 

You nearly choked on your coffee. She winked over the rim of her cup, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to kiss her or bury your face under a pillow until next semester. 

Rafayel watched you, her gaze dappled with amusement and something softer—something quietly curious. The way you flushed, the way your fingers fidgeted slightly around the pastry, like your body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that it was morning and not last night.

She could tell what was swirling in your head—maybe not all the details, but enough. She remembered what it had felt like, the first time she'd kissed a woman. The quiet panic of unfamiliar territory, the way it cracked something open inside her. But this—what you’d shared—was more than a kiss. Far more. And she knew that. Which is why she didn’t press. Why she lounged there now, eyes bright with mirth, voice syrupy and sweet whenever she spoke. Keeping the edges soft. Giving you space to breathe.

And you noticed that. The way she didn’t hover. The way she didn’t act like anything had changed—even though everything had.

You took a bite of your croissant, chewing slowly, trying to buy yourself a moment of courage. Her leg was still tucked beneath her, her posture relaxed as she drank her coffee, but you could feel the weight of her attention on you—not heavy, just present. Like she was waiting. Patient. Attuned.

Your eyes flicked to her, then away. Then back again.

“I—uh…” you began, your voice catching slightly before you pushed through, “I don’t want to make this more awkward than it probably is already. For you.”

You didn't look at her when you said it. Your eyes stayed on the rim of your coffee cup, or maybe on the flecks of sugar still clinging to the pastry. Anywhere but her.

“But I need to say this.”

There was a pause. A beat. Long enough that you finally glanced up—and found her watching you with that quiet tilt of her head, brows gently raised, eyes unreadable. Not guarded. Just waiting. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t deflect, didn’t slide in with a joke to ease the tension. For once, Rafayel just let the moment breathe.

Inside, her thoughts were racing. Not that it showed. She knew—or hoped she knew—where this was going. She could still feel the imprint of last night in her bones, the sound of your voice cracking on her name, the way you’d held her like you didn’t want morning to ever come. She hadn’t imagined the way you’d looked at her afterward. Hadn’t dreamed the way your fingers had clung to her skin like you were scared she’d vanish if you let go.

But still, she let you speak first. Let you decide the tone. She knew what it had been like for her, realizing desire didn’t always look like she’d been told it should. And she wasn’t about to take that away from you by saying too much, too fast.

You swallowed, voice a little steadier this time. “Last night wasn’t just… I mean, it wasn’t just some wild thing I did while drunk. I know I was tipsy, but it wasn’t because of that. I wanted it. You. I chose it.”

Rafayel’s lashes lowered just a little, but she said nothing. Her cup lowered to her lap, one finger absently tracing the rim.

You continued before you could lose your nerve. “And I don’t know what it meant for you. Maybe nothing. I’m not trying to make this heavy, I just— I can’t pretend it didn’t mean something to me. Because it did. And I guess… I guess I just need to know if it meant something to you too.”

The quiet stretched again. 

“Mmm.” Rafayel hummed softly, head tilting further as a slow smile crept across her lips. “You say that like it’s a confession,” she mused, voice like silk laced with something warmer, something knowing. “When all I’m hearing is that you wanted me.”

Your heart stumbled. She leaned back slightly, exhaling a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. 

“Cutie,” she murmured, almost fondly. “I’m flattered. Truly. But if you think I spent all night worshiping your body like that just for the sport of it—” she gave you a slow once-over, her gaze lingering, deliberate “—then I must not have done a good enough job.”

You blinked, startled by the sudden warmth blooming in your chest. Her tone softened a little more. Still playful, still teasing—but there was something earnest beneath it now. 

“Of course it meant something,” she said, setting her coffee down on your desk. “I don’t… I don’t do that with just anyone. And especially not with you.”

You looked up at her, the knot in your chest loosening by degrees.

She smiled again, this time gentler. “So, no. It’s not awkward. At least not for me. And if it is for you… well.” her lips quirked. “I can think of a few ways to help with that.”

And just like that, the tension eased—not gone, not entirely, but softened by the truth finally laid bare between you. It hadn’t been nothing. It hadn’t been one-sided. 

Heat curled low in your belly, blooming outward like sunlight catching on still water. Your heart flipped the moment her hand reached for you—not forceful, just a soft brush of fingers, her palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that made your breath stutter. The warmth of her skin against yours wasn’t new, but in the quiet light of morning, with your nerves still tender and exposed, it felt different. It felt like something blooming rather than burning.

Your fingers trembled around the coffee cup, just enough for her to notice. Her smile deepened—not mocking, not even teasing. Just soft. Patient. But she didn’t lean in. Of course not. Rafayel never did what was expected. She waited, letting you decide. Letting you want it first.

So you exhaled quietly, hand moving to set your coffee beside hers on the desk. And then—slowly, deliberately—you turned toward her.

Rafayel chuckled low under her breath, a sound rich with amusement and something warmer beneath. “Well, well,” she murmured, her voice silk-laced and lazy, “took you long enough.”

But she met you halfway. Her lips found yours in a kiss far softer than any from the night before. There was no hunger in it this time. No urgency. Just an unspoken promise. Her other hand found your knee, fingers splaying gently there, grounding you. You sighed against her mouth, the tension in your shoulders melting like sugar in tea.

The hand at your cheek slipped into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a tenderness that made you ache. She pulled you closer, not roughly—just enough to make it impossible to pretend you didn’t want more. And you gave in easily, leaning into her like gravity itself had shifted, like she was the center of it now.

She tasted like coffee and chocolate and something distinctly her—rich and addictive, impossible to describe but unforgettable all the same. Her lips were soft, slow-moving against yours, languid and teasing, like she had all the time in the world and wanted you to feel it. You did. Every brush, every press, every shared breath. You felt it in the way your chest settled, in the way your nerves unknotted one by one.

Your anxieties began to drift—not disappear, not completely, but ease. She hadn’t said the words. She didn’t need to. Not with a kiss like that. Not when she was still holding your knee, her touch lingering like a secret she meant to keep.

When she finally pulled back, she pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth, featherlight and sweet, then leaned away with another quiet laugh, reclaiming her coffee like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just rearranged your entire sense of reality in under thirty seconds.

You watched her, lips tingling, pulse unsteady, heart full.

She didn’t say I like you. She didn’t have to.

You were surrounded by the scent of her perfume—soft, floral, unmistakably expensive—and the warmth of coffee and chocolate, and the dizzying comfort of knowing that whatever this thing was between you… it wasn’t one-sided.

————

You and Rafayel never defined what this was. No labels. No late-night confessions or neatly packaged explanations. Still, things had changed. There was no denying it. Not when you were waking up to the soft echo of her perfume clinging to your clothes. Not when her lips found yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Living with her in the same dorm meant sharing space in ways that blurred more than just physical boundaries. Casual kisses became routine. At first, she didn’t push—always letting you lean in, never demanding more than you were ready to give. But Rafayel was nothing if not observant. She saw the way your eyes lit up each time, how your fingers instinctively reached for her when she got too close. She noticed the way you melted at her touch, the way your breath hitched when her lips brushed yours, even in passing.

So she kissed you more. Not urgently, but often. Lingering kisses in the mini kitchen after brushing shoulders. A quick peck on your temple as she passed your desk. A slow, teasing kiss that left you chasing her mouth with your eyes when she pulled away with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

And you adored every single one. You clung to her when she kissed you, even if it was lazy and half-distracted. Your hands would find her sleeves, her shirt, the chain around her neck—something to hold onto. As if the kiss alone wasn’t grounding enough.

Sex never followed. Not again. But that didn’t stop your mind from wandering. Sometimes, when she lounged across from you in shorts and a sleep shirt, you’d catch yourself remembering how her skin felt bare against yours—soft, warm, unforgettable. You remembered how she kissed you like she meant to devour, how she bit down when you gasped, how she made you come with her mouth like she already knew all the ways you wanted to be touched.

And Rafayel remembered too, even if she didn’t say it. Her glances came often—casual, hooded, layered in that infuriating ease of hers. But they lingered too long on your mouth when you laughed, or your throat when you stretched. Her lips would twitch like she wanted to say something, but she never did. She didn’t need to. The air between you was thick with memory.

Still, she never crossed the line again. Only kisses. But she was sweeter now. Still dramatic—gods, always dramatic—but softer around the edges when it came to you. She whined more when things didn’t go her way, leaning into your side like a child seeking comfort, or draping herself over you while doing absolutely nothing productive. She’d lie across your bed while you studied, prodding you with her foot like a bored cat. She’d burst into dancing in the middle of brushing her hair, twirling around, demanding you join her in what she dubbed her “pre-night-out performance.”

“You’re so lucky to witness this,” she declared one evening, yanking the blanket off you as you groaned. “Not many people get front-row seats.”

And you laughed. Because how could you not? It was ridiculous and theatrical and completely, achingly endearing. She brought something out in you—something lighter. Freer. You hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for that version of yourself until she coaxed it to the surface like it belonged there. 

Weeks passed. A month, maybe more. You settled into the rhythm of this strange, unnamed intimacy—where kisses were common but questions were not. Your heart ached with the quiet uncertainty of it. Not because you needed declarations carved in stone. But because she never said what it meant. You didn’t know where you stood. Or if you were even standing in the same place she was. 

Rafayel invited you out more often now—museums, concerts, obscure cafés with dessert menus longer than their wine lists. She called it fun. She called it necessary. She called it artistic inspiration. But she never called it a date.

And you wanted her to.

They felt like dates. The laughter, the stolen glances, the way her hand brushed yours across a table and stayed there a moment too long. But she never gave it a name. And maybe that was what stung the most. Because you were starting to realize you had fallen into something deeper—and you weren’t sure if she was just enjoying the fall, or bracing for the ground.

And you had almost forgotten about her. The girl who hovered near Rafayel like a fly drawn to honey—persistent, irritating, and impossible to ignore once she buzzed into your field of vision.

Almost. But not quite. Not when you saw her again one afternoon, practically glued to Rafayel’s side near one of the campus café carts, her entire posture a study in too close. Her body tilted inward, eyes wide and fluttering, the kind of closeness that tried to pass for casual conversation but reeked of something else entirely. Clingy. Intentional. Territorial. 

You had just stepped out of a seminar, the sun brushing soft warmth across your shoulders, your mind half-occupied with deciding whether you needed another coffee or just liked the excuse of it. That pleasant haze evaporated the moment you caught sight of them. A twist curled low in your stomach—tight and sharp. Ugly in a way you didn’t like to admit.

You knew she was one of Rafayel’s many friends—though it didn’t take a genius to clock the crush she wore so brazenly on her sleeve. Especially since you remembered the kiss.

That night on the dance floor, heat and color and music blurring at the edges, and Rafayel’s mouth finding hers—deliberate, slow, while her eyes stayed locked on you. You hadn’t reacted properly then. You’d only realized later—maybe too late—that it had been for you. A push. A challenge. A dare wrapped in gloss and teeth.

But it had still happened. And it still stung.

You didn’t have a right to feel possessive. Not technically. No rules had been drawn. No promises whispered. But your body was already moving before your mind caught up, weaving through the crowd, your phone clutched loosely in your hand as if you were simply passing through. Casual. Accidental. 

Only you weren’t.

Rafayel stood with her back to you, all lazy grace and indulgent laughter, her head tilted slightly as the girl said something that made her smirk. You were close enough now to catch the flirtatious tilt in her voice, the soft fingers resting on Rafayel’s arm like she’d earned the right to touch her there. The sight made your jaw tense.

The girl saw you before Rafayel did. Her smile flickered, and something petty in you bloomed—sharp and mean and gleeful.

You stepped in. Your arm slipped around Rafayel’s waist in a move so smooth, so familiar, it might’ve been mistaken for innocent. Might’ve. But the way your hand lingered just a moment too long, fingers brushing her hip, and the way your voice softened as you leaned into her shoulder—it was anything but.

“Hey,” you murmured, a little too close to her ear.

Rafayel turned, clearly surprised, but her eyes lit up instantly, lips curving into that warm, magnetic smile she only ever gave you.

“Cutie,” she purred, voice slow and lazy like sunlight through silk. “What a fortunate coincidence.”

She didn’t move away from your touch. If anything, she leaned into it slightly, the barest shift—but enough for the girl beside her to notice. You could feel it—the way her mood changed, the way her posture straightened as she tried to reclaim the air between them.

“Oh,” the girl cut in quickly, eyes flicking between you both. “I didn’t know you were so close.”

Rafayel didn’t miss a beat. Her eyes stayed locked on yours as she took a sip of her drink and said, “Mmm. She’s always hanging around. Like my own personal moon. Tragic, beautiful, and constantly pulling me into her orbit.” 

You blinked, thrown off for a second, and your pulse jumped. Rafayel didn’t look at the girl at all, didn’t bother clarifying or softening the implication.

The girl huffed a little laugh, awkward, forced. “Right. Well, I’ll let you guys do your thing. Hope to catch you later, Ayel. Yeah?” 

She didn’t wait for a response before stepping back, her smile polite but strained. You watched her go, a strange mix of satisfaction and guilt simmering in your chest. 

Once she was gone, Rafayel turned back to you, eyebrow raised, amusement dancing at the corners of her mouth. 

“Jealousy looks good on you,” she murmured, teasing, but her gaze was sharper now, searching. “Were you going to say hello, or just murder her with your eyes from across the quad?”

You flushed, ready to deny it, but her smirk deepened and she leaned in, whispering just low enough to melt the pretense.

“I would've kissed you, you know,” she said, her voice velvet-smooth. “But I figured you’d prefer to be the one doing the stealing this time.” 

And you hated how right she was, how easily she saw through you. But gods, you loved it, too.

You let your hand slip from her waist—slowly, reluctantly—and Rafayel’s eyes followed the motion with a barely-there frown that curled at the corner of her lips. Not disappointment exactly. More like amusement, like she was watching you write the next move in a game she already knew the ending to.

You didn’t say anything. Just turned, leaning back against the tall café table with a faux-casual air, plucking her coffee right from her hand and taking a slow, deliberate sip. She said nothing about that, either. Only quirked a brow and stepped closer, her presence brushing softly into your space like she didn’t need permission.

You didn’t want to ask. Truly. The last thing you wanted was to sound like the jealous almost-maybe-girlfriend. But the words itched at your throat like they’d been waiting all day.

“So…” you began, light and breezy. “She’s around a lot, huh?”

Rafayel tilted her head, that silken lavender hair cascading over one shoulder like it was painted to move with her. Her violet gaze sparked, amused but thoughtful. “Which she, cutie? I know so many.” 

Her hand lifted slowly, brushing against your waist—tentative at first, like she was still figuring out where the invisible lines were drawn. Public gestures weren’t your thing. Not hers either. At least, not in front of people when neither of you had said what this was. 

She didn’t know where your comfort ended, or whether you’d ever really talked about your sexuality out loud. She didn’t know if you were ready. Or if you even knew what this meant yet.

What she didn’t actually know was that you didn’t care. Not about the label, or the eyes, or any of it. You just wanted her. You wanted her to touch you like that—possessively, softly—and not only behind closed doors. You wanted people to see.

So when her hand settled on your waist again, you didn’t pull away. You leaned into it, casual but sure, sipping her coffee like it was yours to take. Her expression shifted, that teasing smirk curling deeper as she let her palm slide slightly, slowly, across the dip of your hip. Her fingers didn’t press, they lingered.

“I was being polite,” she said, voice low and honey-smooth. “She’s clingy, but she’s harmless. You’re the one who stole my drink without asking—that’s far more dangerous.”

You didn’t smile at that, even though you should have. It would have been easier. But instead, your eyes stayed on hers, quiet, intense. “You kissed her.”

Rafayel’s lashes lowered briefly. But her tone didn’t flinch—playful, cool, veiled in velvet. “I also kissed you. But funny enough, only one of those things still keeps me up at night.”

Her thumb rubbed slow circles into your waist, grounding you in that maddening, magnetic way she always had. But under the ease, something in her shifted. A flicker of regret. The kiss on the dance floor… she hadn’t forgotten. She knew why she did it. She knew you knew, too. And it had worked, hadn’t it? That kiss, that tiny act of recklessness—it had changed everything between you.

Still, she wished she hadn’t done it. And maybe, in that second, you saw it in her eyes.

Before you could say anything else, Rafayel reached for your hand, fingers twining through yours with zero hesitation, and tugged you away from the café.

“Come on,” she said, grin lazy, tugging you into motion. “You’re clearly thinking too hard.” 

You let her pull you across campus, your hand snug in hers as the sun dipped lower behind the trees. She led you past the edge of the main building, to a small alcove hidden in greenery and concrete—half-shadowed, half-sunlit—before backing you gently against the wall, laughter bubbling up in her throat. 

And then she kissed you. She kissed you like she’d been waiting all day. No teasing. No hesitation. Just her lips on yours, firm and warm and devastating, stealing every thought you had left. Your hands slid to her cheeks, cupping her face, and her body leaned into yours with a soft sigh as her fingers found your hips again. 

You didn’t hold back.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless and flushed, Rafayel’s gaze lingered on your mouth—her thumb brushing the edge of your bottom lip where your lipstick had smeared. Her usual smirk was there, but something quieter lived beneath it now. A kind of hush.

Her voice dropped. “What are you feeling, cutie?”

The words hit harder than you expected. There was no grin in them. No mockery. Just quiet curiosity—and maybe, just maybe, a trace of vulnerability she rarely let anyone see.

You blinked at her, stunned. “What?”

“I mean,” she said, leaning back just a little, “I can keep kissing you in stolen corners and pretending we’re just friends with excellent taste and poor impulse control. But if you’re going to keep looking at me like that, I need to know where we stand.” 

You swallowed. “You’re putting me on the spot.” 

“I know.” her smile softened, eyes searching yours. “But it’s been a month. And I’ve been good, haven’t I? I didn’t push. I didn’t ask. I waited.” 

She brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, her touch featherlight. 

“But that night… the way you touched me. The way you looked when she put her hand on my arm just now. That wasn’t nothing.”

It wasn’t. And you couldn’t pretend it was. You opened your mouth—not even sure what you were going to say—but she beat you to it with a sudden, breathy laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw.

“Don’t panic. I’m not asking you to write a sonnet. I just want to know if I get to keep kissing you in broad daylight, or if I should start running now before you change your mind.”

You looked at her, startled, and she gave you a grin that was entirely too smug. Still, beneath all the performance, all the drama, there was a single truth. She wanted you to choose her, out loud, in public, for the world to see. And your heart—stupid, reckless thing—already had.

You knew it took something—something real—for Rafayel to be this direct.

She wasn’t careless with clarity. She dressed everything in smoke and mirrors, in half-smiles and lilting sarcasm, as if speaking plainly would make things too real. So when she did—when she asked you point-blank what you were feeling, what you wanted—it startled something in you. Stirred up a kind of giddiness that danced through your chest like wind catching fire.

Your heart was a mess of fluttering beats. And still, you couldn’t resist teasing her back, if only to buy yourself a breath. A little grin tugged at your lips, and you leaned in close, brushing a kiss just shy of her mouth.

“Hmm,” you murmured, eyes bright with mischief, “was that your way of asking me out?”

The laugh that broke from her lips was soft and incredulous, like she didn’t expect that from you—but adored it. Her smirk melted into a grin as she closed the space between you again, claiming your lips with a soft sound of delight. The kiss was slow, lush, deliciously unhurried. Her tongue slid against yours, coaxing rather than demanding, and her fingers at your waist curled a little tighter, like she was trying to memorize the way your body fit against hers.

You pulled back—not far, just enough. Just enough to leave her chasing. You watched the moment her eyes flicked open, a faint pout at the loss of your mouth, and the amusement dancing behind her gaze when she realized what you were doing.

“Playing hard to get now?” she teased, voice velvet-soft against the shell of your ear. “Or are you trying to make me beg?” 

You smiled, trailing a kiss to her jaw, then to the delicate hollow just beneath her ear. You felt the subtle flutter of her breath, the faint tremor in her hold. 

“I just want to hear you say it,” you whispered into her skin, your words soft but unmistakable. “Say what you feel.”

You felt her still, just for a second. A sharp, almost imperceptible pause in the rhythm of her breath. And then a slow exhale, and a chuckle that sounded like surrender.

Her hands slid up your sides and then rested on your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin as she leaned in again. But this time, her kiss was softer. Less playful. More present. Her lips molded to yours like she wasn’t hiding anymore, like she wanted to give herself away in the way she knew best.

When she finally pulled back, just barely, her forehead pressed against yours. Her breath was warm and sweet between you, her voice low and intimate.

“I tried not to feel this,” she said, voice light, but without a trace of mockery. “Tried to keep it all casual and cute. You know. My specialty.” 

You swallowed, heart pounding. 

“But you…” she gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You make it impossible to pretend I don’t care. I do. I care too much. About your stupid sleep schedule. About how you always steal my coffee and then pout when I steal it back. About the way you look at me like I’m some sort of mystery you want to solve.”

You blinked, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

“And I care,” she added, eyes searching yours, “about the way you melt when I kiss you. And the way you kissed me back that night like I was something you finally admitted you wanted.”

The air felt suddenly charged—so thick with unspoken things it was a miracle you could still breathe.

“You don’t scare me,” you whispered, your hands curling into the fabric of her top. “I was waiting for this. For you.”

She kissed you again—like that was all she needed to hear. Like that confession was enough to loosen something deep inside her, something she’d been guarding far too long.

And when her lips moved against yours, slow and reverent, it wasn’t a question anymore. It was a promise.

————

The rest of that day passed in a golden haze—soft laughter pressed between lingering kisses, playful jabs that dissolved into grins, and the kind of handholding that made your chest ache with something warm and weightless. Rafayel was clingier than usual. Or maybe she’d always been this way—touch-starved and dramatic—but now she didn’t have to hide it anymore.

Some people stared. Some didn’t. Neither reaction mattered. Not when her fingers threaded through yours like they were made to belong there. Not when she dragged you aimlessly across campus with no destination, only momentum and mischief, tugging you behind her like she couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second. Her gaze glinted with that impossible combination of flirtation and something softer, rarer. Real. It left you rolling your eyes so much your head hurt—but your cheeks stayed warm the entire time.

Eventually, you parted ways. She had sculpting class and was already half-late, swearing under her breath and sprinting down the hall. But not before stealing one more kiss—quick, open, a little messy—and flashing you a smug smile that lingered in your chest long after she vanished around the corner.

Hours later, you were curled up in the dorm, the scent of takeout seafood clinging to the air, when the door creaked open. Rafayel stumbled inside with the grace of a ghost and the dramatic sigh of a diva meeting her tragic end.

“I swear,” she groaned, dropping her bag with a thud, “that sculpture has a personal vendetta against me. I’ve never been so personally victimized by a block of marble.”

You laughed, already expecting the theatrics. “Maybe it’s just trying to capture your true essence—sharp, stubborn, and a pain in the ass.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow, fingers moving lazily to the buttons of her shirt. “Is that what you like about me?”

You meant to say something snarky back, but your mouth dried the moment she tugged the shirt from her shoulders and let it fall, revealing smooth skin and black lace that did absolutely nothing to help your focus. 

Her eyes caught yours—cool amethyst, alight with quiet heat and something undeniably wicked. “You’re staring,” she murmured, voice low and knowing. 

You tried to turn, to look anywhere but at her. “I’m not.”

Her laugh curled around your spine. “Liar.”

Before you could retreat farther, her arms wrapped around your waist from behind. The contact stole your breath. Her bare skin met yours through the thin fabric of your shirt, and her lips found the side of your neck—soft, lazy kisses that didn’t match the spike of need they left behind.

“Don’t run now,” she whispered, like she was talking about more than just your failed attempt to flee. “You started this by looking at me like that.”

You shivered in her hold, your hands gripping her forearms as you stared hard at the cluttered desk ahead, pretending the warmth of her mouth on your skin wasn’t unraveling you piece by piece.

“We haven’t done this since…” you managed, breath shaky.

“I know.” her teeth grazed your pulse point. “That night ruined me.”

Your knees buckled slightly as her fingers slipped beneath your shirt—slow, exploratory, reverent. You hadn’t bothered with a bra, and the moment she realized it, her palm curved upward, cupping your breast in a warm, steady hold.

“Rafayel—” your voice caught, half-whisper, half-plea.

Her only reply was a soft hum and the gentle drag of her thumb across your nipple. The sensation hit like a live wire, your body already reacting before your mind could catch up. Your hips twitched, your thighs pressing together as arousal pooled hot and thick between your legs.

“Still so sensitive,” she mused, mouth brushing your ear now. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, cutie?”

The nickname sent a new wave of heat straight through you. You couldn’t help the whimper that escaped when she pinched lightly, rolling the soft peak between her fingers while her other hand snuck lower, skimming along the waistband of your sleep shorts with maddening patience.

It was unbearable. Addictive. Every touch, every breath, felt amplified by time and distance and restraint finally crumbling. You were shaking, melting in her arms, undone by how slowly she was letting you fall apart. And she hadn’t even kissed you again.

You squirmed in her hold, helpless and pliant, a shaky sigh spilling from your lips as Rafayel’s mouth continued its slow, indulgent exploration of your neck. Each kiss was lazy, deliberate, like she had all the time in the world—and you were the only thing worth tasting.

Your underwear was already clinging to you, soaked and sensitive, the arousal pooling between your thighs impossible to ignore. When her teeth sank softly into the tender skin just beneath your ear, your breath hitched, a high, needy moan escaping before you could catch it. Her fingers pinched your nipple again, and your voice cracked on the edge of it, barely more than a breath.

“Mmn,” she purred, her tone amused, her lips brushing your skin. “So fussy tonight, aren’t you?”  

The hand at your waist hadn’t moved lower. It hovered, trailing along the band of your sleep shorts in lazy circles that did nothing to ease the ache and everything to stoke the fire. Her fingertips were cool, featherlight, the faintest contrast to the heat blooming beneath your skin. And gods, they were so slender—too perfect not to imagine them inside you again. Your back arched instinctively, hips pressing into her, seeking more.

That earned you a quiet, delighted sound from her throat—a low hum, warm and indulgent, vibrating against your skin as her smirk curled into your neck.

She knew. Of course she knew. You were transparent in the way your body trembled, in the way your breath caught every time she touched you like this. Rafayel didn’t need you to say anything—she read you like one of her own sketches, fingertips gliding over every unspoken desire.

She shifted then, just enough to whisper, “You remember how I touched you, don’t you?”

A whimper answered her before you could speak. She chuckled—quiet, sinful, pleased—and the sound alone made your knees weaken.

She liked this. The control, the teasing edge of power in her hands. But she wasn’t cruel with it—never cruel. She coaxed more than she commanded, every touch a question and a promise. She wanted to draw you out, unravel you, piece by piece. Make you beg, make you melt. Make you hers.

And you were. Weren’t you?

“Still not using your words,” she murmured, lips grazing your ear now. “Should I stop?”

Your head shook before your voice could catch up. “No—don’t stop.”

“Hmm. Thought so.” 

Then she bit down again, harder this time—marking you. A sharp little sting beneath a flood of warmth. Before you could breathe through it, her fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts with practiced ease, sliding beneath your soaked underwear in one smooth motion.

You gasped, a full-body shiver racking through you as her fingers finally found you. She didn’t rush—of course not. That wasn’t her style.

She circled your clit once, twice. So slow you thought you might scream. Your voice broke around her name, cracked and breathless and desperate, and Rafayel grinned like she’d won something. Which she had.

Her fingers moved with maddening ease between your folds, dragging through your slickness, teasing and stroking—but never pushing in. She knew exactly what you wanted, and she was going to make you feel every inch of the wanting.

You whimpered, hips rocking subtly, chasing the friction, and she tsked softly behind you.

“Impatient,” she whispered, her voice all velvet and sin. “But I like you like this.”

You could feel the thrum of her arousal behind you, the way her breathing had quickened, her body pressed flush against yours. Her own want was simmering beneath the surface, but still—she gave all of herself to you, focused, reverent. Her fingers played you like an instrument, tuning every reaction with the same attention she gave to her most delicate sculptures.

And you were crumbling. Needy and soaking and trembling in her arms, begging with nothing but moans and the way you leaned back into her, silently pleading for more.

“Feels… good,” you managed, voice catching as her fingers slicked back and forth again, gliding with lazy expertise between your folds. “R-Raf…” 

It wasn’t quite a plea yet. But it was close. Her breath skimmed your neck as she hummed in mock curiosity, the sound equal parts teasing and wicked. 

“Mm? That good?” she murmured, her fingers not quite still—but infuriatingly slow. She traced over your swollen clit with featherlight strokes, then dipped lower again, just to feel the way your hips shifted into her hand, hungry for more friction.

You bit your lower lip hard, trying to keep your voice steady, but it broke again the moment she pinched your nipple. A sharp ache, a jolt of pleasure, just as her other hand circled your clit again—this time with more pressure. She alternated between soft and firm, cruel and kind, a rhythm designed to leave you dazed and gasping.

She was out to wreck you, and you both knew it. And this time, you were entirely sober—no excuses, no haze to hide behind. 

“Ahh… Ayel… please…” 

The nickname slipped out before you realized it—breathy, whimpering, soaked in need. You hadn’t called her that before. No one had, no one besides her. The girl you’d been so jealous of.

Rafayel froze for half a second—just long enough for you to feel the shift in her energy, the pause in her breath, the amused tension that curled behind her silence.

Then she let out a low, sultry laugh.

“Oh? Now I get the special nickname,” she whispered, lips grazing your jaw. “You sure are so pretty when you're jealous, baby. Claiming this nickname as yours, finally, hm?” 

And then without waiting, she pushed two fingers inside you. 

You gasped, sharp and high and ragged, clenching tight around her as your hands flew to grab something—anything. Her arms, her shirt, your own desk. Her moan followed yours, soft but heady, like she could feel everything through your body.

“Fuck,” she breathed, her tone losing some of its usual lightness. “You’re—so eager.”

She began to move them slowly, knuckles deep, dragging her fingers in a rhythm that matched the way her lips pressed into your neck—wet, warm, reverent. Her other hand hadn’t stopped its torment, rolling your nipple between her fingers with a kind of absentminded care, like she already owned this part of you. Like she was sculpting you to her exact shape.

And maybe she was.

You weren’t sure what you liked most. You hadn’t figured all of that out yet. But this—this felt right. Being undone in her arms like this. The way she coaxed you, praised you, the way she pulled these sounds from you without ever needing to demand them. It was effortless. Dangerous.

“Look at you,” she whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “So good for me. You don’t even realize how pretty you sound, do you?” 

You tried to speak, but the words tangled in your throat as her fingers curled just right, pressing into that spot that made your knees threaten to give out. She caught you, arms tightening, holding you steady as you trembled. Her breath was hotter now, her rhythm faster—still controlled, still calculated, but unraveling at the edges.

You were moaning freely now, a broken, breathy mess, your hips grinding down against her hand. She matched your pace with a low, shuddering sound in your ear, so turned on she was almost shaking too.

And still, she kept that teasing lilt in her voice, whispering things that made your spine arch and your skin flush.

“You gonna come for me like that?” she asked, tongue flicking over your earlobe. “Soaked and shaking, begging in your sleep shorts?” 

Your body answered before your voice could. You were right there, breath hitching, back arching, vision blurring. And she didn’t stop, not this time. Not when you were finally falling apart the way she wanted to see you. 

“I’m gonna—”

The words caught on your tongue, dissolved into a ragged moan as Rafayel’s fingers kept moving inside you—slow and deliberate, then curling just right, coaxing you closer to the edge with every thrust. Your body trembled in her arms, hips chasing her rhythm, the wet slick of your arousal echoing obscenely between your thighs. 

She knew. The way your walls clenched around her fingers, tight and pulsing, was all the confirmation she needed. Her own breath was shaky now, her thighs pressed together as her own arousal pulsed low and hot. And yet, her voice—when it found you again—was still a breathy tease, low and playful against your ear.

“Oh? You're gonna come just like that, pretty girl?” her lips grazed your skin, open-mouthed and greedy. “So easy for me…” 

Her mouth closed around your earlobe, sucking gently as her fingers curled again, dragging against that spot that made your whole body lock up. Another pinch to your nipple had your breath hitching, your mouth falling open as a choked moan burst free. 

Then it hit you—your release crashing down, electric and wild. Your head fell back onto her shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, jaw slack in a breathless cry as your hips jolted with the force of it. You came hard, pulsing around her fingers, the pleasure so deep it bordered on painful.

Rafayel held you through it, one arm steady around your waist as her other hand slowed but didn’t stop, drawing the orgasm out, making you feel every flicker and spasm. Your sleep shorts and underwear were soaked through—her hand glistening with your release—and still she wasn’t quite finished.

You winced, oversensitive, when she finally withdrew her fingers—but then gasped again as she circled your clit, slow and unrelenting.

“Still so sensitive…” she murmured, the breath of her voice hot against your neck. “I could do this all night.”

You turned in her arms, still dizzy, still floating—and kissed her. 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy. Your lips met hers in a rush of heat and want, all teeth and hunger and wordless need. She made a surprised noise, muffled in your mouth, but it melted quickly into a moan as she kissed you back, matching your urgency. Your tongues tangled, breath fast and shallow, her fingers finally slipping out of your shorts completely.

You didn’t break the kiss as you guided her backward, fumbling toward the bed, your hands greedy now, claiming. Rafayel’s back hit the mattress with a soft thump, and you followed her down, crawling into her lap with shaking limbs and relentless need.

She gasped when your hips settled over her thigh, her breath catching at the friction. Her hands found your waist, fingertips bruising, nails just grazing your skin through the damp fabric.

“You’re taking charge now?” she managed to tease, voice wrecked and breathless. “God, I must’ve done something right.”

You didn’t answer her with words. Instead, you bent to press kisses along her neck, wet and open, your teeth grazing over the skin just above her collarbone. Your hands slid up her back, unclasping her bra with a quiet click, and she arched into the touch, a soft moan breaking in her throat as you pushed the lacy fabric away and tossed it aside.

Your hands cupped her breasts, warm and full in your palms, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked beneath your touch. She gasped again, head tilting back against the pillow, lips parted and glossy with the remnants of your kiss.

“Fuck…” she breathed, voice fraying at the edges. “You really…know how to keep a girl on her toes.”

You kept moving your hips over her thigh, slow and unhurried, dragging your soaked shorts over her bare skin, the pressure hitting just right as you rocked against her. Her thigh flexed beneath you, offering more resistance, and you moaned into the crook of her neck.

Her hands clutched at your hips now, not guiding, just holding—as if she couldn’t decide if she wanted to take back control or simply watch you take it.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “So wet for me already.”

You bit down gently on her throat in response, your own voice thick with want. “You made me this way.”

“Mm. I’ll take the credit.” she smirked, but the sound that followed was helpless—a whimper from deep in her chest as your fingers teased her nipples again. “But you’re not gonna leave me hanging, are you, sweetheart?”

“Mmm… What do you want, Ayel?” you breathed against her throat, the nickname slipping past your lips in a low murmur, laced with just enough mischief to make her pulse beneath your mouth. 

You felt it instantly—how her hands clenched just a little tighter on your hips, her fingers digging in as if the sound of her name from your lips had undone something inside her. And maybe it had. She knew what the nickname meant, where it came from—the girl who used to say it with syrupy sweetness, the one who had no idea how much it burned you to hear it. But now, here it was—falling from your lips, claimed and transformed. 

And Rafayel felt that too. Her grip on you flexed, sharp enough to draw a gasp from your throat, and you moaned softly against her skin. 

“Cutie,” she said, voice a ragged whisper, half-laughing, half-wrecked. “Don't moan it like that, god.”

You kissed her again instead of answering, slow and open-mouthed, stealing the breath right out of her lungs. And even though you were new to this—still fumbling your way through how to touch, how to take—you knew what you wanted.

You wanted to make her feel good.

Last time, she’d let you try, let you explore her body in ways you never had with anyone before. You hadn’t been sure you could do it right—go down on a woman, make her come—but Rafayel had held you through it, murmured her praise between gasps, and you had watched her fall apart on your tongue.

The memory of it still made your stomach twist with pride and heat.

Now you wanted more. You wanted her to guide you again—but this time, you wanted to learn it, commit every gasp, every twitch of her body, to memory. You wanted to understand every line of pleasure she kept hidden behind her smirks and playful banter.

So, slowly, you slipped off her thigh, lowering yourself with care and purpose. Your lips began to trace a path downward—over her collarbone, her sternum, her ribs—leaving soft, reverent kisses in your wake. You paused at her breasts, your breath hitching as you took her in.

She was already panting softly, eyes hooded and dark with heat as she watched you from above. Her amethyst gaze burned into yours—half-lidded, heavy with anticipation, but laced with something else too. Pride. Wonder.

You wrapped your lips around one nipple and sucked gently, tongue flicking over the peak, watching how her lashes fluttered in response. That look she gave you—like you were beautiful just for wanting her—filled you with a heady confidence, the kind that made your heart pound and your thighs ache.

“Fuck…” she whispered, her voice frayed and airy. “You’re gonna ruin me if you do things like that, sweetheart.”

You smiled against her skin, a little drunk on her reaction. “That’s the plan.”

Of course, Rafayel couldn’t let you win that easily.

“Oh?” she hummed, arching a brow even as her back arched beneath your mouth. “Then be a good girl and listen carefully…”

Her voice dipped lower, soft and sweet and absolutely not innocent. She told you what she liked—how she liked it—but even then, her instructions came laced in innuendo, phrased like gentle dares, always leaving room for you to misbehave.

You responded by dragging your teeth lightly over her nipple in retaliation, biting down just enough to make her cry out, loud and honest. Her hips bucked beneath you, breath breaking, and her hand shot up to grip the back of your head.

Fingers tangled into your hair—not to push you away, but to hold you there. The pressure of her hand was possessive, grounding. Her moan was sharp, her spine a taut bow beneath you.

“God—” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Just like that…”

You obeyed, mouth worshiping one breast while your hand came up to toy with the other, pinching, rolling, teasing. Rafayel’s breath came faster, her thighs twitching beneath you, her body caught in that beautiful space between control and surrender.

And you—new and still learning—felt her fall into your hands.

Rafayel trembled beneath your touch, and the pride blooming in your chest was impossible to hide. Her fingers tangled deeper into your hair as your mouth continued its slow, reverent attention—teasing, tasting, alternating between licks and playful bites along her flushed skin. You’d begun to understand the rhythm of her body, how she arched so beautifully into your mouth, how her breath stuttered when you bit just right, how her thighs tensed every time you switched from one nipple to the other.

Her head tilted back against the pillow, mouth parted, chest heaving with every panting breath. Even in her haze, she still found the strength to tease—because she was restless even in the bedroom.

“Enjoying the feast, angel?” she panted, voice thick with pleasure, yet still carrying that smooth, playful lilt. Her fingers slid through your hair again, tugging gently when you swirled your tongue over her nipple. “You’re doing so well—ah—don’t get cocky though.” 

A soft moan caught on the end of her sentence when you nipped her again. One of your hands trailed upward, smoothing over the soft skin of her thigh, where her skirt had ridden up from her shifting. The gesture made her gasp softly, her legs parting just enough to let you settle closer, though you didn’t move further. 

You liked having control—you liked seeing her unravel beneath your mouth—but you still wanted her to lead. To show you. You were still learning. Still eager.

Rafayel seemed to sense that in you like it was written into your skin. And gods, she looked wrecked—beautifully so—with her thighs parted, her skirt bunched up, and her flushed chest rising and falling. Her violet eyes burned as she looked down at you between her legs, and a knowing smirk curled at her lips.

“You really are… dangerous like this,” she murmured. “Look at you. All spread out between my legs, acting like a good girl—just so I’ll take control.” 

You blushed hard, lips moving to kiss a spot just below her breast, where you sucked gently until her breath caught again. She whimpered, then suddenly grabbed your wrists, pulling you up with a force that knocked the air from your lungs—but you gasped into her kiss as she rolled the both of you over, now hovering above, all flushed skin and tangled limbs and hungry mouths. Somewhere in the haze, she pulled your shirt over your head, baring you to the cool air.

Her kiss was more desperate now, more open, her breath mixing with yours. And in that pause between gasps and grazed lips, she murmured, “Tell me what you want.”

It was so soft, but you felt the urgency in it—the plea not for clarity, but for closeness. 

You didn’t hesitate. “I want you,” you whispered back. “I want… sex. I just—I don’t know what to do. What works. If it’ll be like last time, or…”

Your voice trailed off, but Rafayel heard the doubt lingering beneath your want. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her chest pressed flush to yours, and the gentle curve of a smile softened her features. Her hand slid up your side, and her mouth brushed your collarbone. 

“God, you’re adorable,” she whispered, then nipped the space between your neck and shoulder. “So sweet when you’re trying to figure it out. Lucky for you… I’m very educated.” 

You laughed breathlessly, blushing deeper when her nipple brushed yours and both of you moaned at the accidental contact. Your hips shifted, tangled together in instinct more than intention, and the friction made you both gasp.

Between kisses, you told her again—shaky but certain—that you wanted her. All of her. Rafayel chuckled softly, even though she moaned when your thigh pressed between hers. Her lips curved against your skin. 

“There are lots of ways we can do this, cutie,” she murmured, hot breath fanning over your jaw. “I could ride your thigh until I cry. Let you sit on my face. Maybe I’ll fuck you against the headboard with my fingers so deep you forget your name. Or…” 

She dipped her head, lips brushing your ear, “...you could sit back, legs wide, and let me show you exactly how well I know this body of yours now.” 

Your breath hitched. A tremor rolled through you so strong it made her smirk. 

“Mmm, see?” she purred, dragging her tongue slowly up your neck. “That’s my favorite sound.”

And then she kissed you again, slow and deep, while her hand trailed lower—already making good on every filthy promise she’d just whispered.

“Raf… mmh, you can’t just say things like that so casually,” you breathed, the words dissolving into a moan as her fingers curled around the waistband of your sleep shorts and tugged them down your trembling thighs in one slow, deliberate motion. Your underwear went with them, dragged off like an afterthought, leaving you bare and flushed beneath her gaze.

She licked her lips without shame, clearly pleased by the sight of you laid out so open and wanting. The softest chuckle left her throat, warm and husky. “You say that,” she murmured, “but look how pretty you sound when I do.”

Then without warning, two fingers slid up through your folds, slick and teasing, and you gasped, hips jerking at the sensation. You were still sensitive from your last orgasm, the nerves raw and eager, your thighs instinctively parting for her.

You reached for the zipper of her skirt, hands shaky with both want and awe, and she let you pull it down with surprising ease. But when the fabric fell away, her underwear remained. You saw the darkened patch there, unmistakably soaked, and couldn’t help the way your teeth sank into your lower lip at the sight. Your eyes lingered, locked on the way her arousal clung to the thin fabric, pulsing with need.

She smirked, even as color rose to her cheeks—still blushing under your gaze, despite all her confidence. She could pretend she was in control, but you saw the tremble in her breath, the way her body gave her away when you looked at her like this. 

“Mmh… you want it again already?” she asked, voice a purr as she straddled your bare thigh. “Didn’t know I had such an insatiable little lover.” 

She rocked forward, grinding down with slow, deliberate movements, the wet heat of her soaked underwear dragging across your skin. You could feel her throbbing against you, and the friction made her gasp, her eyelids fluttering half-shut. The sight of her—panting, flushed, grinding on your thigh while watching you with blown pupils—made your stomach twist with heat.

You whimpered softly, and she smiled like a cat with cream. “I could make you beg again,” she murmured, her voice thick with breath. “Could take my time. Maybe ride your face until you forget your own name. Or…” she leaned down, brushing a kiss to your jaw, “tie your hands and ruin you with my fingers till you're crying for me.”

Her hand slid up to your breast, squeezing gently before pinching your nipple between clever fingers. You gasped, moaning into her touch as your hips shifted instinctively.

“Oh, I like that one,” she added, smirking through a breathy moan of her own. “God, look at you… You want everything, don’t you?” 

You nodded—frantic, desperate, unable to pretend anymore. 

She chuckled, though it broke on a pant. “I could use toys, if you want,” she murmured against your throat, placing soft kisses there. “A strap, maybe. Let you feel what it’s like to take me slow and deep. You’d look so good like that, spread open just for me, all mine.” 

The words shot straight through you. You felt the heat between your thighs intensify, slickness dripping onto the sheets below, your body betraying every bit of restraint you didn’t have to begin with. 

Rafayel felt it too—saw it, heard the change in your breath—and whimpered softly. Her moan was caught in her throat as she ground harder against your thigh, the friction making her shake. Then, with a gasp and a wicked smile, she leaned forward and kissed you—deep and open, her tongue sliding past your lips while her fingers found your clit again, circling with a maddening softness.

“God, you're so wet for me,” she whispered against your mouth, teasing but reverent, her voice trembling just enough to tell you she wasn’t as composed as she wanted to appear. “Think you’ll come again before I do?”

You didn’t answer because you couldn’t. Not with her mouth back on yours, her hand between your thighs, and her body moving against you like you were already hers. Because honestly, you were hers, and there was no denying it.

You were a mess of stuttered moans against her mouth, gasping each time her fingers circled your clit with the same slow rhythm she rocked against your thigh. Her body trembled in sync with yours, soft sounds escaping between parted lips—those rare, choked gasps she couldn’t hold back when pleasure snuck past her composure. She buried them into your neck, warm breath hitching as her hips stuttered for the briefest moment.

Then without warning, she slid two fingers inside you. Just a little, just enough to tease, enough to make your back arch in response.

Her breath hitched when she felt how easily you welcomed her again, how impossibly slick you were. She didn’t move deeper yet. No, she paused right there, savoring the heat, the way you clenched instinctively around her fingers. She pulled her head back enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with lust, lips curved into a knowing smirk.

“God…” she murmured, voice thick with want. “You’d take three so easily, wouldn’t you?”

You choked on a whimper, thighs trembling. The sheer filth of her words had you clenching again, and your nails dragged down her back in a wave of instinct that made her shiver.

She was close—so close—you could feel it in the way her hips faltered just slightly, how her moans started to lose their polished tease. But so were you. And in the haze of shared heat and daring new confidence, you leaned up and caught one of her nipples in your mouth, sucking deep before biting down.

The reaction was instant. Rafayel cried out, high and soft and ruined, her body shaking against yours as she came—mewling into the crook of your neck, breath ragged and broken. You felt it, hot and soaked, the way she pulsed through her panties, against your bare thigh, every wave of her release making you whimper and clench around her fingers again.

Her movements stilled briefly, caught in the aftershocks, but you whined at the loss. And Rafayel—always indulgent—kissed you hard, messy, still drunk on pleasure, still panting into your mouth as she picked up the pace again.

“You’re still so needy,” she whispered against your lips, her voice raw and a little breathless. “Greedy girl.”

She was still dazed, still flushed, but the glint in her eye told you she wasn’t done with you. Not yet.

Her fingers started to move again, steady and firm, the slick sounds between your legs only adding to your unraveling. She curled them—once, then again—stroking that spot inside you with expert care, watching your eyes flutter, your body writhe. She wanted to see you fall apart.

“Mmh, you could take more, y’know,” she teased, her voice dark velvet now, pressed low against your ear. “Slow and sweet… or maybe deep and fast. Would you like that, pretty thing?”

Her words barely registered—your brain too fogged from pleasure, from the rhythm building deep inside you. She felt it too—the way your body gripped her fingers tighter with every thrust, how your legs tensed, how your voice started to crack from the sheer desperation in each moan.

She kissed your jaw, your cheek, then found your neck again, sucking a mark just below your ear as her fingers never stopped. “Look at you,” she purred, nearly undone herself. “So good for me. So perfect like this.”

And then—with a few final curls, angled just right—she found that spot again and didn’t let up. Your entire body seized around her, and the cry that tore from your throat was as raw as it was beautiful. 

“Give it to me, gorgeous,” she whispered, her smirk warm against your neck. “You take my fingers so well… such a well-behaved girl, yeah?” 

Your head fell back as your orgasm hit hard, loud, helpless, your hips grinding against her hand as she held you through every wave. Rafayel hummed low in her throat, almost reverent as she dragged it out, still praising you, even as your body trembled beneath her.

She didn’t stop until she felt every last flutter fade, until you collapsed against the bed again, breathing hard, lips parted in bliss. And even then, she held you close, smiling against your hair.

“See?” she whispered, voice smug but sweet. “Told you I’d make you sing.” 

You were still trembling when the second wave crashed over you—long, rolling, and so intense it left your limbs quivering beneath her. You hadn’t come since that night, over a month ago, so this second orgasm hit even harder because you were so sensitive and worked up. 

You had been caught in your own head, tangled in feelings you hadn’t wanted to name, you hadn’t dared to seek release alone. And now, it all unraveled at once. Rafayel had touched you, looked at you, and your body gave in with an ease that left you dizzy, drunk on her and the pleasure she’d poured into you like it cost her nothing. 

Your chest heaved, lips parted against her shoulder, breath hot and shallow. And so was hers. Rafayel was panting into the crook of your neck, her skin slick with sweat, her lavender hair falling in soft, damp strands against your cheek. She didn’t move right away—only pulled her fingers out slowly, slick with your release, and sat back on your thigh to study you with a lazy, pleased smile.

Then—eyes locked onto yours, half-lidded and burning—she raised her hand and wrapped her lips around her fingers, tongue curling to taste you.

You moaned at the sight. And Rafayel, ever the performer, whined softly like she couldn’t help herself, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“Mmm,” she purred, drawing her fingers from her mouth with a slow pop. “Still sweet, cutie.”

You let out a strangled breath—half embarrassment, half arousal—and yanked her down by the neck, crashing your mouth onto hers. She giggled against your lips, surprised but pleased, before melting into the kiss—open-mouthed and messy, tasting yourself on her tongue, giving back everything she’d taken.

At first, it was frantic. Starved. Teeth and heat. But soon, it slowed. Turned languid. The kind of kiss that didn’t beg for more—it was more. You clung to her, arms wrapping around her damp back as she melted over you, sighing into your mouth as if the moment itself had undone her.

She shifted, straddling your thigh again, and let out a soft groan at the friction. “Ugh,” she muttered into your hair, voice playful, strained. “These panties are a crime from how uncomfortable they are.”

You laughed—breathy and warm against her shoulder—and she chuckled too, hiding her flushed face in the curve of your neck. The two of you stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing. Letting your bodies cool and your heartbeats settle.

She nuzzled closer, arms wrapped snugly around you, still occasionally brushing her fingers along your side or across your ribs—casual, familiar touches that sparked soft shivers each time. You weren’t done. The heat hadn’t faded, not with her still pressed against your thigh, still whispering every now and then with that teasing lilt.  “You looked so pretty like that.” “Think I should paint you next time… but I doubt I’d capture the right shade of you being all wrecked.” “Oh? Blushing already, cutie?”

Each line left you somewhere between a shiver and a laugh. You had no idea how she managed to say things like that so casually, like she wasn’t absolutely wrecking you with every word.

She had whispered a dozen sinful things earlier, proposals in the heat of the moment—things she’d like to try, things she could do to you. Some you didn’t even fully understand, but the images stuck in your mind like heatprints. Especially the one about toys. A strap-on. It had been tossed out between a moan and a gasp, but now it circled in your head with maddening persistence.

You swallowed hard, not quite ready to bring it up. Not yet. You weren’t sure how to ask, how to phrase something so new and intimidating. But you were curious. Far more curious than you expected to be.

You shifted beneath her, and she tilted her head with that knowing look, brushing damp hair from your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

“What’s got that little head spinning now?” she murmured, voice low, lips brushing your temple. “Still thinking about all the things I said I could do?”

You glanced away, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

She grinned, absolutely delighted by your flustered silence. “Mm. Thought so.”

Her hand trailed down your side, teasing but not demanding. Just a soft, grounding touch. “You don’t have to say yes now,” she whispered, more tender this time. “We’ve got time. I’ll wait for you to ask.”

And you knew she meant it—not just the words, but the promise laced in them. She’d wait for your voice, your comfort, your desire to match hers. She wasn’t pushing. But god, she knew exactly how to pull.

————

That night unraveled slowly, sweetly, like the softest dream you never wanted to wake from. Rafayel had kept teasing you even after, her touches no longer urgent but languid—fingertips skimming your bare skin, her lips brushing yours between half-murmured jests and low, amused hums. You’d curled into one another under the weight of soft sheets and the warmth of spent desire, tangled limbs and flushed cheeks pressed close, hearts still drumming a shared rhythm.

She didn’t sleep right away. Instead, she talked—low and velvety, like a purring cat basking in the glow of her own satisfaction—her voice threaded with mischief, with lazy grins and half-lidded eyes that sparkled whenever they landed on you. And you, helplessly enamored, kept combing your fingers through her soft lavender hair, twirling it idly while she nuzzled into your touch, humming in approval as if your hand belonged there.

You had never felt happiness like this. A deep, consuming kind of contentment that left you weightless, floating somewhere just above the sheets. Her body molded into yours like it was meant to fit there, and the glow in her gaze matched the ache of affection swelling in your chest. You were on cloud nine, drunk not on lust anymore, but on love that had snuck in so gently you hadn’t noticed it carving itself into your bones.

You must’ve fallen asleep like that—wrapped around her, cheek against her hair, one hand still tangled at the nape of her neck.

And for once, when you woke the next morning, the bed wasn’t empty.

There was no hastily scribbled note left beside your pillow, no lingering scent of her on cold sheets. There was her—soft and warm and sleeping soundly, her limbs still looped around you like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

You blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the morning light spilling through the sheer curtains. It dappled across her face in golden streaks, catching on her lashes, illuminating the soft curve of her cheek. Her mouth was slightly parted, breath slow and even, and her brows relaxed in a rare, vulnerable stillness.

And she was still clinging to you like a clingy cat. So you pulled her closer, arms tightening instinctively around her bare waist until she made a small, sleepy sound in protest—or maybe in pleasure. It was hard to tell with Rafayel, even now. Her body shifted just enough to press herself fully against you, a satisfied hum vibrating in her throat like she was sinking deeper into your warmth.

You stayed like that, quietly, letting the moment stretch out. Your fingers drifted to her spine, tracing soft, aimless patterns along the bare length of it. Up and down, up and down. Featherlight and rhythmic. She made another sound against your collarbone—half sigh, half moan—and nuzzled in closer, as though even in sleep, she wasn’t ready to give you up.

Then, with a muffled little grumble, she mumbled something into your neck.

You laughed softly, the sound muffled against her hair. “What was that?”

She didn’t answer—only pressed a lazy kiss to the hollow of your throat, then another. Her lips moved slowly, affectionately, trailing kisses along the same spot like she was imprinting herself there.

“Mmm… that tickles, you know,” she eventually murmured, voice thick with sleep and teasing warmth.

“You’ll live,” you whispered back, smiling even as you kept stroking her back, your fingertips gliding just beneath her shoulder blade. She let out a pleased sigh, clearly unbothered by your challenge.

The moment felt timeless—suspended in quiet, golden warmth. There was no rush. No questions. Just Rafayel in your arms, draping sleepy kisses onto your skin while your legs remained tangled beneath the sheets, bare skin sliding lazily against bare skin. The soft scent of her shampoo lingered on her hair, and the way her fingers flexed lightly at your side told you she was still somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, perfectly content to stay wrapped around you until the sun had risen far too high.

And truthfully, you didn’t want to be anywhere else either.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @lifeisnotaesy, @chiikasevennn, @dramaticalsachan, @3ophelia3

[h0useslut]

don’t let me in with no intention to keep me .ᐟ

requests | masterlist

pairing : gregory house x fem!reader

w/c : 1,7k

warnings : hurt/comfort, references to gun violence (handled subtly), post-shooting trauma, angst with a bittersweet edge, arguments, gregory house being emotionally constipated

summary : house can't understand why reader stays after everything he does. after he gets shot, it all comes crashing down on him. one fight and almost tearful confession later, he finally understands why she stays.

a/n : this is something my dear @ariluvzzz prompted, and who am i to say no to her?

It starts with House doing his little schemes on you. Mixing up your coffee order. Accidentally dropping your lunch on the floor while you ate together. Paging an emergency when in reality, he just wanted to mess with you.

At first, you thought it was funny. Hearing him say “What’s got your panties in a twist?” after writing post-it notes with incorrect patient updates was a little infuriating, but you also enjoyed seeing that devilish smirk on his face.

But then the schemes kept coming. More specific. He started knowing exactly how to get under your skin. How you hated reports being mixed up, how the smell of tuna made you gag, how your mug had to face the same direction every morning. You don’t remember telling him those things. He noticed, as he always did.

It didn’t take you long to notice what was actually happening. This wasn’t just boredom or cruelty. It was his version of attention.

And in some backward, ridiculous way, it made you feel seen. Wanted, even. You didn’t say anything, just went along with it. You were pretty sure by now the entire team had noticed the fact that you were in love with him. It was too obvious. Even though you doubted he would ever admit that he did those things out of affection, his eyes lingered on your face way too often, and his voice lowered when he said your name.

It was real.

That playfulness lasted so long, had it not been for the shooting. You weren’t there when it happened. But you remember the look on Wilson’s face when he told you. House had been shot in the neck by a former patient.

You don’t remember much after that. Just how cold your hands felt. How empty the hallway was without his usual complaints and clatter.

You couldn’t bear to see him in the hospital bed. And when you did, it was usually when he was asleep. It hurt too much.

When he came back, something was different. First, came the shouting about the carpet. Then, the jokes stopped. No more coffee-swapped orders, no scribbled notes on your patient's charts.

And the worst of all? He became cold towards you. Silent. Shrugging you off as if you weren’t important. As if you weren’t working in the same team with him.

You knew he was holding back so much. All the things he couldn’t say were now locked up even tighter. And it broke something in you too. Seeing the man you were in love with becoming distant and just not really there.

You weren’t supposed to be there after 8. Technically. But practically? You stalled for a minute too long. You just wanted to see what was wrong. Get him to talk. Anything that would mean that he’d talk to you for more than a few seconds.

Slouched in his office chair, glasses perched low on his nose - he barely heard you come in.

You hovered in the doorway. He glanced up, barely. Just a flick of his eyes.

“Breaking and entering? Bold move” He muttered, voice flat. “Looking to steal my pain meds or my will to live?”

You gave a small laugh, but it didn’t rise to the bait.

“I was just um- I was just passing by”

He didn’t bother to look up from whatever he was doing. Or actually what he wasn’t doing.

You stepped in slowly, coming to stand in front of him. “House” you spoke, softer now.

“What? What do you want?” He snapped, making you take a step back as he stood up.

You blinked at his outburst, trying not to let it sting. It did though. It always did when it came from him.

“I just- Well” you tried, voice smaller now. “I just wanted to talk. You’ve been shutting me out”

He scoffed. “You’re not that special. I shut everyone out”

“Yeah well, not me” You snapped too. “Not like this. Come on now”

That seemed to hit somewhere. His shoulders stiffened, jaw clenched like he was biting back words that might betray him.

“You almost died, House” you continued, stepping closer to him. “And since then, you’ve been acting like you want us to disappear. Like you want me to disappear.”

He finally looked at you again, expression unreadable. “You don’t get it. This isn’t about you”

“Then make me get it” you pushed, heart hammering in your chest. “Make me get it, please. Explain to me why you keep pushing me away”

Silence. He looked down, avoiding your gaze again.

“I can’t keep doing this. Not if you don’t even try to meet me halfway” you say, voice breaking a little.

And so you storm off.

House just stands there, his eyes ridden with something… maybe guilt. But he doesn’t run after you, he doesn’t chase you. You slam the door behind you, and he winces at the sound.

Running a hand through his hair, he sat down - pretending that his charts were the only important thing on his mind. Though he found himself muttering,

“Why does she always wait for me?”

And then it was quiet again.

He knew he should move, so he did. Anything. He kept staring at the door you’d just slammed, torn between looking for you or just ignoring the entire situation.

If he didn’t ignore the situation, it would mean something. And maybe that's what feared him most. That it would open up something inside him - space for someone.

You waited because you loved him. He knew it. That’s what made it worse. That’s what’s made it unbearable. You kept showing up, soft-spoken and with steady hands, even when he offered nothing but sarcasm and lewd comments.

He rubbed at his temples, then lingered on the faint scar near his jawline, the reminder of how close it all came to an end.

You could've left him after the shooting. Most people would have. Hell, maybe you should have left. But you didn't. You stayed.

That terrified him more than death ever did.

He exhales slowly. Maybe it's not about what you see in him - maybe it's about what he's too afraid to see in himself.

By the time he's on his feet, he has already made up his mind about it. It's already decided, though he doesn't really know what to say. But for the first time in weeks, his footsteps don't feel aimless.

Gregory House was coming to you.

You hadn't expected him to come. Not after the way you left. Not after the way he stood there, still as stone and dismissive while you opened your heart to him.

Curled up on the couch, lights dimmed low while a record was spinning in the background - not loud, but still there - you were caught off guard when a knock came on your door.

Your breath hitched. It couldn't be him, could it?

Oh, but you knew it was him. No one else knocked like that.

When you opened the door, he didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, like the words were stuck in his throat.

''I shouldn't have said that'' he muttered. ''I shouldn't have said a lot of things''

“Come in” You whispered, stepping aside.

He stepped inside, noticing how your shoulders slightly trembled.

House stood awkwardly in your living room, gaze flicking over the smallest details - the soft blanket you always curled into, books on the coffee table, on shelves, literally everywhere.

''You always listen to sad music when you're mad at me?'' he asked, attempting to joke. No sarcasm in his voice though. Just searching.

You didn’t answer right away. You crossed your arms, more to hold yourself together than anything else. “I’m not mad” you murmured.

“Just tired of feeling like I’m trying to pull you out of a place you don’t want to leave”

That made him wince. But he didn’t back down. Instead, he moved closer to you.

“Look at me” He whispered, voice soft. “I don’t want to hurt you”

You blinked hard. “Then why do you keep doing it? Why do you keep letting me in?”

“Why do you let me keep caring if you’re going to shut me out. If you have zero intention of actually letting me stay”

His jaw clenched, and he looked away just for a second. Like facing you - facing this entire moment was harder than any other case he’d taken up.

“I didn’t think you’d stay”

You felt something twist in your chest. He couldn’t be saying this, right? After everything you’d been through.

“I have stayed, Greg” you protested. “I stayed after the shooting. After you stopped talking to me. I stayed after you acted like I wasn’t even in the room.”

Silence fell between you again. This time it just helped the ache in your chest grow.

Then he said it, in a slow- agonising way.

“You were in the room. And you definitely mattered to me. You mattered to me more than anything”

Another step towards you. “You could’ve left,” he said, voice raw. His hands twitched awkwardly at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Stop saying it, please. You know I wouldn’t. You know me” You said hoarsely, eyes teary.

“Why do you keep waiting for me?” he asked. This time his question wasn’t bitter. It was quiet. Almost scared.

You swallowed. “Because I love you. I’m in love with you- and- I know at least for some time you liked me. I know if I wanted to love you right I needed to give you space. I had to let you figure it out”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you did little to keep them locked inside you. It was all coming undone. You didn’t expect him to say anything. You were used to him handling these types of situations with silence.

“You missed a little something” he finally said, voice cracking.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

House stepped closer again, his hand hesitating on your waist before coming to rest there. His eyes were locked on yours like he needed you to see the truth behind what he was about to say.

“I’ve always loved you, sweetheart”

[dovenskin]

⋆

bill dickey ノ

cw : just fluff , hamster bill, greedy/greasy little hamster bill

✦ Title: Hamster Bill

an : idk i got the idea from looking at bill eat a hamburger in the comics, he just … looked like a hamster… (this might become a series)

© dovenskin visual

Bill had been a hamster for approximately twenty-four hours, and you were already losing your mind.

He hadn’t taken to it gracefully.

No, Bill Dickey, former self-appointed president of the Eltingville Club and walking incel manifesto, had become the angriest, chubbiest puffball you’d ever seen. Still somehow managed to look smug while chewing on cardboard. Still somehow full of hatred.

He squeaked in your direction from the corner of his plastic cage, standing on his back legs like he was about to challenge you to a Yu-Gi-Oh duel.

You cooed softly, unable to help yourself. “Aww. Look at you. You’re so mad.”

You reached down to pet his fuzzy little head. Big mistake.

His tiny teeth sunk immediately into your fingertip.

“OW—motherfucker!” you yelped, stumbling back, clutching your bleeding hand to your chest. “He bit me! He actually bit me!”

Bill just sat there, beady eyes narrowed, little hamster chest heaving with rage. There were shredded tissues all over the floor of his enclosure. One of the wheels had already been broken.

You opened the cage with one hand and grabbed him with the other, ignoring his furious chirps and flailing limbs. He was round and squishy and still trying to bite you.

You squeezed him gently—just enough to assert dominance—and hissed:

“Listen, motherfucker. I could pop you open RIGHT NOW. DO NOT bite me again.”

He froze in your grip, legs dangling. You could practically hear his pride cracking under the weight of your fingers.

Later, you placed him on the couch with a stolen fast-food cheeseburger nearly the size of his entire body. He immediately launched himself face-first into it, rage-chewing like a little demon. Crumbs smeared across his fat cheeks. His tiny paws kneaded the bread like he could actually grab it. His belly had already rounded out and he hadn’t even made it halfway through.

Jerry walked in, saw the scene—Bill, plump and pissed, buried in lettuce—and blinked.

“Uh. What’s … happening?”

You didn’t even look away from the carnage.

“His greed sickens me.”

Bill squeaked angrily, mouth full of meat.

You tossed a napkin on his head like it was a crown and sighed.

“You’re lucky I like pathetic little rodents.”

He squeaked again.

You didn’t check if it was a thank-you.

—-

Bill had gorged himself into a food coma.

He was sprawled across a chewed-up napkin on your bed like a little round corpse, stomach heaving gently, crumb trails up his snout. His fur was slightly greasy from burger oils, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He looked like a cursed Furby mid-reboot.

You watched him from your pillow, head propped up on your elbow.

“…You’re disgusting,” you murmured fondly.

He didn’t respond. Just let out a soft, snorting breath through his stupid twitchy nose. His cheeks puffed in and out. His belly rose like a mini beanbag on the brink of bursting.

You reached out with one finger and gently poked his side.

Bill jolted.

He gave a short, sharp hiss—yes, a hiss—before snapping upright like a sleep-deprived cryptid. Beady eyes glassy with rage. His little fists clenched like he wanted to duel you in Magic: The Gathering right now.

You recoiled, laughing.

“I didn’t know hamsters could hiss!”

He puffed up like a microwaved marshmallow, baring his weird little rice-sized teeth and vibrating with hatred.

“Oh my god, do it again.”

You poked him.

Another hiss. A squeaky, wheezing one this time—like a teapot full of resentment.

“Bill,” you snorted, “are you broken? Is that your only line of defense now?”

He lunged for your finger, missed, and fell sideways onto his back, kicking his legs like a flipped Roomba. You nearly cried laughing.

Still giggling, you poked his soft belly.

HISSSS!!

“Stop! I can’t breathe—oh my god, you sound like an angry balloon animal!”

He flopped dramatically onto his side, face buried in the napkin, making an annoyed clicking sound like some combination of “fuck you” and “I’m too full to deal with this.”

You finally gave him a break, scooping his little blob of a body into your hoodie pocket.

“There,” you said, patting his lumpy form. “Sleep it off, Rodent Dickey. I swear to god if you bite my chest in your sleep, I’m duct taping you to a Roomba tomorrow.”

From inside the pocket, he let out a groggy, muffled squeak.

You just smirked.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

—

You eventually took pity on the gremlin.

After stuffing himself with half a burger, throwing a tantrum over the napkin being "too scratchy," and hissing at you like a demonic guinea pig, Bill finally passed out again—this time face-first in your hoodie pocket, little back legs dangling out like a half-flushed turd.

You sighed.

"God, you're exhausting."

Carefully, you reached in and scooped him out—he twitched slightly, but didn’t wake. Just let out a sleepy little huhhnk and curled tighter into himself like a damp dinner roll.

You set to work.

An old shoebox. Two socks folded into a lumpy mattress. A square of tissue you half-heartedly fluffed up like a throw pillow. You even tucked a corner of a comic book page in there, like he needed some cursed talisman to sleep near.

Once it was done, you placed him inside gently.

He snored immediately. Loud little snorts from a too-small nose. Belly rising and falling like a bloated little balloon. His fat cheeks were still stained with ketchup.

You stared at him for a moment, elbow on the desk, chin in your hand.

“…Sigh. You’re so ugly, Bill.”

It came out more fond than it should have.

He made a soft chirp in his sleep and rolled over, kicking one stubby foot like he was trying to slap you in a dream.

You shook your head, watching his stupid fur fluff with every snore.

"Ugly little bastard," you murmured again, tucking the sock corner over his hip like a makeshift blanket. “You’re VERY lucky I have a thing for weird, mean rodents.”

From the box, Bill snored louder—like he knew you were right, and hated it.

[ellwynda]

druid!bf wants you in every form .ᐟ

﹕It started with a kiss.

Just a soft one — lips against your shoulder while you lay tangled in the mess of him, naked and raw and still trembling from how hard he’d knotted you an hour ago. He was always like this after. Gentle. Worshipful. Like you were the only thing anchoring him back to himself.

But this time, the kiss lingered longer.

His nose pressed against your skin next, breathing you in. Then came his teeth — careful, grazing the curve of your neck, like his body wanted to bite but his mind was holding the reins.

You felt it in the way his hips shifted behind you. Restless. That low, familiar heat building again. The weight of his arm draped over your middle, hand splayed over your belly like he could still feel the place where he’d filled you. Claimed you. Marked you.

Then he whispered.

“…Can I ask you something?”

His voice was hoarse. Deep. That post-shift rumble still clinging to it like static, like something that didn’t want to leave.

You nodded, soft and sleepy. “Anything.”

He kissed your shoulder again, but this time his hand tightened on your stomach.

“If I asked to take you in every shape I can wear… would you let me?”

Your breath caught.

His cock was hardening again, you could feel it — thickening behind you, pressing to your ass, heavy and flushed and different. Not quite human anymore. Not yet. Like his body was already preparing for what his mouth was too cautious to beg for.

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered, heart fluttering. “Would it hurt?”

He pulled you tighter against him, his voice molten honey and smoke.

“No. Never. I’d never hurt you.” Then, lower: “I’d stretch you. I’d fill you. I’d fuck you until your body remembered me in every shape it could hold.”

You shivered.

“Which… which ones?” you breathed, heat licking down your spine.

His hand moved down. Slow. Possessive. Palm dragging over your mound, then lower still, dipping fingers into your folds where you were still messy and warm.

“The wolf,” he said first, voice graveled with hunger. “Not full. Just enough. Big paws on your hips. My snout buried in your throat while I fuck you from behind. Knot thick and heavy, your cunt wrapped so tight I can’t even move once I’m in.”

Your thighs twitched, breath stuttering. His fingers circled your clit — lazy, coaxing, like he knew you were listening, drinking in every filthy syllable.

“The bear,” he went on, breathing against your ear now. “Massive. Slow. Strong. I’d mount you while you sleep. Wake you up full and ruined. Your tiny little body trembling while I grind into you like I’m trying to put a cub in you.”

You whimpered. His cock throbbed, hot against your back.

“And the stag…” he growled. “Gods, the stag. Tall enough to lift you off the ground and impale you from below. Antlers scraping the trees while I rut into you, over and over, until your voice breaks from how hard you’re screaming.”

You moaned — softly, helplessly — and his fingers slipped lower, easing two thick digits inside your dripping cunt. You clenched around them, already soaked.

“Please…” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for.

“Please what?” he rasped, fucking his fingers deeper. “You want me to fuck you like that? You want to feel all of me? Every piece of the wild I can wear?”

You nodded, feverish.

“Say it,” he growled, teeth scraping your shoulder. “Say I can shift and fuck you however I want.”

Your mouth trembled. You tried to speak, but all you managed was a broken, needy, “Yes…”

And that was all he needed.

He pulled his fingers out, slick and shining, and shifted — just a little. Just enough for his hands to roughen into paws, claws dulled but firm, gripping your hips and rolling you onto your belly.

You looked back over your shoulder, eyes wide, lips parted.

And there he was.

Not fully wolf. Not man either. His face was still familiar — mostly. But his eyes glowed, wild and gold. His chest was broader. Legs longer. Cock impossibly thick, heavier than before, tip already drooling.

He pressed the tip to your folds and leaned over you, panting against your ear.

“First the wolf,” he growled. “Then the rest.”

[hitomisuzuya]

Suzu! I really love your works so remember to take breaks when you need it!

Also can I just say that I love your gamer/streamer scara so I want to see some more :”) maybe reader taking care of him a lot (checking up on him, bringing him snacks etc.), just being really sweet and scara takes care of her too like they get on it on his gaming chair or bj under the desk. It could be fluffy too! Or both! I don’t mind either way

I appreciate you so take care of yourself 💜🩵

streamer!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. blow job. praise. soft!dom scara. consensual sexual activities on livestream.

aww thank you so much for your kind words, dear. i enjoy writing steamer scara❤️ i decided to use fall out as the game played. dogmeat is best boy.

much to scaramouche's chat's delight, you have been flitting in and out of his room since he started streaming. over three hours ago. his chat always lights up a little more than usual when they see you.

"okay, who is fucking my shit up in my settlement?" he grumbles, seeing there is a disturbance in his settlement. "oh, i see. some monsters got in. no matter, i'll just delete them."

several people in chat were calling out that dogmeat was in trouble. he largely ignores them, heading right to the heart of the problem.

you enjoy doting on scaramouche, and taking care of him. "hi, hunny. i figured you are hungry, so i brought you some chips, and some more coffee," you set the bowl of chips and cans of coffee down near him, coming to stand behind his computer chair.

"hi, chat," you greet, wiggling your fingers in a shy wave as you rest your chin on his shoulder. "dogmeat is in trouble?" you comment, reading the chat "go save him."

scaramouche rolls his eyes seeing the chat agree overenthusiastic with you. "why? he is a pain in my ass. thanks for the snacks though."

"go save him, please," you put your arms around him, skimming your hand temptingly down his chest towards his thighs, "if you do, i'll do something for you. i'll do that thing you really like," you brush your lips next to his ear, "i'll swallow with your cock still in my mouth."

something awakens inside scaramouche then. he never redirected his character so fast, and dispatched the monsters bullying dogmeat. "chat, there is a change in plans," he rolls his computer chair back a little as you step back, "you know the drill. you guys gotta pay to see this shit."

he allows his chat to see a teaser view of you getting on your knees, reaching for his zipper as you rest your head on his thigh. "feeling needy?" he asks, making it so that his chat has to pay to watch now, and giving them a few minutes (that's all they would need) to decide.

"mhm," you reply, nuzzling your cheek again this hip, quickly unbuttoning his jeans. he adores the blush on your cheeks as you reach for his cock once he frees it. his chat is able to start seeing things again just in time to hear you say, "i want to treat you. and," your tongue sweeps out to lick his cockhead, "i just really want your cock in my mouth."

you didn't mind doing this for him. it always helps him make a little extra money, and there was something about the eroticism of it all that really made you wet.

scaramouche sighs starting to relax as your lithe little tongue goes to work on his dripping cock head. you curl your tongue around and around, slowly sweeping the tip on the slit.

"my pretty, you are so fucking good to me," he moans, carding his fingers through your hair, pushing your mouth down onto his cock. "open wide like a good girl. show my chat how obediently you choke on my cock."

your cheeks flush at his words, your heart quickening in your chest. your gums lock wet and warm around his cock, the ridges on the roof of your mouth grinding delicious as you suck.

you muffle a moan on his cock as he gently pushes your mouth down further. his hips rock up, groaning as his cock rests in your throat. he strokes his fingers through your hair as you cough. his cock throbs in your mouth as your throat spasms around it, drool pooling from your mouth onto his jeans.

"fuck, you look so cute drooling on my cock," he gathers your hair out of your face, holding it as he gently bobs your mouth up and down on his cock.

his chat immediately sounds off in agreement. equally filthy comments about how good you are being for him pop up. and a few saying how they would like to see you dote on scaramouche like this again, but dressed in a skimpy maid outfit, complete with stockings and cat ears.

wet slurping noises fill the room as you flatten your tongue, taking him deep into your throat again. you moan seeing him reduced to the state above you.

he is a moaning, twitching mess, his hazy eyes locked on you as you lovingly suck him off. "shit, such a soft, and pliable throat," he groans, babbling a little.

seeing him, making him feel so good dampens your panties to cling to your cunt. you squeeze and rub your thighs together, choking a sweet whimper on his cock in an attempt to seek friction on your clit.

"how sweet," he moans to cover up his own whimper as cum ribbons salty into your mouth. "even with her mouth stuffed full of my cock, i can still hear how badly she wants me to fuck her," he strokes his fingers through your hair in appreciation.

[fandomworldofdreams]

The Secret Under the Bed

Summary: Your father got involved deep in the crime world. Owing more than he could keep up with. Soon you and your family are on the run. But debts demand to be paid. (Child!reader)

Warnings: violence, child endangerment, murder, manipulation, trauma

I had a dream, needed to write it. Some odd ass universe where these four fictional characters somehow work together and get along. And of all things, adopt a child. It is more of a fem!reader. So please enjoy this odd twisted found family dynamic!

Your mom always smelled like jasmine and baked goods.

Something about it always made you feel safe, loved.

Flour on her cheeks, always smiling. It meant warmth and comfort.

All of it distracted from the fact you'd moved three states in just the past year, ten towns. Distracted from how much you tried to pretend you didn't hear your parents arguing, things breaking. Your dad's sharp, cutting tone. Your mother's broken pleas. Sometimes your dad wouldn't come home for hours - usually at the crack of dawn, liquor still clinging to his breath.

You were only seven, obsessed with books and building your own fantasy world to escape to whenever the situation called for it. Which was often.

You had no way of knowing that your father had got himself in deep with me the crime world referred to as the four horsemen.

Intelligent, sadistic, cold criminals. Men who by some twisted form of fate had found one another. After unsuccessfully trying to kill each other they decided they found some level of comradery with one another, their shared darkness and vision.

Your father had racked up one too many missed payments to them.

The latest move was to a home in West Virginia, surrounded by woods.

You loved it, plenty of trees to climb and bugs to catalogue. You'd spend hours wandering, waving a stick around like it was a wand.

But your dad looked over his shoulder twice as much, often muttering to himself.

It was a Wednesday night when everything in your life changed. The scent of rain hung in the air, breeze rustling the leaves.

You had a rain coat on. Soaked to the core, your mother had just wiggled it off of you.

You hadn't heard the car pull into the driveway.

You'd only heard the three polite raps that echoed through the house.

Your parents never got company, you furrowed your eyebrows.

You'd only been aware of your mother kneeling before you, tucking your stuffed rabbit under your arm with a gentle smile. She brushed some hair out of your face.

"I need you to do something for me, Y/N. Go into Mommy and Daddy's room and crawl under the bed, okay? Stay hidden. You don't come out no matter what you hear. I mean it. Do you understand?"

You'd felt the fear then, how her voice tried not to shake. She squeezed your arms, glancing at the door like it was a death sentence.

"Do you understand?"

All you could do was nod. She pressed a kiss to your temple and you ran, following orders like you always had.

Under the bed was dark, sounds muffled. But some things were unmistakable.

You clutched your rabbit tight to your chest, cheek pressed against the rug, body curled inward.

The screaming started not long after.

Crashing, loud high pitched noises and begging that was your parents.

You began to shake. Uncontrollably.

In the other room your parents were bound to chairs, four masters of torture doing the unthinkable. The scent of blood filled the air - along with some bodily fluids. They tore through both mind and body with the precision of artists who were all too familiar with their medium.

In the bedroom tears pooled onto the carpet and you covered your mouth with your hand to keep any sounds from escaping.

It lasted two hours.

Your limbs ached from being in one position so long, you were sweating profusely, and trying your best not to hyperventilate. Especially as the screaming grew more ragged, hoarse.

Your mother died first. Crane's toxin had taken root in her psyche, showcasing her fears of a dead daughter she dared not call out the name of in fear of them finding out and an unfaithful husband. her mind far gone before her body gave out. They had burned her skin with a cigar and then a quick slit of the throat. Efficient, she was not the one who wronged them, she was merely collateral, her life and his.

Your father lasted an hour longer. Eyes gauged, ribs split open. He had not been granted any mercy. He had felt every thread of pain. Each individual eye muscle had been severed. His body was surprisingly resilient.

You didn't hear anything anymore.

It was quiet, eerily so. The deafening kind where any small noise sent a jolt of panic through you.

Then footsteps. Slow, evenly paced. The door to the room creaked open.

Your heart jumped out of your chest and you tried your best to hold your breath as shoes came into view.

Expensive shoes. Shiny, not like the sneakers you were used to.

"Crane. Lecter," the man said, flatly. His voice a gravel "Now."

Soon three more pairs of shoes joined. You were frozen in fear.

Then, a face appeared. He'd crouched down and pulled the sheet aside to get a full view of you. His gaze was calculating, eyes sizing you up.

Hannibal Lecter knelt calmly. He didn’t speak right away. He simply looked at you, deliberately shifting his facial expression and eyes. Allowing the moment to stretch on long enough to let you see something gentler in his face, something paternal and concerned. A softness he wore like a mask when needed. It made your brows furrow.

"Are you okay, my dear? You must be so frightened."

Suddenly another face, this man dropped to his stomach, resting his chin on the back of his hands to look at you. He allowed an unnerving smile to grace his face, eyes glued to you like he was observing a play. "Did the monsters come after mummy and daddy?"

You visibly flinched, pressing yourself further back.

“No no no, sweetheart. Not us. We’re not the monsters. We found you. We scared him off, little one. Though he may come back. Who knows, monsters can be ever unpredictable," Jim Moriarty tried to hide the glee in his tone.

"We were camping nearby when we heard the screams. We came running. It seems we were too late though. We were unsure if anyone had survived, luckily you did," Hannibal affirmed.

Moriarty cooed, “Did they tell you to hide, little darling? Did your mummy say to be very, very quiet?”

A nod. Barely. A twitch.

"You did very well," Hannibal said softly.

"Where's my mommy and daddy?" Your voice was hoarse, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

"They are dead." This man had a scarred face, one eye had a black sclera and orange mishaped iris. "We were unable to save them." Silco studied the way your lower lip trembled, the pain in your eyes evident. Too young to be experiencing such pain. "A regrettable truth. However, they did succeed in keeping you safe."

The final man leaned down, staring at you over his glasses. Bright blue eyes met

y/e/c ones. He was calculating your level of fear.

"What's his name?" That made you pause, looking at him confused. He motioned to the rabbit you were clinging to and you swallowed a lump in your throat.

"Jasper," you murmured.

Jonathan Crane shared a glance with the others. They had adapted the lie quickly. "At least you were not alone while the carnage occurred. Perhaps Jasper would be more comfortable out here. You are safe now."

You were too young and terrified to catch the lie.

It was Hannibal who offered a hand out under the bed. "Come, child. We will protect you."

It was a long time before you moved. Slowly placing your small hand in his as he guided you out from under the bed.

"What's your name?" Silco asked.

"Y/N"

"Y/N," Hannibal whispered, testing the name. "I'm Hannibal, this is Jim, Silco, and Jonathan. Jim is going to help you pack a bag. We can't leave you here in case the man who harmed your parents comes back."

Your eyes widened, the words striking fear into you. You clutched at Hannibal's hand like it was a lifeline.

"He might come back?" You whispered.

"It is a possibility," Jonathan said, adjusting his glasses. "Whoever came for your parents was rather depraved. That kind of mind is unpredictable and you are an easy target."

You didn't understand, not fully, but you nodded your head either way.

"Come along, little one. Let's gather what you need," Jim said cheerfully, guiding you to the closet.

Jonathan, Hannibal, and Silco made their way back to the living room, standing over the bodies.

"Since when are we in the business of collecting strays?" Jonathan asked, tone cold.

"Since one has fallen into our hands," Hannibal answered.

Silco lit a cigar, letting the smoke curl to the ceiling. "They had tried to keep the child safe. To protect her from their sins . . . Their mistake. So we allow her to believe the illusion that we are the ones saving her?"

"it's not an illusion," Hannibal said. "We are saving her. She would likely starve here. Or worse, end up in the foster care system."

Footsteps sounded down the hallway. Jim and you making your way. He carried a suitcase of things he'd picked for you.

You turned the corner just as he sang, "I wouldn't do that."

You'd looked, immediately. Your eyes met the bloody and unmoving form of your parents.

Your legs moved fast, racing to what was left of them. Hannibal had been the one to scoop you up. Holding you close as you cried and tried to wiggle free.

Jim was leaning against the frame, hands in pockets. Jonathan was studying your reaction. Silco's eyes softened slightly.

"Mommy told me to hide. I hid, I was good. Mommy! Wake up!" Tears pooled from your eyes, clutching Hannibals coat tightly.

"You were good. Now you will come with us and be a part of a new family. Your parents were unable to foresee their fates," Hannibal said, softly.

"They were weak," Silco said. "We are not."

You sniffled, burying your head in Hannibals chest.

"You won't leave me? Promise?"

"We will not leave you," he affirmed.

That day changed everything. You were about to be raised by four of the most feared men in the country. Their child, their prodigy, theirs. They were all you had left.

You would become a weapon.

All while never knowing they were the ones who had taken your parents from you.